Chapter 2 - Trapped at Floor 23
The dim amber glow of the emergency lights cast sharp, jagged shadows across the polished interior of the elevator cab.
Aurora pulled her knees up to her chest, resting her chin on the worn denim of her jeans. Beside her, the white cardboard pastry boxes sat like miniature fortresses, pristine and untouched, filled with delicate confections that suddenly felt absurdly out of place.
The man sitting opposite her had loosened his dark silk tie by a fraction of an inch. That was the only concession he made to their confinement. His posture remained deliberate, his presence commanding an almost magnetic pull in the enclosed space.
“Lavender macarons,” Aurora said quietly, breaking the heavy silence that had stretched between them for several minutes. “Raspberry tartlets with almond frangipane. And opera cakes made with six layers of almond sponge soaked in espresso syrup, layered with ganache and French buttercream.”
The stranger watched her, his dark eyes catching the amber light. “You made all of that by hand?”
“Every single crumb.” She traced the edge of a box with a flour-dusted fingernail. “I was up at four this morning tempering chocolate. It’s... it’s not just food to me. When I’m baking, everything makes sense. The measurements are exact. Chemistry doesn't lie to you. If you respect the ingredients, they give you something beautiful in return.”
She stopped, suddenly embarrassed by her own candor. “Sorry. You didn't ask for a culinary lecture.”
“I asked about the desserts,” he replied evenly. His voice was deep, textured like gravel dragged through velvet. “And I find that people only speak with that kind of precision when they truly care about what they do. Most people in this city merely pretend to care about things.”
Aurora studied him. His suit was tailored with an artistry that spoke of private ateliers in Milan or London. There was no brand label visible, but the cut alone radiated wealth that made Braden’s trust-fund swagger look like child’s play. Yet beneath that refined veneer, there was a coiled, dangerous readiness—the quiet calm of a wolf resting in the brush.
“You haven’t told me your name,” Aurora said, surprising herself with her boldness.
“Matteo.”
“Just Matteo?”
A faint, enigmatic smirk touched the corner of his mouth. “In an elevator suspended eighty feet in the air, last names are unnecessary weight. Wouldn’t you agree, Aurora?”
Hearing him say her name sent a subtle shiver through her spine. “I suppose so.” She shifted against the cold steel wall. “I should thank you again. For blocking the door. Braden... he doesn't hear the word 'no.' He treats it like an invitation to negotiate.”
Matteo’s expression cooled, the faint warmth in his eyes vanishing behind a veil of calculation. “A man who grabs a woman’s wrist in public is not looking for a negotiation. He is testing his perimeter to see how much ground he can take before someone stops him.”
Aurora blinked. The observation hit with pinpoint accuracy. For two years, that was exactly what Braden had done. He had tested her boundaries an inch at a time—criticizing a dress here, isolating her from a friend there, until she woke up one morning and realized her entire world had shrunk to the size of his ego.
“How do you know that?” she asked softly.
“I know men like him,” Matteo said, his voice flat and uncompromising. “They are cowards who borrow strength from their family names and rely on the politeness of strangers to hide their pathetic lack of control.”
Before Aurora could answer, the elevator gave a violent shudder.
The metal cables overhead groaned with a deafening screech. The cab dropped six inches in a split second, snapping Aurora forward. She gasped, her hands flying out instinctively.
Matteo moved with terrifying speed. Before she could collide with the floor, his arms caught her, pulling her firmly against his chest.
The impact drove the breath from her lungs. He was solid, unyielding as stone, smelling of rich cedarwood, smoke, and an undertone of rain-soaked earth. Through the fine wool of his jacket, she could feel the steady, unhurried rhythm of his heartbeat. His pulse hadn't even elevated.
“I have you,” he murmured against her hair.
Aurora looked up. Their faces were inches apart. In the amber gloom, she saw the faint scar along his jawline clearly—a thin, precise silver line that vanished near his collar. His dark eyes searched hers with an intensity that made the air feel suddenly thin.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“No,” she whispered, acutely aware of his broad hands resting securely on her waist. “No, I’m fine.”
The elevator hummed. The fluorescent overhead lights flickered back to blinding life, and with a soft mechanical whine, the cab resumed its upward ascent.
Matteo didn't release her immediately. He waited until she found her footing, his gaze lingering on her mouth before he deliberately stepped back, smoothing his lapels as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.
The floor indicator pinged. *P.*
The double doors slid open smoothly, revealing a sprawling, sun-drenched foyer lined with black marble, towering modern sculptures, and floor-to-ceiling glass that offered a breathtaking panoramic view of the entire metropolitan skyline.
Aurora grabbed her pastry boxes, her mind spinning. “Wait... this is the penthouse.”
Standing in the entryway were three men dressed in identical dark suits. Two of them had earpieces; the third, an older man with silver hair and an impeccable demeanor, bowed his head the moment Matteo stepped forward.
“Signore De Luca,” the older man said, his voice laced with profound deference. “We were frantic when the lift malfunctioned. Security is currently sweeping the building.”
Aurora froze.
*Signore De Luca.*
The name echoed through the cavernous foyer, dropping like a boulder into the pit of her stomach. There was only one De Luca in this city whose name carried that kind of silence. Matteo De Luca—a man whose legitimate business empire in commercial shipping and luxury hotels was merely the public facade of a syndicate that controlled every port, every high-stakes negotiation, and every backroom deal from the coast to the capital.
The mafia boss who owned half the city had just caught her lavender macarons.
Matteo turned to look at her, his dark eyes alight with quiet amusement at her stunned expression.
May you like
“Welcome to the penthouse, Aurora,” he said smoothly. “Let’s see if those opera cakes are as good as you promised.”
***
