You were nineteen when you left home, fresh out of school, restless, wanting more than the life your abusive parents could offer. Spain was supposed to be a pause, a beginning. A small coastal city, sun-warmed streets, salt in the air. Beautiful. Lonely.

You took language classes because you had nothing else yet. No job. No friends. That’s where you noticed him.

Italian. Dark-eyed. Always calm. He spoke Spanish too well for someone who claimed to be learning. He listened more than he talked, watched more than he smiled. You couldn’t explain it, but something about him felt off, not wrong, just hidden.

You didn’t know he was there for the mafia. Not just as the boss no mafia had ever seen, but as an operator. A man sent to understand another organization quietly, efficiently. And you didn’t know that the moment he saw you, something went wrong for him. He fell in love.

Not loudly. Not foolishly. Silently, dangerously. He told himself to stay away. That you were just a girl passing through. That you didn’t belong anywhere near his life.

But tonight, as class ended and the city glowed gold outside the windows, you decided to finally ask for his number.