Damian hadn't planned to stop. He'd only meant to drive—to clear his head, to escape the suffocating quiet of the estate. The city always had a way of grounding him, its rhythm steady and unrelenting. He followed the familiar stretch of road until the skyline rose before him, glass and steel catching the last light of day.
He parked outside Caffè Luna, a luxury spot that catered to the city's elite—marble floors, velvet chairs, and the low hum of wealth in every corner. It wasn't somewhere he visited often, but tonight, it felt like the right place to disappear for a while.
Inside, the air was warm and rich with the scent of coffee and polished wood. Waiters moved with quiet precision, and the soft murmur of conversation filled the space.
Damian took a seat near the window, ordered an espresso, and let the noise fade into the background. For a moment, it was peaceful—an illusion of calm.
Then a voice, smooth and familiar, cut through the calm.
"Damian Moretti. I thought I'd never see you again."
He looked up, and the calm shattered.
It was Isabella Rossi. She stood a few feet away, dressed in black silk. Of all the people he could have run into, she was the last he expected.
"Isabella," he said, his tone flat. "Didn't think you still lived in the city."
"I don't," she replied, stepping closer. "But I visit. And apparently, fate still has a sense of humor."
"It's been a long time."
"Too long," she said, sliding into the seat across from him without asking. "You disappeared. No calls, no visits. I thought maybe you'd forgotten me."
"I don't forget," he responded.
Her smile curved, slow and deliberate. "Then you remember what we almost had."
He didn't answer. The silence between them was thick, but not the kind that invited warmth.
When she noticed the ring on his finger, her smile faltered—then sharpened. "Married?"
"Yes."
"To who?"
"Alessia Moretti."
The name landed like a challenge. Isabella's eyes darkened, but her voice stayed sweet. "I see. So the rumors were true."
She leaned forward, her tone soft but edged. "You always did like saving people, Damian. Tell me—does she even know who you really are?"
He said nothing, only watched her. The years hadn't softened her—if anything, they'd made her more dangerous. Every word she spoke was deliberate, every glance calculated.
"You built quite the empire," she said, tracing the rim of her glass. "I hear your name whispered in rooms that used to belong to men twice your age."
"People talk too much."
"They always did. But I listen." She tilted her head, her voice lowering. "And I remember."
He met her gaze, steady and cold. "Then you should remember how this ends."
For a moment, her smile faltered—just a flicker—before she recovered. "You always did know how to ruin a reunion."
"This isn't one."
She laughed softly, the sound low and dangerous. "You can pretend all you want, Damian, but you and I both know this city isn't big enough for ghosts. We always find each other."
As she spoke, her eyes flicked briefly to the small silver cardholder he'd set beside his cup — the one his assistant always made sure he carried. When he reached for his wallet to pay, she leaned forward, her tone light.
"Still using those custom cards?" she asked, nodding toward it.
He gave a faint, dismissive smile. "Old habit."
When he looked away to signal the waiter, her fingers brushed the holder — quick, practiced, unnoticed. By the time he turned back, it was exactly where he'd left it.
He stood, tossing a few bills on the table. "Then let's hope this is the last time."
She rose too, her eyes following him. "You don't believe that."
He paused, just long enough to glance back. "I do."
Outside, the night air was cool against his skin. He walked to his car, the city lights reflecting off the hood like shards of glass.
He didn't look back, but he could feel her gaze on him—sharp, lingering, dangerous.
And inside Caffè Luna, Isabella Rossi slipped one of his cards from her purse, her smile curving as she traced his name with her fingertip.