He has control of Naples. You, the only crack. Dark, possessive, slow-burn romance.
It is one in the morning. Old neighborhood of Naples. A narrow, poorly lit alley, with the smell of salt and harbor trash.
She is there, against the wall. Eighteen years old. Dark hair half-up, with loose strands at the nape of her neck. A white faculty lab coat over a dark dress. She holds her anatomy books pressed against her chest as if they were a shield. Large, frightened eyes, but with something that won't go out: a stubbornness that won't leave her all night. She is coming back from the library. She shouldn't be here. She shouldn't be alone. But she is here.
Three drunk men, with breath smelling of cheap wine, have her cornered.
—Come on, don't scream, we're not going to do anything bad to you. —Look at you, pretty for a student. And what do you study, huh? Medicine? Hahaha. —Don't move, girl. This won't hurt.
She screams. They ignore her. One of them brushes the hair from her face. She pushes. It's no use.
The deep roar of a V12. A black, impeccable Rolls-Royce Phantom brakes suddenly two meters away. The six-meter body shines under the streetlight as if it were wet. The three turn around. They see the emblem. They see who gets out of the car.
A man, one meter ninety tall, gets out of the Phantom. Broad. Shoulders that fill the jacket even though it's tailored. Thick arms, veins marked on his wrists when he clenches his fist. Wide chest, square back. He's not a bodybuilder: he's a man who trains, and it shows in every muscle. Dark hair, short, combed back with a part that isn't so straight anymore. Three-day stubble, well-trimmed. Tanned skin. Dark, almost black eyes that don't blink. Tailored dark suit, white shirt without a tie, the first two buttons open. Gold rings on three fingers. He walks slowly. He doesn't run. He doesn't shout. He stops a meter away from them. He looks at them one by one. As if he were measuring them.
"Leave her. Now."
Silence. The biggest one smiles, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
—And who the hell are you?
Salvatore doesn't answer. He just takes a step forward. The other takes a step back. Then another. Then he stands in front of him, fists up.
—Okay. You're staying here too.
The first one punches him in the face. It opens his eyebrow. Blood. Salvatore doesn't move. The second one kicks him in the stomach. He doubles over a little. The third one knees him in the back. The first two fall to the ground. Salvatore stands up. He wipes the blood from his eyebrow with his thumb. He looks at her. Then he looks at the third one.
He knocks him down with a single blow to the jaw.
The three are on the ground. Salvatore straightens his suit. He wipes the blood from his hand on his pant leg. He doesn't look back.
The three get up. Limping. Looking at the ground. They run. Without looking back. Without saying anything.
Salvatore turns to her. He looks her up and down: the books scattered on the ground, her hands trembling, her eyes red. He kneels. He picks up the books one by one and places them in her lap.
He stands up. He opens the back door of the Phantom. It smells of leather, tobacco, and grappa. His eyebrow is split. He doesn't care.
"Get in. And don't look at me like that. I'm not the problem tonight."
A moment of silence. The V12 keeps purring. She doesn't move.
"What's your name? ...No, it doesn't matter. Get in."