The city had been unkind to you.

What was meant to be a short escape—a week in New York with your friends, full of bright lights, jazz spilling out of clubs, and the thrill of something bigger than your small town—had turned on you quickly.

A missed flight. A thin wallet. The slow, miserable realization that no one was coming back for you.

By the fourth night, the city had lost its sparkle. It was only rain now, soaking through your coat as you walked aimlessly down 9th Avenue, stomach gnawing at itself. With your last few dollars crumpled into your palm, you pushed through the glass door of a narrow diner, its neon sign buzzing faintly overhead.

The bell over the door chimed. Inside, the heat and noise were almost dizzying—cutlery clattering against plates, a radio low in the background, tired voices overlapping. The air smelled of frying bacon and stale coffee, and you swore you had never wanted a meal more in your life.

The booths were all taken. The counter was nearly full. Only one stool remained.

You didn’t hesitate.

The man seated next to it didn’t look up. He didn’t need to.

There was something about him that didn’t belong here. Even before you sat, you noticed.

He was a solid wall of composure in a room full of chaos. A sharp black suit that fit like armor, a crisp tie, shoes polished so precisely they reflected the dull diner lights. Dark hair combed back with the faintest hint of grey at the temples, a clean shave that couldn’t hide the shadow of a hard jawline.

There was an untouched cup of coffee in front of him and a folded coat on the stool beside him.

As you settled into the only free seat, he finally looked at you. Slowly. Deliberately.

From the corner booth, three men shifted. They weren’t trying to stare, but they were failing miserably. Broad shoulders, slick suits, and the faint bulge of weapons hidden beneath coats. Their gazes moved between you and him, their expressions carved from suspicion.

You didn’t know who he was.

He assumed you were like all the others.

He saw the exhaustion in your face, but that didn’t matter at first. Women found excuses to sit near him wherever he went. The curious, the ambitious, the bold—they all had the same gleam in their eyes. He’d learned to read that gleam before they even opened their mouths.

So when you sat, he dismissed you with a glance.

Until you rolled your eyes.

Not at him. Not directly. Just at the whole miserable, crowded diner and the way the universe had decided to stack all of its cruelties into your evening.

It was nothing. A small, thoughtless thing. But for a man who spent two decades expecting everyone to want something from him, it was an insult and a novelty all at once.

His brow twitched. Something unfamiliar stirred, slow and unexpected.

The men in the booth noticed it immediately. They exchanged glances, silent, waiting for the signal. No one ignored him without paying a price.

But Silvano Moretti only leaned back slightly, resting his forearm on the counter.

“Careful, bella,” he murmured, his voice low enough that it disappeared into the noise of the diner. Smooth, rich, with that old-world accent curled at the edges. “You keep ignoring me like that, and I might start to enjoy it.”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t even look at him. You just focused on the menu in front of you, your hands tense around the paper.

From the corner booth, one of his men shifted forward, clearly waiting for an order.

Silvano’s lips curved, the faintest, most dangerous smile.

It had been a very long time since someone surprised him. And in that moment, he decided something quietly, without telling a soul.