Florence had this way of making you feel both alive and completely inadequate at the same time. The city was sunlight bouncing off marble statues, violins echoing from street corners, tourists clogging the cobblestones with their cameras— and Isabella Romano in the middle of it all, running late, hair falling out of her messy bun, clutching her second-hand laptop like it was a lifeline.
She muttered under her breath as she weaved through the crowd. "Of course, the one day I try to be on time, the bus decides to break down. Grazie mille, Firenze. Really appreciate it."
Her sneakers squeaked against the stones as she darted across the Piazza della Repubblica. The smell of espresso and fresh pastries teased her, but she didn't dare stop. Rent was overdue, her mother was breathing down her neck about "marrying smart," and this job interview—at some fancy café of all places—was her only shot at not drowning.
The café itself looked like it had been plucked straight out of a lifestyle magazine. Golden awnings, tiny tables pressed against the street, waiters who looked like they'd stepped off a runway. Isabella felt immediately out of place in her thrift-store blouse and skirt that was definitely wrinkled.
"Okay," she whispered to herself as she pushed the door open. "You are competent. You are smart. You are not going to embarrass yourself."
Lies. All lies.
The first thing she noticed was the smell: rich coffee beans mixed with citrusy cologne. The second thing was him.
Damiano Moretti.
He sat in the corner, perfectly composed, black suit crisp against the muted backdrop of the café. His dark hair was slicked back, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, and his wristwatch probably cost more than her entire apartment. People looked at him the way they looked at the Duomo—half awe, half intimidation.
Isabella's stomach dropped. Oh, hell no.
She knew who he was. Everybody in Florence did. Moretti wasn't just rich; he was practically untouchable. His empire stretched from luxury fashion to tech startups, the kind of man mothers warned their daughters about. Ruthless. Dangerous. Addictively charming.
And apparently… her potential boss?
"Miss Romano," he said, without even glancing up from the file in front of him. His voice was low, smooth, but with that edge—like steel hidden under velvet. "You're late."
Heat rushed to her cheeks. "Only by three minutes."
"Three minutes," he echoed, finally lifting his gaze to her. His eyes—God, those eyes—stormy gray, pinning her where she stood. "Time is money. And I don't waste either."
Her first instinct was to roll her eyes. But rolling your eyes at a billionaire probably wasn't the best way to land a job, so she swallowed it down. Barely.
"Right. Well, buses aren't exactly billionaires," she shot back before she could stop herself.
Something flickered across his face—amusement, maybe?—before disappearing behind his mask of control. He gestured to the seat across from him. "Sit."
She did, clutching her bag like a shield.
The silence stretched, filled only by the clink of cups and murmured Italian from nearby tables. Isabella shifted in her chair, hating how small she felt under his gaze.
"So," she said, clearing her throat. "This… internship?"
Damiano leaned back, fingers tapping lightly against his glass. "Tell me, Isabella Romano, why should I hire you? Out of all the perfectly groomed, well-connected applicants who would beg for this position, why should it be you?"
She blinked. "Wow. No pressure."
His lips twitched, but he didn't answer.
Isabella inhaled slowly. "Because I actually know what it means to work. I don't have connections. I don't have money. What I do have is drive. I don't quit, even when I probably should. And…" She forced herself to meet his gaze, even though her heart was hammering. "I'm not intimidated by you."
That last part was a blatant lie, and they both knew it.
Damiano studied her, silent long enough that she began to squirm. Then, suddenly, he smiled—not warm, not kind, but sharp, dangerous. The kind of smile that promised both trouble and temptation.
"You're bold," he said finally. "I like that. Boldness can be useful… if it doesn't get you killed."
Her brows shot up. "That's… comforting."
The corner of his mouth curved. "Consider it a warning."
For a moment, their eyes locked, and the rest of the café blurred away. His presence was overwhelming—like he took up all the oxygen in the room. She hated it. She hated how much she noticed the way his voice lingered in her chest, or how his cologne made her dizzy.
She tore her gaze away, fumbling with her bag. "Look, I just need the job. Not whatever… this is." She gestured vaguely between them.
Damiano's smirk deepened, as if he'd just won some silent game. "You'll start on Monday. Eight sharp. Don't be late again."
Her jaw dropped. "Wait—you're actually hiring me?"
"I said I like boldness." He stood, sliding his chair back with the kind of grace only a man like him could pull off. He dropped a business card on the table. "Don't make me regret it, Isabella Romano."
And then he was gone. Just like that.
She sat there for a long moment, staring at the empty chair across from her, pulse still racing.
"Che cazzo…" she muttered under her breath, running a hand over her face.
Florence wasn't for the faint-hearted. And apparently, neither was Damiano Moretti.