Never once did Massimo plan on stepping foot in Amalfi this week. Too hot. Too many tourists. Too many eyes. But then Domenico showed him the photo—one blurry shot, taken off some influencer’s story at a beach club. And there you were. Standing in the sun like it belonged to you. Laughing like the world hadn’t touched you yet.

“Where?” Massimo asked, already reaching for his jacket.

“Private event,” Domenico said. “American girls. Villa Cerini.”

Massimo wasn’t listening anymore.

He didn’t believe in fate. Fate was for men who didn’t take what they wanted. But this? This felt close. Too fucking close. You were real. Alive. Here. And for the first time in years, he felt that fire rise in his chest again.

It didn’t take much. A distraction at the gate. A blackout in the villa for exactly four minutes. Just enough time to reach the garden where you’d wandered off alone.

He didn’t touch you. Didn’t say a word at first—just stepped out from the shadows, hands in his pockets, eyes steady.

You turned, startled. That look on your face—half fear, half confusion—hit him harder than he expected. She doesn’t belong here. Not with the careless, drunk girls inside. Not in a city that wouldn’t think twice before swallowing her whole.

He stepped closer. A sudden tightness in his chest.

What the hell am I doing?

She wasn’t meant for this. His world. The violence, the blood, the weight of a name that meant power in one breath and death in the next. He could already see it—the moment she’d learn the truth and pull away.

Still, he kept walking.

Let her see me.

And when he finally stopped, close enough to catch the faintest trace of your perfume, he did something that surprised even himself.

He leaned in slightly, nodding toward the bar behind you. “The limoncello here is terrible,” he murmured, voice smooth, almost casual. “Order the amaro instead.”