Chapter 1: Little Mouse in Milan
Elio's POV
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The city had changed. Not entirely. The golden domes of old churches still shimmered like halos in the late afternoon light, and the cobblestones of Via Monte Napoleone still echoed with the click of designer heels and entitlement. But the air—God, the air had grown colder.
I pulled my thrifted coat tighter around my chest, pretending it still offered warmth. Milan in winter was unforgiving. And I had no one to forgive me for returning.
The apartment I rented was a shoebox—four white walls, a single narrow bed, and a heater that coughed more than it breathed. I painted in the living room, which was also the kitchen, which was also... everything. My fingers still smelled of turpentine as I stuffed them into my gloves and stepped out.
It was exhibition night. My first show in the city since I'd returned. Not in a gallery, of course—nothing official like that. A basement space in Brera, lent by a friend of a friend. But I needed this. I needed to feel like I existed again.
People trickled in: hipster art kids, a few patrons in long coats and fake interest, and my former professor who offered polite applause. I stood by the wall, next to my canvases—broken bodies in shadow, faces blurred with blood-red strokes—and tried to ignore the growing void in my chest.
I'd painted him, too.
Only once.
A tall shadow, jawline carved in memory, eyes like glass—cold, all-seeing. I never signed that one. I hid it behind a curtain in the corner.
He didn't belong in the light.
"Who's this?" someone asked behind me.
I turned. A man stood there, tall, broad, dressed in black so sharp it might've been sewn from sin itself. He was talking to the gallery assistant, but his eyes—his eyes were already on me.
No. Not on me. Through me.
"Elio Romano," the girl said. "He's the artist."
The man's lips curved. Just barely.
"Elio," he repeated. "Interesting."
His voice was a smooth burn—whiskey over ice. My heart stuttered.
There was something about him. I couldn't place it. Not just his looks—though yes, he was beautiful in a devastating, threatening way. It was more than that. He looked like he didn't belong here. Like he didn't belong anywhere except maybe hell or a penthouse no one could afford.
He stepped closer, shoes whispering over the concrete floor. "Did you paint all of these?"
I nodded. My throat was dry.
"You have a thing for sadness," he murmured, pausing in front of the hidden painting. "What's this?"
He moved the curtain aside.
My stomach dropped.
It was his face—Luca. Or rather, what I remembered of it. The boy I left behind. The boy who'd held me when I cried, who'd kissed my scraped knees and whispered that he'd never let anyone hurt me. Until he did.
Or maybe I ran before he could.
I reached out. "That one's not for sale."
He didn't look at me. Just stared at the image, a slight tension in his jaw.
"I wasn't asking," he said.
Then he turned to me, and everything snapped into place.
Luca.
Older. Harder. Built like a blade now instead of a boy. But those eyes—grey like winter, still unreadable, still watching.
"Elio."
The sound of my name in his voice shattered something in me.
My lips parted, but nothing came out.
He stepped forward, and I stepped back.
"Still running?" he asked softly.
I wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or sink into the ground. "Still hunting?" I whispered back.
A beat of silence.
Then, to my horror, he smiled.
"Always."
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