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Raella's POV

The smell of fresh coffee and frying bacon filled the air, a comforting blend I’d grown so used to that I barely noticed anymore. My focus stayed on the streak of ketchup smeared along the edge of Table 4. The rag in my hand was damp, sour, useless. Toss it in the bin, I told myself again.

Behind me, Sandra hummed off-key to the tinny rhythm of the old radio, completely unfazed by Carmela’s muttered curses as she struggled to unstack a teetering pile of chairs. The clatter made me wince, but not enough to look up. It was the same morning, the same chaos, the same routine.

Behind me, Sandra hummed off-key, oblivious to Carmela muttering curses as she wrestled with a stack of chairs. The clatter made me flinch. Same morning, same chaos, same routine.

Until the bells over the front door jingled.

I froze. Not at the sound—but at the silence that followed.

I turned.

They were big. All of them. Black T-shirts stretched tight across broad shoulders, boots hitting the floorboards with slow, deliberate thuds. Not the kind of men looking for pancakes and small talk.

And then I saw him.

He wasn’t the tallest or the most imposing. No tattoos snaked up his neck, and he didn’t wear a beard thick enough to fit in a Viking saga. He was leaner, quieter—and infinitely more dangerous.

Then he turned, and I saw his eyes. Molten amber, sharp enough to slice through the years I’d spent trying to forget him.

"Good morning, love," Vincenzo Marinelli said, his smile anything but kind. "Did you miss me?"

Few days ago

I couldn’t believe I let my friends drag me out that night. Exhaustion hit me like a truck as Sandra, my work bestie, and I rode in an Uber to some downtown party. All I wanted was the comfort of my humble apartment after a long day at the diner, but Carmela and Sandra had different plans.

Carmela had insisted I borrow her Zara dress for the night, deciding that I’d wear it without underwear. But after Carmela mysteriously disappeared due to some “sickness,” I was left alone with Sandra, who was determined to dive headfirst into the evening's chaos.

I pushed through a door and came to a screeching halt. A bathroom, or so I thought. But inside, three girls were huddled around a hand mirror, their hair perfectly styled, their dresses impeccable, their nails gleaming in the candlelight.

Two didn’t notice me, but the third—bent over the mirror with a straw pressed to her nose—looked up. Her face, reflected below her, was broken up by several neatly lined lines of white powder.

When she saw me, her frown wasn’t one of surprise—it was one of recognition.

“Rafaella?” she said, her voice filled with shock. “Is that you?”

Rafaella. A name that no longer belonged to me.

My heart leapt into my throat. A single thought blared through my mind: run.

And I did. I ran, and I didn’t look back. High heels be damned. Torn dress be damned.

I kept running, through hallways and up stairs, until my lungs were on fire. Finally, I burst into the nearest room I could find, slamming the door behind me.

Inside the dark room, I collapsed onto my knees, gasping for breath, ignoring the fact that anyone who came up behind me would get a very up-close view of my ass.

She saw me. She knew me.

I shuddered at the thought. Rafaella. God, how I hated that name.

I was Raella now. Rafaella was dead.

Eventually, my heart rate slowed, but the fear still clung to me, lingering like a bad taste. When I felt calm enough to move, I looked around the room.

It was a man’s office, dark and brooding with a masculine feel. Light streamed through a set of French doors, revealing a balcony that overlooked a rear lawn. The party was in full swing outside, a sea of bodies moving and laughing, the sound of clinking glasses rising up.

I found a lamp in the corner and clicked it on. The back of my dress was ruined. I needed to get it off before the whole thing fell apart, literally and figuratively. I yanked at the fabric, hoping for a miracle, but—

Riiiip.

Well, that was it. My careful attempts had made the tear worse. The dress split down the back, falling in a heap around my feet, leaving me standing there in nothing but high heels and nipple pasties.

And, of course, that’s when the door opened.

I barely had time to grab at the dress before the door clicked shut behind him.