Valentina's POV
The morning started like any other.
I clocked in early, tied my apron around my waist, and mentally prepared myself for another long shift, the smell of freshly ground coffee lingered on my apron as I stepped into the velvet-lit corridor of the restaurant. *La Bellezza* The fanciest place I had ever worked, the kind of place where the forks were made of silver and the guests walked in with diamond watches and bodyguard the kind of restaurant where money whispered, and reputations walked through the doors in tailored suits.
I was filling salt shakers when my manager's voice barked from across the room.
"Valentina," He said barking my name like a warning. "VIP Table Seven. Important guests. Don't mess this up."
He didn't wait for my reply before disappearing. That was Mr. Williams—strict, greedy, and always on edge whenever real money walked through the door. But the fear in his eyes today wasn't normal.
I froze for half a second before nodding quickly. "Yes, Mr. Williams."
I took a deep breath and smoothed my uniform. I was just a waitress. That's all I ever was. Daughter of a single mother who ran a coffee shop. A second-year college student paying her way through school with tips and sleepless nights. Nothing special. Nothing dangerous.
I didn't ask questions. I didn't have to. In places like this, important people came and went. I just had to do my job and keep my head down.
By noon, the tension in the air had shifted.
The restaurant was quiet, eerily so. Williams was pacing in the back, checking his watch repeatedly, wiping nonexistent sweat from his brow. Even the chefs in the kitchen whispered. Something about the way everyone moved told me today wasn't just another lunch rush.
At exactly 12:43 p.m., they walked in.
Four men. Black sharp suits, cold stares. Designer everything. They didn't speak much, didn't need to. Their presence said enough. They were powerful—dangerously so, The kind of men who didn't order food—they made decisions that changed empires. And they walked like they knew it.
Williams stepped forward, his back straight but his shoulders tight. He greeted them with a handshake that looked more like submission than hospitality.
I stood by Table Seven, my hands folded neatly in front of me, eyes downcast, heart thudding for reasons I couldn't explain. The five of them sat—four men I'd never seen before, and my boss, who was suddenly trying too hard to sound confident.
Their conversation was low and clipped, filled with words I couldn't catch. I wasn't trying to listen, but I was close enough to feel the gravity of it. Whatever they were discussing, it wasn't food or wine. It was bigger than that. Heavier.
One of them—tall, sharp-jawed, deadly calm—kept he didn't speak. He didn't look up. But I felt his presence like smoke—
Alessandro Moretti.
Who wouldn't know that name?
Even in Wingate—a quiet, uneventful town that rarely made the news—his name carried weight like thunder before a storm. The youngest billionaire bachelor from Bologna. Owner of high-end hotels, ruthless business chains, and whispered rumors too dark to believe. They called him many names: The E, the Devil's son, Lucifer reincarnated, and worst of all—Lucifer himself.
I'd heard about him. Who hadn't? But hearing about a monster in fairy tales was nothing like breathing the same air as him.
And that was exactly what I was doing.
I stood frozen, trying not to look directly at the table where he sat, just a few feet away. His presence didn't scream, it whispered—dangerously. Controlled. Cold. Silent. That kind of silence that tells you the loudest thing in the room isn't the music or the chatter—it's him.
He wasn't looking before.
But then… he looked up.
Our eyes met.
And just like that, I forgot how to breathe.
His gaze wasn't curious—it was consuming. As if he already knew me, as if he had read every chapter of my life and was unimpressed. It wasn't just a look; it was a sentence. A claim.
He stared into my soul, and I felt it crack.
I gripped the tray tighter, my fingers numb.
I quickly dropped my gaze, staring hard at the tray in my hands—anywhere but him. Looking into his eyes felt like standing at the edge of a cliff… and knowing he'd push.
I didn't meet his eyes again. I couldn't. His stare felt like pressure on my skin. Like a secret I wasn't supposed to hear.
Then someone approached the table—a man in a crisp black suit, not the usual restaurant staff. He moved with intention, confidence, like he belonged to no one… except maybe to him. Alessandro Moretti.
He handed over a sleek black folder, murmured something too low for me to hear, and stepped back.
Something shifted.
I didn't know what it was—couldn't tell if it was a deal, a threat, or something else entirely. But I saw pens exchanged. I saw my boss's hand tremble slightly before signing. And then… Alessandro looked at me.
Suddenly. Sharply.
With a smirk that didn't reach his eyes but still made the hairs on my neck rise.
What was that?
My stomach twisted. I told myself it was nerves. But the second I walked away from the table, I knew something had shifted.
Something about me.
The men didn't stay long. Ten more minutes, a few glasses of something expensive, and they left.
It wasn't until the end of my shift, when I was wiping down the last table, that my manager called me over. The look on her face said everything.
Something was coming.
It was a contract. That much was clear. I saw pens exchanged, saw my boss's hand hesitate slightly before he signed. But it was the way he looked at me—suddenly, sharply, with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—that made the hairs on my neck rise.
What was that?
My stomach twisted, and I tried to brush it off as nerves. But the second I walked away from the table, I couldn't shake the feeling that something had just changed.
Something about me.
The men didn't stay long. After another ten minutes of murmured words and a few glasses of something expensive, they stood. Their suits were still crisp, their expressions unreadable. And the one who kept watching me? He never smiled. He didn't need to. His silence said everything.
When they finally left, Williams exhaled like he'd been holding his breath the entire time.
I watched him from behind the counter, wiping the same spot on the glass over and over again. His smirk was gone now, replaced by a strange mix of victory and calculation.
Something about today wasn't right.