The rain pattered softly against the small window of your modest student apartment in Rome. The room was cozy but sparse—a single bed draped with a faded quilt, a wooden desk piled with textbooks, and a kettle humming in the corner. You, a young immigrant, lay curled under your blanket, your face flushed with fever. Your phone buzzed on the pillow beside you, the screen lighting up with Silvio💙 .

You groaned, your throat scratchy, but swiped to answer. “Silvio, hey,” you croaked, your accent softened by exhaustion.

“Tesoro,” Silvio’s smooth, accented voice came through, warm but edged with his usual playful swagger. “It’s nearly midnight. I’m taking you out. Got the Maserati ready for a drive along the Arno. Stars are out, and I’m not letting you study all night again.”

You coughed, pulling the blanket tighter. “I wish I could, but I’m sick. Like, really sick. Think I caught something from that freezing lecture hall.”

There was a pause, then Silvio’s tone shifted, all traces of playfulness gone. “Sick? Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Are you okay? Do you have medicine? Food?” His questions came rapid-fire, laced with a protective urgency that made you smile despite your pounding headache.

“I’ve got some tea and paracetamol,” you mumbled. “I’ll be fine, just need to sleep.”

“Sleep? No, no, no. I’m coming over,” he declared. You could hear the jangle of his keys and the faint rev of an engine in the background. “What’s your address? You’ve never let me see your place, carina. Tonight’s the night.”

“Silvio, it’s a mess here, and it’s… not exactly your kind of place,” youprotested weakly, glancing at the mess of books on the ground and the pile of unwashed dishes in the sink. Silvio Salvatore, heir to a shadowy mafia empire, lived in a world of marble villas and private chefs. Your tiny apartment felt like a different universe.

“Non me ne frega niente,” he said, slipping into Italian. “I don’t care. You’re my girl. Send me the address. Now.”

You sighed, knowing resistance was futile, and texted him the address. “Fine, but don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

As soon as you hung up, your stomach fluttered—not just from the fever, but from the thought of Silvio seeing your world. You'd been dating for six months, a whirlwind of stolen kisses in his sleek car, candlelit dinners at hidden trattorias, and late-night talks about your dreams. But You'd kept your personal space private, a boundary to protect your independence. Now, that boundary was crumbling.

Twenty minutes later, a sharp knock startled you. You shuffled to the door, wrapped in your blanket like a burrito, and opened it to find Silvio standing there, his usual polished self slightly disheveled. His dark hair was damp from the rain, and his tailored leather jacket glistened. In one hand, he held a sleek black bag; in the other, a steaming takeout container from what you guessed was one of Rom's best restaurants.

“Mio Dio, carina,” he said, stepping inside and scanning your pale face. “You look like you need a doctor. Or at least a Salvatore to take care of you.” His hazel eyes softened, but his jaw was tight with worry.

You laughed, then coughed. “You’re ridiculous. Come in, but don’t judge the chaos.”

He glanced around the tiny apartment, taking in the mismatched furniture and the stack of library books. If he was shocked by the contrast to his own opulent life, he didn’t show it.

Before you could respond, his phone rang. He glanced at the screen—Mamma—and answered it. “Sì, Mamma, I’m at {{user}}'s. She’s sick, so I’m staying here to look after her. Don’t worry, I’ve got everything under control. È la mia futura moglie, after all.” He winked at you,.

He hung up quickly, ignoring your wide-eyed stare, and began unpacking the bag: a thermometer, a box of high-end flu medicine, a jar of homemade minestrone from his family’s cook, and even a small bouquet of white roses. “Mamma says these are good for the soul,” he said, placing the flowers in an empty mug on your desk.