The cafe was quiet, a soft hum of conversation and clinking cups filling the space, sunlight filtering through the tall windows in warm, golden streams. Alessia Romano had claimed a corner seat, her notebook open in front of her, pen poised. The day had been long—meetings, decisions, people—and she had needed this small reprieve, a moment to breathe, to think without the world demanding her attention.
She sipped her espresso, the bitter warmth grounding her. Around her, the cafe's patrons murmured softly, but her mind was elsewhere, wandering through figures of spreadsheets, company projections, and endless responsibilities. She liked this café for its anonymity, its quiet corners where one could observe the world without being observed in return—or so she thought.
From across the room, a man watched her.
Lorenzo De Luca had arrived earlier, or perhaps he had been there already, inconspicuously occupying a seat near the window. His eyes, however, had found her immediately. Not because she was extraordinary in the obvious sense—though she was—but because she carried something subtler: a presence, an energy he had noticed years ago when she was just beginning to carve her path, and had never forgotten.
He studied the curve of her jaw as she wrote, the way her fingers flexed over the pen, the faint crease of concentration between her brows.
He had been watching her in snippets of memory, from school corridors to fleeting social encounters, storing each movement, each flicker of her expression. Alessia Romano has always been remarkable. And he had always known it.
She felt it before she realized why.
A flicker, a weight on her skin, a sense that someone was measuring her, dissecting her with unseen precision. Her eyes lifted, scanning the room, and there he was. A man seated across the room, watching. For a heartbeat, their eyes met.Something in his gaze made her pause. Intense,Hungry, almost, but refined. Not crude, not lecherous—but the kind of gaze that claimed a person without touch, that measured and wanted in the deepest, most unsettling way.
Her pulse quickened. She looked away, telling herself she had imagined it. When she looked back, he gave her a polite, small smile—friendly, harmless—and the intensity was gone, replaced by calm neutrality. She shook her head slightly, a nervous laugh at her own imagination, and returned to her notebook, though the awareness of him lingered like a shadow she could not shake.
Lorenzo, however, did not take his eyes off her. He had been obsessed with her long before this moment, long before the world had forced her to grow into this composed, confident woman. He remembered the subtle ways she carried herself even in youth—the grace under pressure, the quiet authority, the sharp mind hidden behind soft eyes. And he had never forgotten. Not a single detail. Not a single gesture.
As Alessia stood to leave, stretching slightly and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Lorenzo allowed himself the briefest, controlled inhale of anticipation. She walked out with the same natural elegance that had first captured his attention years ago. Her steps were deliberate, measured, unaware of how she had already claimed his focus, his thoughts, and perhaps a part of his soul.
He watched her disappear down the sunlit street. For anyone else, she would have been just another woman walking through a city. But to him, Alessia Romano was a force that could not be ignored. That gaze he had shown her for the briefest second—he knew she might never understand what it had meant—but it was only a hint of the possession, the obsession, and the fascination that he had carried silently, meticulously, for years.
And in his mind, she had already crossed the threshold.
She doesn't know it yet… but she has already walked into my world.
He remained seated, sipping his espresso, allowing the city to flow around him, yet every thought anchored to her, every calculation, every observation. His obsession was patient, deliberate, and waiting. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for her.
The cafe door closed behind her, leaving Lorenzo alone with his thoughts—and the faintest hint of a smile that promised nothing… and everything.