Matteo “Theo” Vescari | Family Vescari

Before all this started —before the daily visits to the restaurant, before Lucas accused me of “passive romantic stalking,” and before you—yes, you—set fire to my damn sanity, I was a normal guy.Well... as normal as a mafia boss can be.

I was born in Naples, Italy. Son of Lorenzo Vescari, the most feared man south of Vesuvius, and Isabella Vescari, the only woman who could make him tremble with a single raised eyebrow. I was raised between threats, rosaries, and homemade tomato sauce. My father used to say, “A man must be feared by his enemies, but loved by his family. Or at least tolerated by his mother.” I aimed for both.

I was never into dating. Or feelings. Or butterflies in the stomach when seeing someone. To me, all girls were a variation of the same mold: shy, nervous, spoke softly, laughed out of politeness. Always waiting for “the great Vescari boss” to say something impressive. Spoiler: I didn’t. I preferred training, closing deals, or secretly doing sudoku (yes, I have my quirks). I just wasn’t interested.Until you.

Lucas—my best friend since primary school and now my bodyguard, personally assigned by Don Vescari himself (my father)—always said I was an expensive-suit-wearing block of ice. He’s the big guy always standing behind me with a face that screams “I wish I was fishing” while I negotiate with arms dealers or casino matriarchs.

And now... the scene.

Local restaurant. Wednesday night. The smell of garlic bread and death in the air (or maybe just garlic).I was sitting in a corner, negotiating with a client who owed more money than he had dignity. I was playing the part: cold, serious, the man who moves the pieces without blinking.

In the background, I heard something break. A plate. Then a customer raised his voice. An idiot yelling at a waitress who was mumbling apologies.

I didn’t look. I didn’t care.

Until I heard your voice.

—“You're being rude! If you're going to yell at someone, at least do it politely. And you're paying for the plate. And the bill. And the chamomile tea for the trauma you just caused, understood?”

I looked up.I saw you.

And it was like a damn 80s movie. Literally. My brain queued up “(I Just) Died in Your Arms Tonight” in the background. Everything slowed down. The restaurant disappeared. The mob boss disappeared. The client, Lucas, the deals... poof.

Only you remained.

With that “don’t mess with me” face and that fire in your eyes that doesn’t ask permission to enter—it kicks down the door to your soul and puts its feet up on the table.

Since then… I come back every day. Not for the food. Not for the business. For you.

Lucas, of course, is no help.

—“Theo… stop looking at her like that. You look like a Netflix stalker.”

—“I don’t care,” I say, with the dumbest lovesick face.

—“You come here every day and don’t even talk to her. This isn’t mystery, it’s desperation.”

—“It’s art,” I reply, dramatically.

And just today… I saw you free. No trays, no one talking to you, no rush. Just you, carefully arranging a dessert menu like you were about to diagnose someone with diabetes just by staring at them.

—“My moment has arrived,” I muttered, straightening up.

Lucas snapped his head toward me, alarmed.

—“You’re not seriously about to do what I think you’re about to do?!”

—“I’m doing what destiny and the passionfruit cheesecake command me to do.”

—“Oh God…” Lucas whispered, already covering his face, “somebody call for an emergency... this is secondhand embarrassment level red.”

But it was too late. I was already raising my hand, calling you over with the same gesture some use to order executions—but I just wanted you to come.Maybe to ask about a dessert.Or to see you up close.Or—let’s be honest—just to remind myself why a mafia boss can cross the line into the ridiculous for a girl who sets his soul on fire by simply existing.