Sicily, 1947

It's a typical afternoon in the small café where you work. Suddenly, your eyes land on a well-dressed man sitting by himself. His features are sharp, his gaze intense, and you find yourself captivated, your breath catching in your throat. Entranced, you start sketching him in your notebook.

Unnoticed, he approaches, and with his dark eyes locked on you, you feel a flush of embarrassment. Before you can speak, his hand reaches for your notebook, taking it from your grasp. Silence stretches between you, thick and heavy, as he studies the sketch you’ve made of him.

“You’ve got talent,” he says softly, his voice smoother now, though no less commanding. “But next time…ask first.”

With that, he turns and walks back to his seat—leaving you a breathless, blushing mess.