For the next three days, Ayla didn't see him.
No black suit stepping through the door.
No low voice asking for black coffee.
No hundred-dollar bills left on the counter like a secret handshake.
And she hated how much she noticed.
She found herself glancing at the door too often. Making too much coffee. Letting orders slip because her mind was elsewhere. Mark teased her about being in "caffeine dreamland," but Ayla just laughed it off.
She couldn't explain it.
She shouldn't feel this way. Not about a man she barely knew.
But Leonardo Moretti wasn't the kind of man you barely felt anything about. He was all presence. All mystery. Like a thunderstorm trapped in a perfectly tailored suit.
And Ayla...
Ayla had always been good at reading people.
But he was unreadable.
On the fourth night, she stayed after closing, cleaning the espresso machine slower than necessary. The café was silent except for the hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of old wood.
That's when she heard it.
Three slow knocks on the back door.
Her heart stopped.
Customers never came through the back. It led to the alley, and she'd locked it an hour ago. Her fingers tightened around the cloth in her hand.
Another knock.
Same rhythm. Calm. Controlled.
She moved quietly, grabbed the bat they kept under the counter (just in case), and crept toward the back door.
"Who's there?" she called out, voice steady.
Silence.
Then:
"It's me."
She froze.
She knew that voice.
She unlocked the door and pulled it open.
There he was—Leonardo.
Soaked from the rain. Eyes darker than night. One hand pressed against his ribs.
"Leo?" she whispered.
"I didn't know where else to go."
She didn't ask. She just stepped aside and let him in.
---
He sat at the corner booth while she brewed tea—no coffee tonight. The lights were dim, and the storm outside made the windows shudder. Ayla wrapped a towel around his shoulders and slid the mug across the table.
"Second time you've shown up bleeding," she said softly.
"This is just a scratch," he murmured, though his hand trembled when he picked up the mug.
"Should I call someone? A doctor, maybe?"
"No doctors."
She sighed, sitting across from him. "You know this isn't normal, right?"
"I know."
They sat in silence.
Ayla watched the way his jaw clenched. The way he winced when he moved. The towel was starting to turn pink where it touched his side.
Finally, she stood. "Let me help."
He looked up sharply. "You don't have to."
"Doesn't mean I won't."
She grabbed the first aid kit from under the counter and returned with shaking hands. He started to unbutton his shirt, then paused, waiting for permission.
She gave a single nod.
Underneath the soaked fabric was a mess of bruises, cuts, and old scars. The newest wound—a deep slice along his ribs—was still bleeding.
Ayla swallowed. "God, Leo…"
He didn't flinch when she cleaned the cut. But his eyes never left her face.
"Who did this to you?"
He didn't answer.
When she pressed gauze to the wound, his breath hitched.
"Breathe," she whispered. "Just breathe."
"You're not afraid of me."
It wasn't a question.
"No," she said. "Should I be?"
He looked down. "Maybe."
She sat back, wiping her hands.
"You need to stop showing up like this," she said gently. "You make it hard to pretend you're just a regular guy who likes bitter coffee."
"I never pretended," he murmured.
"Then tell me the truth."
Another silence.
Then:
"I'm not a good man, Ayla."
She folded her arms. "That's not a truth. That's a warning."
His eyes flicked to hers.
And for the first time since she'd met him, something broke. Just slightly. Like a crack in marble.
"I was born into it," he said quietly. "My family... this life... it's blood, business, and power. I didn't choose it."
"But you didn't walk away either."
"I tried," he said. "It's not that simple. You leave, you die. Or worse—someone else does."
Her voice was barely above a whisper. "Someone like me?"
He didn't answer.
And that was answer enough.
Ayla stood up and began cleaning the bloodied towel, just to keep her hands busy. Her mind was racing, but her voice stayed steady.
"You know this isn't sustainable, right? You can't keep bleeding into my life and then disappearing."
He stood too, slowly. "I know."
She turned to face him.
"What do you want from me, Leo?"
His expression shifted.
Not hard. Not cold.
Just... real.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But I haven't stopped thinking about you since the first night I walked in here."
Her breath caught.
"I don't know what this is," he continued. "I don't know what it can be. But it's the only thing in my life that feels untouched by the ugliness I live with."
She stared at him.
And then, quietly, she said:
"Then stop dragging the ugliness in with you."
He looked like he wanted to argue. But he didn't.
He just nodded.
And maybe that was the beginning of something honest.
---
An hour later, after he'd changed into a dry shirt she found in the lost-and-found bin and finished his tea, Leonardo stood by the door.
"I won't come back like this again," he promised.
"Good," Ayla said, crossing her arms. "Because next time I'll charge you extra for the blood on the floor."
He chuckled softly.
But before he turned to leave, he hesitated.
"Thank you," he said.
And then: "You make me feel human again."
Her heart ached at that.
And as he stepped out into the rain, she knew that no matter how much she tried to protect herself...
...she was already in too deep.