Serena Vale had always trusted her instincts. They were the same instincts that helped her anticipate a prosecutor's next question, or sense when a witness was on the verge of cracking. But tonight, as she sat on the edge of her bed, staring at the cream-colored envelope in her hands, her instincts only whispered confusion.
The envelope had no return address, no signature. Only her name—typed neatly across the front: Serena Vale.
Inside was a short note written in black ink:
Dinner. La Rosa. 8 p.m. Saturday.
No name. No explanation.
It could have been a prank. It could have been nothing at all. But something in the neatness of the lettering, the deliberate choice of restaurant—one of the most exclusive Italian places in the city—told her otherwise.
"This is insane," Serena muttered to herself, tossing the invitation onto her dresser.
When she told her friends about it over brunch, their reactions were exactly what she expected.
"You're not seriously considering it, right?" Jade asked, one hand resting protectively over her small, rounded belly. Her face, already glowing from pregnancy, twisted into concern. "Serena, you literally just put a crime boss behind bars. For all we know, this is some twisted setup."
Maya smirked, sipping her coffee. "Or it's some rich admirer who saw you on TV and decided to shoot his shot. Can't blame him—Serena Vale, the hotshot lawyer, is quite the catch."
"Exactly," Chloe chimed in, flipping her hair. "Honestly, Ser, if some mysterious stranger wants to wine and dine you at La Rosa, you'd be insane not to go. What's the worst that could happen?"
"The worst?" Jade scoffed. "The worst is that she walks into a trap."
Serena sighed, stirring her tea without drinking it. She didn't want to admit it, but Jade's concern echoed her own unease. Yet beneath that unease was something else—curiosity. The letter didn't feel threatening. If anything, it felt… intentional.
"I haven't decided," she said finally.
But by Saturday evening, Serena found herself standing in front of La Rosa.
The restaurant's soft golden lights spilled onto the cobblestone street, giving the place a glow of old-world romance. Couples in designer clothes stepped past her, laughing, their perfumes mingling with the scent of truffle oil and aged wine.
She smoothed the front of her navy dress, her lawyer's armor traded for something softer, more vulnerable. For a second, she considered turning back. But then the maître d', a tall man in a crisp black suit, approached her with a smile.
"Miss Vale? Right this way."
Her heart skipped. They were expecting me.
She followed him through the restaurant, her heels clicking softly against the polished wood floor. Every table seemed to turn toward her as she passed, whispers fluttering in her wake. Finally, the maître d' stopped at a private booth tucked in the back corner.
And there he was.
Dante Moretti.
He rose to his feet as she approached, his tailored black suit fitting him like a second skin. A faint smile played on his lips, one that didn't quite reach his storm-gray eyes.
"Miss Vale," he said, his voice smooth, deliberate, carrying the weight of someone who was always in control. "I'm glad you came."
Serena froze for a fraction of a second before slipping into her practiced courtroom composure. "You're the one who sent the letter."
"Guilty," Dante said easily, gesturing for her to sit.
The maître d' poured them each a glass of red wine before retreating, leaving them cocooned in the dim light.
Serena studied him as she sat across the table. Up close, he was even more striking—sharp jawline, dark hair swept neatly back, an aura that was both magnetic and dangerous. Something about him screamed power.
"You know," she said, leaning back, "anonymous invitations aren't exactly the best way to win someone's trust."
"Perhaps not," Dante agreed, his smile deepening slightly. "But you still came."
Serena felt heat creep up her neck. "Curiosity doesn't equal trust."
"True," he said, tilting his glass, eyes never leaving hers. "But curiosity… that's a start."
The waiter arrived with their menus, but Serena barely looked at hers. Instead, she kept her gaze fixed on Dante, trying to read him the way she'd read countless witnesses before. But unlike them, his face revealed nothing. Every movement, every pause, felt calculated.
"So what's this about?" she asked finally. "Business? Flattery? Or are you one of those admirers my friends warned me about?"
Dante chuckled softly. "I wouldn't call myself an admirer. More… someone with an interest in who you are."
"Who I am," Serena repeated, raising an eyebrow. "That's vague."
"Vague," he admitted, "but true. You're a remarkable woman, Miss Vale. Brilliant in the courtroom. Fearless in the face of men who'd kill to silence you. That kind of fire… it's rare."
His words sent a shiver down her spine, though she refused to show it. "You talk as if you know me."
"I know enough," Dante replied smoothly.
Something in his tone made her pause. He did know her. More than a stranger should.
She pushed her glass aside, leaning forward. "Who are you, really?"
For the first time, his smile faltered, if only for a second. Then it returned, sharp and charming. "Someone who wanted to meet you."
It wasn't an answer, not really. But the way he said it made her pulse quicken.
Dinner passed in a blur of exquisite courses and careful conversation. Dante asked about her career, her cases, her thoughts on justice. She answered cautiously, aware that every word she gave him was another piece of herself he could use. Yet somehow, she couldn't stop. His presence drew her in like gravity.
By the time dessert arrived, Serena realized she was no closer to understanding him than when she sat down. He was a mystery wrapped in charm, power simmering just beneath the surface.
As they stood to leave, Dante offered his hand. Serena hesitated before taking it. His grip was warm, firm, lingering just a moment too long.
"Until next time," he said, his voice low, a promise more than a farewell.
Serena walked out into the cool night air, her heart racing. She told herself it was nothing—that she'd been polite, nothing more. But as she glanced back through the restaurant window, Dante was still watching her, his expression unreadable.
And in that moment, Serena knew two things:
Whoever Dante Moretti was, he wasn't just a stranger.
And this—whatever this was—was only the beginning.