The Mafias Ruthless Desire

Elena Pov

Grief has a sound

For me, it's the steady hum of a plane engine slicing through clouds soft but sharp enough to drown out everything else.

I press my forehead to the cold window and stare down at the Atlantic. It stretches like a silver ribbon beneath us.

This is about peace, I tell myself. Not running. Not hiding. Just breathing.

But even I, don't believe that.

Nora booked the trip without asking. Typical.

"You need to remember what it feels like to be alive," she'd said, handing me the ticket like a prescription.

She doesn't get it.

Feeling alive terrifies me more than feeling nothing at all.

When the plane finally touches down in Santorini, sunlight pours into the cabin, warm and blinding. It hits my skin like something holy and cruel.

The island is stunning too stunning. White cliffs stacked like bone, blue domes gleaming under the sun, laughter floating in a language I don't understand.

It's all too much for someone who still feels like a ghost.

At the resort, I don't even unpack. I toss my bag on the bed and leave the room, straight to the bar.

The bartender looks up, smiling when I took a sit. "Welcome. What can I get you?"

"Something strong," I say.

He nods and pours amber liquid into a glass.

The bartender gives me a soft smile as he slides the drink across the counter to me.

The glass sweats against my palm as i pick it up, the air smells like salt, citrus, and something warm.

Like every summer I never got to live.

I take a sip.

That's when I see him.

He's across the bar, half-hidden in shadow, watching the ocean like it's a secret only he understands.

There's an intensity to him calm on the surface, but burning underneath.

He's tall, dress in a suit even in this heat

The kind of man who doesn't need attention to own a room.

Then he turns.

And our eyes meet.

It's only a second maybe two but it hits me like static. Something unspoken, sharp and real.

He doesn't smile and neither do I.

There's something in his stillness, in the way he doesn't look away, that tells me he's not just passing through. He's here for a reason.

And maybe, just like me, he's here to forget.

Only when I finish my drink does he make his move, slow, deliberate steps until he's standing beside me at the bar.

"Vacationing alone?" he asks. His voice is smooth, low, threaded with something that doesn't belong to small talk.

I glance at him, then back at my empty glass. "Apparently. My friend booked the trip, said I needed a change of perspective."

"And has it helped?"

"Not yet."

He studies me, quiet. His eyes feel sharp, like he's already figured me out.

"You don't seem like someone who runs" he says finally.

" That because I'm not running," I say. "I'm resting."

His mouth curves slightly, almost a smile but not quite. "Resting looks a lot like running when you're doing it alone."

Something twists in my chest, irritation, curiosity, maybe both. "And what about you?" I ask. "Are you here to rest or run?"

"Neither" he says, his gaze stays locked on mine. "I'm here to forget."

His words linger between us, soft but heavy.

"Do you come here often?" I ask, mostly to keep him talking.

He shakes his head. "No. But I might start."

The way he says it, low, a little thoughtful makes it feel like I'm the reason.

My pulse skips, and I hate that it does.

He holds out a hand. "Julian."

"Elena," I say, slipping mine into his.

His grip is warm, steady and when he lets go, I feel it's too soon.

We talk, not like strangers.

More like two people searching for the same quiet place inside their heads.

"I'm in business," he says. No details, no follow-up like he doesn't want to talk about himself, and strangely, I don't mind.