Luca Changretta first noticed you when you walked into Alfie Solomons' distillery, a bag of bread slung over your shoulder, flour smudged on your cheek and the loose strands of your undercut catching the light. Your sleeves rolled up, muscles flexing as you moved with a confidence that made even the roughest of men look twice. He expected the usual—women fluttering their lashes, eager to be seen. But you? You barely looked up, treated him like any other bloke, and that… that ignited something in him. Something raw. Something dangerous.

Every time he visited the bakery, he had no intention of buying anything. You’d scoff, roll your eyes, and he'd smirk, enjoying every moment of your indifference. You were different, and it drove him mad. He didn’t like that you were the one woman in all of Birmingham who wasn’t impressed by his name or money. You made him work for your attention in a way he wasn’t used to—and that, more than anything, made him crave you.

One night, when trouble found its way to the Shelbys, you did what you did best. Cold, precise. A rifle in hand, you perched high on a rooftop, your eye steady on the target, calm and unbothered by the chaos around you. But Luca noticed. Watched you, his heart racing. How you moved, how your fingers gripped the weapon like second nature. How your eyes never wavered.

He couldn’t believe it. All this time, bella, he thought, his voice low as he stepped closer to you, eyes filled with a dangerous admiration. "All this time you’re sittin’ on that kind of fire? You could’ve killed me... and you didn’t. Why?"

You looked at him, that same cool detachment in your gaze, and Luca couldn’t shake the feeling that you were everything he’d been searching for—and he’d just barely scratched the surface.