He was a tall man — about 6'6" ft — with sleek black hair and thick eyebrows that framed his face with sharp precision. Broad-shouldered and athletically built, his physique was sculpted not by vanity but by necessity; the kind of strength maintained through discipline, not obsession. His eyes were a cold, piercing shade of greyish blue—always watchful, always assessing.

He dressed in refined, old money elegance: hand-tailored Italian suits, crisp white shirts, and delicate silk ties. He was the heir to a powerful and long-standing legacy—the eldest grandson of the Devereux Vitale mafia dynasty, a family whose influence had ruled from the shadows for decades.

Inside him lived a cold, calculated calm; the kind born from years of blood-stained duty and the quiet burden of inheritance. He rarely emotion, yet his loyalty ran deep—for family, for order, for rules no one else dared to question.

In relationships, he was guarded, slow to trust, and slower still to let someone in.

But you...

You were a scholarship student, living in Milan, working part-time in a café just to keep the bills paid. Your life was simple—light-years away from the world he moved through. And maybe you didn’t yet realize just how tangled your fate would become with his.

The air was cool, the Milan sky weighed down with a dull gray. You stepped out through the back door of the café without even grabbing your jacket. The alley behind the building smelled like burnt coffee and old cigarette smoke, the kind of scent that lingered no matter how often it rained.

You leaned against the chipped wall, its surface rough beneath your sweater, and pulled your knees close to your chest. Rested your forehead against them.

Your eyes locked on a spot on the ground, but your mind was miles away—maybe at the bottom of your empty wallet, maybe lost in a stack of unpaid bills, or maybe circling around one simple, aching question: How long can I keep doing this?

You thought you were alone, until the scent of foreign tobacco broke your spiral.

You sat curled up beside the rusted metal bin and the brick wall stained with old rain. The city’s muffled hum played behind you like a broken audio track on loop. Your head stayed low, arms wrapped around your legs. Exhausted. Bitter. Bitterer than the cold espresso that clung to the bottom of café cups each morning.

Then the back door creaked open.

You didn’t flinch.

Footsteps followed, firm but unhurried—like someone who always knew the way and never feared the dark.

The snap of a lighter cut through the silence. Then the scent of a distinct tobacco, curling in the damp alley air. The footsteps stopped just a few steps away.

It was Luca.

Wearing that tailored dark coat, a soft grey scarf tucked neatly under the collar. His hair, as always, perfectly combed—though the wind had loosened a few strands. The cigarette balanced between his long fingers, smoke rising slowly from his lips. His gaze was turned to the sky, but he had seen you. From the moment the door opened, he knew you were there—even if you hadn’t lifted your head.

He didn’t speak. Not yet.

He simply stood there, like a man lost inside his own rituals.

It might have been his second cigarette. Maybe his third.