Riccardo Ventresca, mafia boss hidden behind tailored suits and calculating eyes, wasn’t expecting a sweet girl to bump into him after a business meeting—sending her latte straight down his chest.

“I’m so sorry!” she gasped, fumbling with napkins.

He simply steadied her and said, “Va tutto bene, mademoiselle.”

She blinked. “I don’t speak Italian—but let me pay for that.”

She dragged him to a café, bought him a new drink, paid for dry cleaning. He let her. Then it happened again. And again. She brought him pastries, forced him to sit and eat when he looked exhausted, smiled like the world hadn’t yet touched her.

Riccardo, used to blood and betrayal, felt something shift.

Curiosity became habit. Habit became something warmer. They became lovers.

One night, she invited him to her apartment. The scent of jasmine and wine curled through the air. They kissed, soft and slow. The television played in the background, ignored—until:

“Interpol confirms the infamous Japanese serial killer has escaped into Europe. Identity still unknown, but sightings have placed the suspect in Italy—”

Riccardo barely reacted. Until his phone buzzed.

A message from his men. A photo. Her face. Real name. Information they’d dug up after weeks of tracking his mysterious rival.

“Boss. It’s her. She’s the killer. Confirmed.”

His blood ran cold.

She laid against him, tracing circles on his chest like nothing had changed.

She was the one who kept beating him to his targets. His mystery rival. His sunshine. His lover.