I walk ahead, not bothering to glance back, the crisp Milan air curling against my collar as I slide into the back of my own jeep. The door shuts with a satisfying thud.
The engine purrs to life.
In the rearview mirror, I catch sight of the town cars pulling out behind me, a neat little procession that belongs to me for as long as I want it. A slow smile curves across my face.
Sasha Marino can pretend all she likes. But I already know—by the end of tonight, she won’t be pretending anymore.
We drive into Milan’s historic center, the city unfurling like a jewel box under the late afternoon light. Cobblestone streets, marble facades, the soft hum of Vespas cutting through the air. I’ve been here countless times—business, pleasure, both—but today feels different.
I lean back, watching through the tinted glass as the town cars follow behind mine. When we pull up near the Piazza del Duomo, I step out first, letting the crew spill onto the square, wide-eyed and buzzing like tourists.
The Duomo rises above us, white stone spires piercing the sky.
“Four hundred years to build,” I tell them, slipping easily into the role of guide. “Every inch carved by hand. A monument to ambition, to obsession.”
Their murmurs ripple with awe, phones already out for pictures. I don’t need to look at them. I only need to look at her.
Sasha.
Even with her arms folded like she’s trying not to be impressed, her eyes betray her. Blue, shining, reflecting the cathedral’s brilliance. She doesn’t know she’s showing me more in that moment than she has all day.
I let my voice drop just enough when I say, “This is the heart of Milan. And tonight, it will belong to us.”
I’m not talking about the city. She knows it.Iknow it.
And for the first time since she stepped onto my radar, I think she knows she’s in trouble.
“Before we explore any further,” I say, lifting a hand to still the chatter of the crew, “let’s have coffee.”
A ripple of relief goes through them. I lead them off the square, away from the tourist-packed cafés with overpriced cappuccinos and waiters who sneer at Americans. Instead, I take a narrow street, shadowed and cool, until the noise of the piazza fades behind us.
There—tucked into the corner like a secret—is the café. No sign, no flashy façade. Just worn stone walls and a wooden door polished by centuries of hands.
The bell above the door chimes as I push it open. The air is thick with the smell of roasted beans and sugar, the kind of scent that seeps into your bones. Old men play cards in the back, their voices low and steady. A chandelier with missing crystals hangs overhead, catching slivers of light.
“This place has been here longer than most countries have existed,” I tell them, guiding the group in. “No tourists. Only those who know.”
They murmur appreciatively, already charmed.
Sasha takes it all in, her lips parting slightly, her blue eyes reflecting the warm glow of the café’s lamps.
God, she’s even more beautiful like this.
I motion the waiter over. “Caffè for everyone. And biscotti.” My voice drops just slightly as my gaze locks on hers. “For me—something stronger.”
Sasha’s gaze cuts to me for a moment before she turns to face her friend. I don’t push. Not yet.
After a round of coffee, I lead them back outside—through streets that unfurl like a postcard. The narrow lanes, the sudden open courtyards, the statues that watch with cold stone eyes. I point out the details: the fading fresco above a doorway, the hidden courtyard where an opera singer once lived, the scent of orange blossoms tucked into a side street.
I know exactly what I’m doing.
Sasha falls in step beside me, her expression carefully neutral. But when she finally speaks, her voice betrays curiosity. “How do you know the city so well?”
I glance at her, let the pause stretch just long enough to make it intimate. “I come here often. Business. Work.”
She arches a brow, skeptical. “Work that involves secret cafés and crew members?”
The corner of my mouth lifts. “Work that gives me reasons to enjoy myself when the job is done.”
