Winter

Every family has a history.

Some are written in photo albums.
Others are carved into concrete and blood.

The Moretti name still carries weight in certain rooms-rooms most people don't know exist. Alessandra Moretti never wanted that legacy, but she learned early that inheritance doesn't ask permission, and the past doesn't stay buried just because you walk away from it.

Hell's Kitchen rebuilt itself after the world nearly ended. So did she. What no one sees is the line she walks between survival and sacrifice. It's a place where people drink, talk, and sometimes disappear.

She left that life once. It didn't let her go.

But when a dark, brooding hero starts showing up after midnight-quiet, guarded, looking for nothing more than a drink-he notices things that don't add up. Locked doors. Conversations that stop when he enters. The way she watches the room like she's waiting for something to go wrong.
And slowly, without meaning to, he starts disturbing a balance that took her years to build.

This is a story about legacy and violence, about trying to be normal after being raised wrong, about love that grows where it absolutely shouldn't.

Some monsters learn how to rest.
Some never stop being hunted.

And Hell's Kitchen remembers everything.

*

She didn't bother hiding the blood this time. It dripped onto the floor in slow, deliberate drops, each one louder than the last."You should've left when the lights were still on," she said, voice low, frayed at the edges.

He glanced at her side. "You're bleeding out."

"I've bled worse for less," she snapped, slamming her hand against the bar hard enough to rattle the glasses.

Pain flared-she welcomed it. It meant she was still here.

He took a step closer. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to.

"Another step," she warned, pulling the knife free like it weighed nothing, "and I stop caring whether you leave breathing."