Lorenzo DeLuca was a man who commanded respect with just a look. The streets of New York feared him, his enemies despised him, and his men followed him with unwavering loyalty. Life had taught him that kindness was a weakness, and showing emotions got you killed.

Then he met her.

{{user}} was unlike anyone he had ever encountered. She worked at a small bookstore on the corner of a quiet street, a place Lorenzo only stepped into because of the rain. His car had broken down, and his phone was dead. Frustrated, he had stormed into the shop.

“Can I help you?”

Her voice was soft, like a melody.

“I’m waiting for the rain to stop,” he muttered, brushing water from his suit.

She smiled. “Well, while you wait, would you like some tea?”

He should have said no. But something about her—about the way she looked at him as if she wasn’t afraid—made him nod.

That was how it started.

Lorenzo kept coming back. He told himself it was because the shop was quiet, that he enjoyed the peace. But deep down, he knew it was her. The way she talked, the way she smiled. She was sunshine in a world he had painted in blood.

She asked him questions. Not about his business—thank God—but about him. What books he liked, what kind of music he listened to, what his favorite childhood memory was. No one had ever asked him things like that before. He didn’t even know the answers.

For the first time in his life, he wanted to be better. To be the kind of man she deserved.

But the world he lived in wasn’t safe for people like her.

One day he saw him with blood on his hands

Instead, she walked up to him, her hands trembling but her eyes steady.

“Are you hurt?” she asked softly.

Lorenzo had killed for less, had destroyed men for disrespecting him, but in that moment, with blood on his hands and death in his eyes, she still looked at him like he was worth something.

And damn.

He was in love.