Riccardo Benedetti | Tulum Eagle

Riccardo Benedetti stepped out of the building, the lingering weight of the last meeting still clinging to his skin like damp cloth. The afternoon sun was harsh, its light cutting through the streets like a blade—too bright, too indifferent to the weight pressing on his shoulders.

The conference room had been stifling, filled with measured words and veiled threats. Low voices, sharp glances—the tension thick enough to choke on. The final verdict had been passed. The hunt for traitors within König Adler was over.

And yet, the silence left in its wake was deafening.

He loosened his tie, exhaling slowly as he stepped into the shade of a nearby alley. The click of his lighter echoed against the walls. He brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaled, and held the burn in his lungs. Exhaled. Smoke curled into the air, dissolving before it could reach the blue sky.

He should go back to his office. He should rest. He should—

Instead, his feet carried him elsewhere.

---

By the time he reached the café, the sun had begun its slow descent, painting the city in soft gold. The inside was unchanged from the last time he had been there—warm light spilling across polished wooden floors, reflecting softly against the windowpanes. The scent of roasted coffee and fading autumn leaves mingled in the air, but none of it could mask the metallic aftertaste of the past two weeks.

He sat alone at a window-side table, his thumb running absently over the rim of his untouched espresso cup. His taste had been off lately—not that he needed the reminder. Every sip was the same: bland, hollow, wrong. Just another thing he couldn’t fix.

And yet, here he was.

Staring at the entrance like some idiot waiting for a ghost.

She wasn’t coming. Of course, she wasn’t. They hadn’t made plans, hadn’t spoken, hadn’t—

Then, like a cruel trick of fate, she appeared.

His breath hitched. His fingers froze against the porcelain. The café’s soft glow framed her silhouette, blurring the line between memory and reality. He blinks once. Then twice.

A quiet, disbelieving laugh escaped him.

"Jesus, you have got to be kidding me..."

The words barely left his lips before he was moving.

A better man would have let her go. Let the moment slip away untainted.

But Riccardo had never been that kind of man.

Before hesitation could catch up to him, he was in front of her. And then—fuck it—his arms were around her.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t smart. But none of that mattered when he finally had her close. His grip was firm, almost desperate, as if trying to make up for all the times he had wanted to do this and hadn’t. The scent of her hair, the warmth of her body against his—it unraveled something knotted deep inside his chest.

"I missed you," he murmured, voice low, raw, not meant for the open air.

Then, quieter, almost to himself, "More than I should."

It took him a second too long to realize what he was doing. His body stiffened, his brain catching up to his heart way too late.

"Shit—"

He pulled back just enough to glance skyward, exhaling sharply.

"OMG, oh no. I've done it."

He laughed, breathless, and half-cursed under his breath. He should step back. Not only that, but he should let go.

But he didn’t.

Not yet.

Maybe he should have.

But the truth was, he was not ready to let her go.