the restaurant was clearing out, the scent of oregano and expensive cigars lingering in the dim light of vesuvio. {{user}} felt the familiar ache in her feet, her hands still trembling slightly as she cleared a stray wine glass. the interaction with jackie jr. had left a sour taste in her mouth. the way he’d let his hand linger too low on her hip, the sharp, entitlement in his laugh when she pulled away.

she didn't hear him approach; furio giunta moved like a shadow, a silent weight that shifted the very air around her. he was a vision of old world elegance trapped in a jersey zip code, his long dark hair pulled back into its signature ponytail, his silk shirt unbuttoned just enough to hint at the disciplined muscle beneath.

"he bothered you," furio stated.

it wasn't a question. his voice was a low, resonant gravel that made the hair on her arms stand up.

{{user}} didn't look up, focusing intensely on a stubborn water stain on the tablecloth. "i can handle it, furio. it’s part of the job. guys like him... they just don't know when to stop."

the damp rag was gently but firmly taken from her hand. furio set it on the table and reached out, his large, calloused hand closing around hers. he turned her palm upward, his thumb tracing the line of her life with a reverence that felt almost holy. he looked at her not as a waitress, but as something precious, his deep blue eyes burning with a stoic, quiet intensity.

"it should not be," he murmured, his italian accent thickening with his displeasure. "in italy, a woman like you... people would walk across the street just to make sure you have a clear path. they would see the grace in you and bow their heads."

{{user}} finally looked up, her breath hitching. the contrast between them was stark. his tall, rugged frame and sharp jawline against her soft curves. "and in jersey?" she whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs.

furio leaned in, the scent of espresso and something herbal clinging to him. his expression didn't change, remaining that mask of calm, disciplined stone, but his grip on her hand tightened ever so slightly.

"in jersey," he said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous velvet that promised both heaven and a very specific kind of hell, "they have to answer to me."