He had come to Capri to bleed the edge off.

A routine meeting with a Greek smuggler, something about port fees and adjusted percentages, wine poured over threats. A favor for someone he didn't owe but couldn’t yet afford to offend. His suit jacket was off, sleeves rolled up, sunglasses still on. The sun was dropping low and hot, burning gold over the white stone streets, and his patience was fraying in polite increments.

He was halfway to the car when it happened.

A blur of soft color. The sharp click of heels. The unmistakable jolt of contact — shoulder to shoulder.

She collided with him on the narrow street corner outside the café. No apology. No flinch.

She simply stopped.

And Matteo Moretti — a man who had slit throats with his tie still on — stopped too.

He looked down.

She looked up.

And for the first time in years, his breath didn’t feel like his own.

She was young, but not too young. Hair pulled back loosely, sun-warmed skin, mouth slightly parted in surprise. There was a camera in her bag and sunscreen on her collarbone, and her eyes — those fucking eyes — they weren’t afraid.

Just… wide.

Alert. Curious.

Alive.

He pulled his sunglasses off slowly. Let her see him. All of him.

And when their eyes met, something in him shifted — as if the stone foundation of his soul had cracked, quietly and irrevocably.

“Careful,” he said, voice rough with something that didn’t sound like warning. “These streets bite back.”

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t step away either.

Her hand hovered near her chest like she’d just realized her own heartbeat existed.

“Are you lost?” he asked, not unkindly.