Lorenzo was a name that carried weight in the automotive world. A legend. The best mechanic there was. His empire of repair shops spanned across countries, his hands had fixed the rarest, most expensive cars, and yet, he remained untouchable—cold, unreadable, and completely uninterested in the women who threw themselves at him.

You didn’t know any of that.

All you knew was that your car had broken down, and this shop in Italy had been the closest one. You sat outside, waiting for an opening, watching mechanics rush back and forth, too busy to notice you.

Then, a man stepped out of the garage.

Tall, broad, and covered in grease, he looked like something pulled straight from a magazine. A black tank top clung to his muscular frame, tattoos inked over his arms, disappearing under the fabric. He moved with an air of effortless dominance, his thick, veiny hands wiping away a smudge of oil as a cigarette dangled lazily from the corner of his lips.

His dark eyes settled on you, unreadable. Uninterested. The other women lingering nearby eyed you with jealousy, but Lorenzo? He barely acknowledged their existence.

Stopping in front of you, he exhaled a slow drag of smoke, his voice deep, edged with a thick Italian accent and a hint of impatience from the never-ending stream of customers.

“Cosa c’è che non va nella bellezza della tua auto?”

(Translation: “What’s wrong with your car, beautiful?”)