The next morning, the rain was gone—but the memory of it lingered.
Ayla Sanders stood behind the counter of Café Verona, holding the same coffee cup the stranger had used just hours before. She hadn't thrown it away. Somehow, she couldn't. It sat alone on the counter now, a silent reminder that something—or someone—out of the ordinary had stepped into her quiet little world.
She didn't sleep well last night.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him again. The blood on his shirt, the sharpness in his voice, the look in his eyes. There was something haunting about the man. Something dangerous, yes—but also broken. And she hated how curious she was about him.
"Earth to Ayla?"
Ayla blinked and turned toward her best friend and co-worker, Julia, who was raising an eyebrow while tying her apron.
"You've been staring at that cup for ten minutes," Julia said. "Did it say something romantic to you or what?"
Ayla gave a soft laugh, shaking her head. "Just... thinking."
Julia leaned on the counter. "This have anything to do with that tall, scary-hot guy who came in during the storm last night?"
Ayla's cheeks warmed. "You saw him?"
"He came in looking like a wet James Bond. Hard to miss," Julia said, smirking. "Though a little more 'I might kill you' than 'let's have martinis.'"
Ayla rolled her eyes. "He was... intense."
"That's one word for it." Julia leaned closer. "So, spill. Who was he?"
"I don't know. He didn't give a name."
Julia blinked. "Wait, hold on. Some bleeding, mysterious man walks into our café, drinks black coffee like a villain in a movie, drops a hundred bucks, and you didn't ask his name?"
"He didn't offer," Ayla said, her voice quieter now. "And honestly... I didn't feel like I should."
Julia studied her for a moment, the teasing fading slightly. "Are you okay? I mean... he wasn't creepy or threatening, right?"
Ayla shook her head. "No. He didn't scare me. Not really."
"Not really?"
Ayla hesitated. "It's weird. He looked dangerous, but... I don't know. There was something in him that didn't feel like a threat. More like... sadness."
Julia crossed her arms. "Sad men don't usually bleed on café floors and vanish into the night."
Ayla smiled faintly. "He didn't bleed on the floor. Just his sleeve."
"Oh, well that makes it totally normal," Julia said with a dramatic eye roll. "Be careful, Ayla. Guys like that? They don't just show up without reason."
"I know," Ayla murmured, glancing back at the cup.
And deep down, she felt it.
He would come back.
---
Elsewhere in Manhattan...
Leonardo Moretti watched the skyline from his penthouse window. The early sun lit the towers of glass and steel with golden light, but Leo felt none of its warmth.
His shoulder ached where the bullet had grazed him last night. He had cleaned and bandaged it himself, like he always did. No doctors. No hospitals. No witnesses.
He didn't trust anyone. Not anymore.
But that girl...
He hadn't meant to stop at the café. He hadn't meant to speak to anyone. But something about the light inside, the soft jazz music, the quiet hum of a world that didn't know his name—it had pulled him in.
And then she had looked at him.
Not with fear. Not with disgust. But with concern.
He didn't remember the last time someone looked at him that way.
Leo ran a hand over his face and turned from the window. His phone buzzed on the table nearby. He picked it up without checking the name.
"What?"
A voice responded, cold and clipped. "We found the men who ambushed you. Two dead. One's still breathing."
"Good," Leo said. "Keep him alive. I want to know who sent them."
There was a pause. "You disappeared for four hours last night. We couldn't track your car."
"I stopped for coffee."
Silence. Then, dryly, "Is that code for something?"
"No," Leo said. "It's coffee. That's all."
More silence. Then the voice asked, more cautiously, "Do you want us to clean the café? If someone saw you—"
"No." Leo's voice hardened. "No one touches that place."
His own words surprised him.
Why did he say that?
He could've just erased it from the map like he had so many places before. But this time... he didn't want to.
Leo ended the call and tossed the phone onto the couch.
There was something strange about that girl. Something calm. Unafraid. And in a world full of lies and betrayal, that felt almost dangerous.
Or maybe... it felt like hope.
---
Back at Café Verona...
The day passed slowly. Customers came and went. Rain clouds lingered but held back. Ayla tried her best to focus on work, but her mind kept drifting.
She had questions.
Who was he? Why was he bleeding? What kind of man walks into a café in the middle of a storm like he owns the world?
By 6 PM, Julia had gone home and Ayla was left to close alone.
She was wiping tables when the bell above the door rang.
Her breath caught in her throat.
He stood there again.
Same black coat. Same sharp gaze. But this time, he wasn't wet. And there was no blood.
Only silence.
Ayla stared at him, her heart thudding wildly in her chest.
"You came back," she said.
He stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him. "I said I might."
She nodded slowly, setting the cloth down. "You okay now?"
"For now," he said simply.
There was a pause.
Then he asked, "You kept my cup?"
Ayla blinked. "What?"
He nodded toward the counter. She followed his gaze—and realized with embarrassment that the cup was still sitting there, untouched.
Her cheeks flushed. "I… didn't mean to. I just—forgot to throw it out."
He said nothing, but something softened in his expression. Almost imperceptibly.
"You want another coffee?" she asked, trying to sound casual.
He nodded once. "Please."
She turned to the machine, her hands more nervous this time. Not because she was scared—but because she didn't know what this was.
Who he was.
When she placed the cup in front of him again, he didn't reach for it immediately.
Instead, he looked at her. Really looked.
"You didn't ask for my name last night," he said.
Ayla hesitated. "I figured you'd tell me if you wanted to."
He gave a small nod. "Leonardo."
She blinked. "Like... Leonardo da Vinci?"
His lips curved—barely. "More like Leonardo Moretti."
The name clicked in her mind.
She'd read it before.
Somewhere. News articles. Whispers.
A businessman. A philanthropist. But also… rumors. Dark ones.
She tried to hide her reaction, but his eyes were sharp.
"You've heard of me," he said.
"I've heard of the name," she replied carefully. "I didn't expect it to belong to someone who drinks bitter coffee at midnight."
His expression didn't change, but she caught the flicker of amusement.
"And you?" he asked. "What's your name, barista?"
"Ayla," she said. "Ayla Sanders."
"Nice to meet you, Ayla Sanders."
He picked up the cup, took a slow sip, then said quietly:
"Thank you... for not asking questions last night."
She met his eyes. "You looked like someone who didn't want to be asked."
Their gaze held for a moment.
And then, as if the air between them had shifted, he spoke again.
"I'll be back tomorrow."
Ayla smiled faintly. "Coffee addiction?"
"Maybe," he said. "Or maybe there's something else worth returning for."
He left without another word.
And this time, Ayla didn't feel the need to watch the door.
Because somehow, she already knew—
He wasn't just passing through.