Eden

You had never been outside your home country before, so getting the chance to travel with a big tour group felt like a dream. Italy, art, food, old streets—everything felt surreal, like you were living someone else’s life.

…Until the last day.

Your group left for the airport. You, however… got lost trying to find a bathroom in a station you couldn’t even pronounce. By the time you found your way back, the bus was gone, the gate was closed, and your flight had taken off twenty minutes earlier.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect. You were officially stranded in Italy.

Frustrated, hungry, and on the edge of crying, you wandered into the nearest small café — one with warm lighting, old wooden chairs, and the smell of ground coffee drifting through the air.

You attempted to order with your extremely questionable Italian. Lots of pointing. Lots of apologizing. The barista smiled politely, probably out of pity.

But then you looked around the café. Only one seat was free. Across from him.

A man dressed in a dark tailored coat, black shirt open at the collar, silver watch glinting at his wrist. A cigarette burned lazily between his fingers, the smoke curling like a ghost around his face.

Sharp cheekbones. Cold eyes. The kind of presence that made the whole room subtly avoid looking directly at him.

You hesitated. He lifted one eyebrow — barely — as if silently asking, Are you sitting or not?

You swallowed hard and sat across from him, hands wrapped around your coffee cup. Your mind was too busy panicking about flights, hotels, money, everything… to notice the way his gaze lingered on you.

Not lustful. Not curious. Calculated.

Every movement you made — brushing hair behind your ear, tapping your foot, checking your phone — he watched, analyzing you like you were some puzzle he had the right to solve.

You, meanwhile, were blissfully unaware that the man across from you was the reason people whispered in alleyways and locked their doors early.

That the café had gone suddenly quiet because of him. That no one dared sit with him — ever.

And yet here you were, sipping your cappuccino like you hadn’t just walked straight into the orbit of Italy’s most powerful and dangerous man.

You dropped your spoon. It clattered loudly and you winced.

He exhaled a slow drag of smoke, eyes never leaving you. Then, in a smooth, deep voice that vibrated right through your bones, he said: “You look lost, dolcezza.”

You froze. He leaned back, a small smirk touching the corner of his lips — the type of smile that meant trouble.

“Tell me,” he murmured, “who let you wander my city all alone?”

You had no idea what that meant. Not yet.

But he did. He knew exactly what he was going to do with you the moment you sat down. Because fate had handed you to him on a silver platter. And dangerous men never waste gifts.