Chapter 1 — The Girl Who Mocked a Don
---
New York City, 8:03 a.m.
The city was already screaming.
Not the kind of screaming that comes from terror or pain—just the usual morning chaos of honking taxis, cursing businessmen, and an old lady yelling at pigeons like they owed her rent.
Ava Moretti yawned behind her latte, standing outside Caffè Verona, her favorite corner café two blocks from campus. Her AirPods were in, blasting a playlist called "Main Character Energy (but make it tired)".
She wore a loose white shirt tucked halfway into ripped jeans, and a black leather jacket she swore gave her "CEO of sarcasm" vibes. Her hair was up in a lazy bun that somehow looked intentional—one of her few natural talents.
Ava was running on caffeine, chaos, and confidence. Mostly caffeine.
---
Inside the café, a man stood out like a glitch in the simulation.
Tall, tailored, too composed for 8 a.m. His charcoal suit looked like it had been personally hand-stitched by angels—or possibly very bored Italian designers.
He had that dangerous calm—the kind that made people step aside without knowing why. He was scrolling through something on his phone, jaw sharp enough to slice through marble, hair slicked back with casual perfection.
Ava didn't notice him.
Not at first.
Because she was too busy arguing with the barista about her coffee.
---
"Ma'am," the barista said, dead inside, "you asked for a double shot caramel latte with oat milk, extra foam, and light drizzle. This is that."
Ava squinted at the cup. "No, this is a cup of disappointment with foam."
The barista blinked. "It's coffee."
"Exactly. You said that like it's a compliment."
A few people in line laughed. The man in the suit looked up briefly, curious.
Ava kept going. "You know what? Keep the foam. I'll drink my emotional damage raw."
She grabbed the cup, turned—and crashed straight into the man in the suit.
---
Hot coffee. Expensive fabric. The smell of roasted caffeine and bad decisions.
"Oh my—" Ava gasped, stumbling back. The cup slipped from her hand, splattering across his jacket.
Her soul left her body for a moment. Then her mouth decided to make things worse.
"Okay, first of all, who wears a funeral suit to a coffee shop?" she blurted. "Second, maybe next time try not standing there like a… like a wax statue."
The café went quiet.
The man looked down at his stained jacket, then at her.
Most people would yell.
He didn't. He just smiled—slowly, the kind of smile that made the air temperature drop and rise at the same time.
"Do you always start your mornings by insulting strangers," he said in a low, smooth Italian accent, "or am I just lucky?"
Ava blinked.
God, his voice. It was like velvet dipped in sin.
But she refused to melt. "Depends," she said coolly. "Do you always stand in people's way wearing thousand-dollar suits like it's a photoshoot for Mafia Monthly?"
He laughed—softly, unexpectedly. "Maybe I do."
"Then maybe I'll sue you for emotional distress," she muttered, snatching napkins and pressing them against his jacket.
He took one from her hand, eyes amused. "You think this is distressing? You should see me when I'm angry."
"Oh, trust me, I've met professors angrier than you," she shot back.
That earned her another low chuckle. "You're a student?"
"Psychology major," she said. "Specializing in diagnosing people with inflated egos."
He tilted his head. "Then I must be your thesis topic."
Ava blinked. "Oh, you wish."
---
A barista cleared his throat nervously. "Uh, Mr. DeLuca, your espresso is ready."
The name hit her like a plot twist.
DeLuca.
Even she, a broke college student, had heard of that surname. The DeLuca family owned half of New York's luxury clubs, security companies, and rumor said—some "underground" businesses too.
Ava froze, coffee napkin still in hand.
He caught the hesitation and smiled faintly. "Don't worry, bella. I don't bite."
"Good," she said, pretending calm. "Because I'd bite back."
Lorenzo DeLuca's smile deepened, eyes glinting like a secret.
"I'll remember that."
---
He took his espresso, nodded politely, and left the café like gravity bent around him. The door chimed behind him, and the noise of the city rushed back in.
Ava exhaled.
Her friend Serena texted just then:
> You coming to class or flirting with caffeine again?
Ava typed back:
> Neither. I just roasted a billionaire mafia guy. RIP me.
She laughed at her own message—half-joking, half-terrified.
Outside, across the street, Lorenzo DeLuca paused beside his black Maserati. He looked back through the café window—at the girl still laughing at her phone.
And for the first time in a long while… he smiled like someone who'd finally met his match.
---
End of Chapter 1.
---