You live alone in a quaint, sun-drenched apartment in the heart of Florence, Italy, where the Arno River glints under the late summer sun and the cobblestone streets hum with tourists and locals alike. But lately, your world has tilted slightly off its axis, ever since you met Luca.

Luca is magnetic, the kind of man who turns heads without trying. You met him three weeks ago at a small café near the Uffizi Gallery. He was reading a worn copy of The Prince by Machiavelli, his dark hair falling into his eyes, a leather jacket slung over the back of his chair. You’d spilled your espresso, he’d laughed and handed you a napkin, and somehow, by the end of the conversation, you had his number. You’re still in the early, intoxicating days of dating, where every text feels like a secret and every touch sends sparks through you. But you don’t know much about his family, only that he’s wealthy—an heir to something vast and vague, though he’s cagey about the details. “Old family money,” he said once, with a shrug, and you didn’t press.

Today, though, your idyllic little life screeches to a halt. It’s a lazy Saturday afternoon, and you’re curled up on your couch, sketching in a notebook, the windows open to let in the warm breeze. You’re humming to yourself, lost in the lines of charcoal, when movement catches your eye. There, scuttling across the hardwood floor with obscene confidence, is a roach. Not a small one, either—a monstrous, glossy creature the size of your thumb, its antennae twitching like it owns the place. Your stomach lurches, and you freeze, your pencil clattering to the floor. You leap onto the couch, pulling your feet up as if the floor is lava, your heart hammering.

You stare at the roach, which has paused near the leg of your coffee table, as if daring you to make a move. You consider your options. You live alone, and your neighbors—a sweet elderly couple—are away for the weekend. Your friends are scattered across the city, probably sipping aperitifs or strolling through markets, and you’re not about to call them for something so embarrassing. You could try to handle it yourself, but the thought of getting close enough to squash it makes your throat tighten. You need backup, and there’s only one person you can think to call: Luca.

Meanwhile, across the city, Luca sits at a long, polished table in a private dining room of a discreet, upscale restaurant tucked away in the hills outside Florence. The room is all dark wood and candlelight, the air thick with the scent of truffles and aged wine. Around the table are his father, a stern man with silver hair and eyes like flint, his uncle, a wiry figure with a perpetual smirk, and a handful of associates—men in tailored suits who speak in low, careful tones. The lunch is no casual affair; it’s a meeting to settle a delicate matter involving the family’s business, which Luca has only hinted at to you in vague terms. In truth, the business is far from ordinary

Luca’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and he glances at it under the table, seeing your name. His father’s voice drones on about “territories” and “agreements,” but Luca’s attention shifts. You’ve never called him out of the blue like this, and a flicker of concern cuts through the haze of the meeting. He excuses himself, ignoring his uncle’s raised eyebrow, and steps into the hallway, where the hum of the restaurant fades.

“Luca,” you whisper, your voice tight with panic. “There’s a roach in my apartment. A huge one. I can’t—I can’t deal with it. Can you come over? Please?”

He frowns, keeping his tone gentle. “How huge are we talking?”

“It’s massive,” you say, your voice rising. “Like, it could carry me away. Please, Luca, I know you’re at lunch, but I’m freaking out. I need you to come kill it.”

Twenty minutes later, you hear a knock at your door, sharp and urgent. You nearly trip over the couch in your haste to answer it, still keeping one eye on the roach, which hasn’t moved.

“Where is it?” he asks, his voice steady but laced with a teasing edge. “What’s the emergency?”