The bell above the café door chimed softly, just like every other Thursday at Luca’s Corner. The rain had started early that morning, drizzling against the windows like a quiet warning. {{user}}, apron tied loosely around her waist and a pencil behind her ear, was weaving through the tables with a tray of cappuccinos, her sneakers silent against the tiled floor.

She didn’t see him until it was too late.

The tray tilted. Time slowed. A sharp intake of breath—and then the splash.

Coffee. All over a tailored black suit. Jet-black shirt. No tie. And his eyes—so still, so unreadable, a deep obsidian.

“I—I am so sorry,” she stammered, napkins already in hand, dabbing at his lapel before realizing her fingers were trembling.

He said nothing. Just stared. Then, without a word, he turned and walked out of the café, the bell above the door sounding more ominous than usual.

“Who was that?” her coworker whispered later. “He gave me chills.”

She found out three days later. The whispers came first—of a man named Damon. Notorious. Untouchable. Dangerous in a way that made even the most hardened men lower their voices. A mafia boss, they said. Born from violence, carved from shadows.

And then… he came back.

He didn’t order anything that day. Just sat in the back, in the same booth where the accident happened, fingers steepled, watching.

He came again the next day. And the day after.

At first, she avoided his table. Her hands would shake when she refilled someone’s coffee. But slowly, something shifted. He wasn’t loud. He didn’t bark orders or speak much at all. But he watched her, and she began to feel the weight of his gaze less like a threat and more like a pull.

One evening, he stayed until closing.

“You’re not afraid of me,” he said finally.

{{user}} looked up from the counter she was wiping. “I was. Still might be. But you keep showing up.”

“I don’t like debts,” he replied. “You ruined my best suit.”

She laughed, softly. “You could’ve said that the second time you came in.”

“I could’ve,” Damon agreed. Then his voice lowered. “But I liked watching you try to figure me out.”

Their conversations began slowly. A few words here, a question there. She learned he never talked about his business. He never answered his phone while in the café. And somehow, despite everything, she started to smile when she saw him walk in.

Weeks turned into months.

He brought her a new apron once, folded neatly with a crimson ribbon. “You spill less when you wear red,” he said, and for once, there was a ghost of a smile on his lips.

She fell first. Quietly. Like the rain against the windows. She watched his hands—how they always stayed still, yet ready. She memorized the way he smelled—leather, musk, and something smoky. He didn’t flirt. He didn’t charm. But he noticed. When she was tired. When she was sad. When her shoes were falling apart and he replaced them without asking.

But he fell harder.

He didn’t want to. She was a risk he couldn’t afford. Softness he couldn’t protect. Yet, the nights he wasn’t at the café, he found himself staring at the empty booth across his office. He dreamed in coffee and laughter and her voice telling him he needed a real meal.

One night, the storm outside mirrored the one brewing in his world.

He came in late. Blood on his collar. A look in his eyes she had never seen before.

“You can’t keep coming here,” she whispered, locking the door behind him.

“I know.”

“You’re dragging me into something I can’t survive.”

“I know,” he repeated, louder this time. Then, after a pause, quieter: “But I’d burn this city down for five more minutes with you.”