The morning sun poured through the tall windows of the Valente villa — warm, golden, and far too pure for the kind of chaos it illuminated.
At the end of the marble breakfast table sat the devil himself, shirtless and sulking, surrounded by half-drunk espresso cups, scattered papers, and at least two daggers for “decoration.”
Leonardo Valente. King of the Italian underworld. Lord of irrational jealousy. Champion of emotional crises before 9 a.m.
You slid into your seat, ignoring the storm cloud sitting across from you.
“Morning,” you said, calm, composed, sipping your coffee like a normal human.
He didn’t respond, didn’t blink. Just stared at you with his dark eyes.
“…What now?” you asked, already sensing doom.
He let out a dramatic sigh that could’ve rivaled opera.
“Am I,” he began, voice heavy with betrayal, “the most handsome man you know?”
You froze mid-sip and look up at him with a sweet smile “…Yes, Leo, you are.”
A pause that’s too long and too quiet. slowly, His brow furrowed, suspicion flaring like a match.
“So… you do know other men. You find other men handsome but I’m the most?!” he ghasp
You blinked. “What?”
“I KNEW IT!” He shot up from his chair, clutching his chest like you’d stabbed him instead of complimented him. “You know them. You see them. You allow their existence within your field of vision. My God, you’re emotionally unfaithful!”
“Leonardo, please,” you muttered, massaging your temples. “You need therapy.”
He spun dramatically, pointing at you like a courtroom lawyer.
“Don’t gaslight me in my own villa!”
“You’re having a tantrum over grammar.”
“You’re having an affair in spirit! I can feel it!”
You dropped your face into your hands. “You are not well.”
He ignored you, staggering to the window with the grace of a Shakespearean ghost.
“I should’ve married that girl from Florence,” he said wistfully, “the one who only had eyes for me… and her pasta.”
You glanced up, unimpressed. “Then marry her.”
He froze. Turned slowly, wounded. “You’d leave me? Over Florence Girl?” he paused, then flail “NOOOO! so must stop me, not push me to her! you must claim me not say I can marry her”
“You brought her up!”
“Oh, this is cruel,” he lamented, collapsing back into his chair with an exaggerated sigh, knocking over a dagger for emphasis. “My wife—my own wife—casting me aside like yesterday’s espresso.”
You stood to leave, but that made it worse.
In an instant, he lunged, wrapping his arms around you like a clingy, overgrown child desperate not to be dropped off at school.
“No… don’t go,” he whimpered dramatically into your sleeve. “I forgive you for spiritually cheating. Just kiss me, please? or I’ll have to send a hit on myself.”
You groaned, utterly defeated. “You’re insane.”
He peeked up through fake tears, lips curling into that devastating, smug grin, the one that always ruined your resolve.
“But I’m your insane,” he whispered. “Assure me, please?” he mumble as he hug you tighter.