# DEAR DIARY, I THINK I JUST MARRIED A CRIMINAL
## CHAPTER ONE: The Drawer
**Dear Diary,**
**If you're reading this and I'm missing, check the locked drawer in Dante's office.**
OR
**If you're reading this and I'm dead... well, I told you so.**
I'm not usually this dramatic. Three months ago, I was Maya Chen, twenty-three-year-old barista with a psychology degree I couldn't afford to use, living in a 400-square-foot apartment with my best friend Riley and a plant I kept forgetting to water. My biggest concern was whether I'd remembered to charge my phone before my shift.
Now I'm Maya Salvatore.
And I live in a penthouse that has more bathrooms than my childhood home had rooms.
You're probably thinking: *What's the problem? You married a gorgeous billionaire. Cry me a river.*
Trust me, I've had that conversation with myself. Usually at 3 AM when I wake up to find his side of the bed empty again.
Let me back up.
**THREE MONTHS AGO**
The coffee shop where I worked—*The Daily Grind* (yes, we hated the name too)—was the kind of place where everyone ordered oat milk lattes and worked on their screenplays. I'd been there for two years, and I could make a cappuccino with my eyes closed, which I sometimes basically did during opening shifts.
It was a Tuesday. Raining. The kind of grey, miserable morning where you question every life choice that led to you being awake before 6 AM.
Then he walked in.
Look, I'm not the type to go all weak-kneed over a handsome guy. I lived in a major city. Handsome guys were everywhere. But Dante Salvatore wasn't just handsome. He was the kind of attractive that made you forget what you were saying mid-sentence. Tall, dark hair that looked professionally tousled, a jawline that could cut glass, and eyes so dark they looked black in the dim lighting.
He wore a suit that probably cost more than my car. (My car was worth about $600, but still.)
"Good morning," I said, switching into customer service mode. "What can I get started for you?"
He studied the menu for exactly three seconds. "Espresso. Double shot."
"That's it?" It slipped out before I could stop myself. "Sorry, I just mean—most people order something more complicated."
The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "I'm not most people."
*Oh, you have no idea how right you are,* I thought later.
He paid cash. Left a twenty-dollar tip on a three-dollar coffee. And that was that.
Except it wasn't.
He came back the next day. Same order. Same generous tip.
And the next day.
By the end of the week, Riley was making kissing noises every time he walked in.
"That man," she whispered aggressively while restocking cups, "is INTO you."
"He orders coffee. That's literally it."
"He orders coffee from YOU specifically. I've seen him walk past Tony's register to wait for yours."
"You're delusional."
"I'm observant. There's a difference."
But I'd noticed too. The way his eyes would find me the moment he entered. How he'd time his arrival for my shifts. The way he'd ask "How are you today, Maya?" like he actually cared about the answer.
On week two, he asked if I'd like to have dinner with him.
I said yes before my brain could list all the reasons I shouldn't.
**THE FIRST DATE**
He picked me up in a car that purred like a very expensive cat. I'd googled what to wear on a date with a rich guy and settled on the nicest dress I owned—a simple black one I'd bought for my college graduation.
"You look beautiful," he said when I slid into the passenger seat.
"You look like you bought that suit in Milan."
"Rome, actually."
Of course it was.
The restaurant had the kind of lighting that made everyone look like they were in a movie. Soft, golden, expensive. The menu didn't have prices, which I'd only ever read about in books.
"Order anything you want," Dante said, watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"What if I want the most expensive thing?"
"Then you should order it."
"What if I want two of the most expensive things?"
That almost-smile again. "Then I'll have the kitchen prepare two."
I ordered the second-cheapest thing on the menu because I'm not great at accepting generosity from strangers, even devastatingly attractive ones.
Dinner was... perfect. Too perfect, maybe. He asked about my degree, my dreams, my family. He listened like every word mattered. He laughed at my jokes—actual laughs, not polite chuckles.
But when I asked about his work, something shifted.
"I handle investments. Family business." His tone was smooth, practiced. "It's boring, trust me. I'd rather hear about your thesis on cognitive behavioral therapy in treating anxiety."
And just like that, we were back to talking about me.
I should have pressed. I should have asked more questions.
But he was looking at me like I was the only person in the world, and I'm only human.