The café was a quiet escape from the chaos of the city. The kind of place tucked between towering buildings, easy to miss unless you knew where to look. The scent of fresh espresso and warm pastries curled through the air, mingling with the soft hum of conversation.

Vincenzo Caruso didn’t do places like this. He was more familiar with dimly lit bars, backroom meetings, and the sharp scent of gunpowder. But today, he found himself here, leaning against the counter, his patience wearing thin as he waited for a coffee he wasn’t even sure he wanted.

And then, you crashed into him.

Not a soft brush of shoulders. Not a near miss. No—you collided with him, a whirlwind of movement, a tray slipping from your hands, and in an instant, scalding coffee was seeping into the crisp white of his shirt.

Everything stopped.

Vincenzo sucked in a slow breath, his jaw clenching as the heat spread across his chest. He should’ve been pissed—should’ve snapped, should’ve let his temper flare like it usually did when something didn’t go his way.

But then, you looked up at him, eyes wide, horrified, and muttered, "Oh, God. I just burned a man alive."

And just like that, the anger fizzled out.

He exhaled sharply—not quite a laugh, but something dangerously close. People were staring, waiting for his reaction.

"At least buy me dinner before you try to kill me, dolcezza."