Chapter 2 — Criminal Minds 101
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Three days later.
Ava Moretti had learned three things this week:
1. Coffee can't fix stupidity.
2. Sleep deprivation makes professors more terrifying.
3. The universe had a sense of humor, and she was the punchline.
Because out of all the possible students in Professor Hayes' Advanced Criminal Psychology class, she had been picked to lead a case analysis titled—
"Understanding the Criminal Mind: Anonymous Profile #47."
Sounded innocent.
Until she opened the file.
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The first page was a psychological evaluation summary:
> Male, mid-30s.
Italian-American descent.
High intelligence.
Exhibits signs of control, dominance, and strategic manipulation.
Leads an organization with hierarchical loyalty structure.
Suspected involvement in "shadow" enterprises.
Possible psychopathic charm, emotionally selective empathy.
Ava's pen froze mid-note.
Her brain screamed: Oh no.
"Something wrong, Ms. Moretti?" Professor Hayes asked, pushing his glasses up.
"No, no," Ava said quickly, forcing a smile. "Just wondering if this profile also pays taxes."
A few students chuckled.
Hayes didn't. "Focus on the mind, not the money, Miss Moretti."
"Right. Mind. Totally not panicking."
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By the time class ended, Ava had annotated the file so much it looked like a conspiracy wall.
She closed her notebook, muttering, "It's fine. There are hundreds of Italian guys in New York. What are the odds it's him?"
Then her phone buzzed.
> Unknown Number: You left your pen at Caffè Verona.
Her pulse tripped.
She hadn't realized she'd lost one.
> Ava: Who is this?
Unknown: The man you called a wax statue.
Ava: …oh.
Unknown: I believe the name was "Mr. Funeral Suit"?
She bit her lip, staring at the screen.
> Ava: I see your ego healed quickly.
Lorenzo: Only because your sarcasm was the best medicine.
She rolled her eyes but smiled anyway.
> Ava: Keep the pen. Consider it payment for the dry cleaning.
Lorenzo: I'd rather return it in person. Dinner, perhaps?
Ava blinked. Dinner. With him.
A mafia man—if the rumors were true—and the same man whose psychological file sat in her backpack.
The universe wasn't laughing at her anymore. It was cackling.
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Later that evening.
Serena flopped onto Ava's bed. "You're actually going? Are you out of your caffeine-addled mind?"
Ava groaned, throwing a pillow at her. "It's not a date. He's just giving my pen back."
"Right," Serena said, unimpressed. "You dressed like that for a pen return?"
Ava looked down.
Okay, maybe the black dress was slightly more dinner-date than casual-errand. But who was she kidding? She wasn't meeting a random guy—she was meeting Lorenzo DeLuca, the man whose name could silence a room.
And for some reason, she wasn't scared.
She was… curious.
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Caffè Verona, 8:15 p.m.
The place was quiet now, softly lit with jazz playing in the background. Lorenzo was already seated in a corner booth, jacket off, sleeves rolled up, looking unfairly attractive and completely unbothered by the laws of physics.
When he saw her, he stood—a small, respectful gesture that made her pause.
"Miss Moretti," he greeted, voice smooth like espresso. "You came."
"Of course," she said lightly. "Wouldn't want my pen to get mixed up in mafia business."
He smirked. "You really do enjoy danger, don't you?"
"Only when it's dressed in Armani," she shot back.
He laughed softly. "Sit. Before I start thinking you actually came to interrogate me."
Ava slid into the booth, trying to appear calm. "If I were interrogating you, you'd know. I ask great questions."
He leaned forward, eyes glinting. "Then ask me one."
Her heart did a backflip, but her lips curved. "Fine. What's a man like you doing having coffee with a college student who insults your suits?"
He thought for a moment.
Then, with a smile that was both teasing and disarming, said, "Maybe I wanted to see what it feels like to laugh again."
The answer hit her like a shot of espresso—warm, unexpected, sincere.
For the first time, Ava didn't have a comeback.
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Outside, the rain began to fall softly against the windows.
Inside, Ava and Lorenzo sat across from each other—two people from opposite worlds, drawn together by the strangest of coincidences.
He didn't know she had his psychological profile in her bag.
She didn't know he already knew who she really was.
And somewhere between the coffee, laughter, and quiet danger, the Don smiled to himself—
Because the game had officially begun.
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End of Chapter 2.
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