Chapter 2: The Girl with Storm Eyes

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🏨✨ Letter Found in Room 217 of Valenti Hotel

Dear guest,

Welcome back to the madness.

If you're reading this, congrats — you survived Chapter One without crying, screaming, or falling for a criminal (too hard).

But be warned:

Room service is slow, the plot twists are faster than your Wi-Fi, and our staff (mainly me) are emotionally unstable but charmingly dramatic.

Tonight's special:

Secrets, sarcasm, and the soft sound of a gun being loaded in the distance.

Enjoy your stay...

And remember: don’t trust anyone. Especially the ones with pretty eyes and tragic backstories.

Sincerely,

The Management (aka your chaotic author, cutety_pie)

💌🕶️🩸

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⚡

The second time Archer Valenti saw her, she was sitting on the edge of a café table like she owned the city and all the people in it.

Liana Cross.

Not that he knew her name yet.

All he knew was that she had the same storm in her eyes as the night he found her standing in the shadows. The same calm that felt like the silence right before a gun goes off.

She was sipping espresso, legs crossed, book in hand, sunglasses on even though the sky was still brooding with leftover thunderclouds.

She looked untouchable.

Archer leaned against a lamppost across the narrow Venetian street, lighting a cigarette like he hadn’t followed her all the way from the corner of death.

He didn’t like loose ends.

And this girl?

She was unraveling him.

“Stalking is a crime, you know,” she called out without looking up.

His grip on the cigarette faltered.

She turned the page slowly, dramatically. “I mean, technically it’s only a misdemeanor. But I hear jail’s no fun, even for the rich and reckless.”

He smiled—small, dangerous, amused. “You talk too much.”

“And you stare too hard,” she replied, finally looking up. “Are you going to sit or just loom like a Bond villain?”

He crossed the street slowly, slipping into the seat across from her.

“You have a name?” he asked.

“Nope,” she said, sipping again. “But I steal them sometimes.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “You're not scared of me.”

“Should I be?”

His silence was its own answer.

She smirked. “That’s cute. But I don’t scare easy. Especially not from boys who wear guilt like designer cologne.”

That hit harder than she knew.

Or maybe… she knew exactly what she was doing.

“I’m Archer,” he said after a pause.

She raised a brow. “Of course you are. Sounds expensive.”

“You?”

She closed her book. “You don’t get my name for free. Try again next chapter.”

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There was something about her. Not just the way she spoke in riddles or the way her smirk looked like it had survived a thousand wars. It was deeper.

Like she’d already read the last page of his story and was just watching the rest unfold.

He hated it.

And yet, he couldn't walk away.

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Later that night, she slipped into his thoughts like a whisper laced with gasoline.

He poured whiskey he didn’t taste. Pushed files he didn’t read.

She was in his head, like the echo of a song he used to know.

Who was she?

And why the hell did her eyes look like they remembered the same pain he buried years ago?

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💭

Meanwhile, Liana leaned back on a rooftop across the canal, listening to the slow hum of a phone recording play in her ear.

“Archer Valenti,” she whispered. “Son of the Devil. Pretty face. Sharp suit. Broken soul.”

She stared out over the rooftops, the wind tugging at her coat.

I’m getting close, she thought.

And once I’m close enough, I’ll end it.

Her fingers tightened around the old photograph in her coat pocket.

One shot.

One moment.

One revenge.

And yet… her heart stuttered a little.

Stupid heart.

Stupid eyes.

Stupid Archer.

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