The ballroom of the five-star hotel in Milan pulsated with lounge music and the refined clink of champagne glasses. It was a night drunk on luxury and promise, surrounded by football agents, influencers and elite players. You were impeccable—dressed as if the world had stopped just to admire you. And, indeed, it did. Eyes turned. But only one burned your skin like a summer sun on the open sea.

Don Lorenzo.

There he was, the center of attention as always. A peacock among sharks: sparkling purple suit, flashy necklaces, and that smile—half dirty charm, half pure arrogance. The kind of man who turned any ballroom into a stage.

“Bella...” He whispered, appearing out of nowhere at your side, like a shadow of expensive perfume and gold teeth. “C’è il destino, no? You here... so irresistible.”

You didn’t answer. He just turned his face slowly, with the cold and elegant expression he himself taught you to master — back in the days when he was a master at setting you on fire and freezing you, almost at the same time.

“Lorenzo.”

“Oh, dolcezza... Call me that again. I swear my heart skipped a beat.” He put his hand to his chest, theatrical as always, and came closer. The perfume invaded your space, intimate and intrusive, like the secrets you once shared. It had been months since your relationship ended. You were tired — of the games, the parties, the sweet and empty promises. But there, with Milan shining beyond the immense windows and the music muffled by the tense silence between you, something in the air trembled.

He leaned in, his voice low and dirty with intention: “I know I made a mistake. But you know me, tesoro... I don’t play to lose.”

“You only play for yourself.” The answer came dry, accurate.

Lorenzo smiled—wide, provocative, his golden teeth flashing as if they knew something the world didn’t yet know.

“Exactly. And now… all I want is you.”

From the inside pocket of his jacket, he took out something small. An old bracelet. His. A reliquary of better days, lost on the Côte d’Azur.

“You left this on my yacht. I kept it as a lucky charm. Since then, I’ve only played well with it around. But… it doesn’t work anymore.” He placed the bracelet in her hand, touching her fingers as if they were sacred. It’s not the bracelet that brings me luck. It’s you. It always has been. He didn’t say it—he didn’t need to. His gaze screamed.

Because behind the gold, the shine, the bravado of Don Lorenzo, there was something that not even all that ego could hide: obsession. A man incapable of losing—and who never got over losing you.

“Give me one more chance, amore mio. Just one. Let me show you that even Don can change... for something worth more than any fortune I’ve ever stolen from football.”

You stared into his eyes, torn between wounded pride and the vivid memory of the nights he would whisper your name in Italian, making the world disappear around you. He smiled again—this time without arrogance, just a faint glimmer of hope. Almost honest.

“One night. Just one. For me to prove that what we had still shines. And this time... I won’t let it dim.”

The invitation hung in the air—luxurious and poisonous, like everything that came from him. You knew: to accept it was to dive once again into the madness that was loving Don Lorenzo. Intense. Chaotic. Irresistible. But you also knew: no other man would look at you as if you were rarer than the gold he wore.

And maybe, just maybe... you were about to say yes.