The market streets were chaos and color the kind of place where life shouted instead of whispered. Adora balanced a tray of ripe oranges on her head as she moved through the crowd, her feet brushing the dust, her voice calling out with practiced melody. The scent of roasted corn and sweat mixed with the faint sweetness of fruit. To her, it was the smell of survival.
Every morning, she promised herself that someday she would leave this place. She would trade the noise, the constant struggle, and the endless counting of coins for a quieter life one where her heart didn't race every time a bill was due. But dreams, Adora had learned, were luxuries for people who could afford them.
She was still bargaining with a customer when the black car pulled up. It was the kind of vehicle that didn't belong here glossy, foreign, silent. The crowd shifted around it like ripples in a pond, their murmurs rising. The car's windows were tinted, reflecting only the market chaos around it. For a moment, everything seemed to pause, as if the street itself was holding its breath.
Then the door opened.
A man stepped out tall, dark suit, expression unreadable. He wasn't like the men she knew, those who laughed too loud and spoke too rough. He moved like someone who expected the world to part for him and, disturbingly, it did. Even the air around him seemed to change.
Adora tried not to stare. But curiosity was her oldest habit. His hair was neatly combed back, his jaw sharp, his skin kissed by sun and shadow. He had that kind of beauty that made you look twice not the gentle kind that drew you in, but the dangerous kind that warned you to stay away.
He walked toward her stall.
"Miss," his voice carried easily through the noise, smooth, deep, touched by an Italian accent that softened his words. "Two oranges."
She blinked. Of all the stalls, he had chosen hers. "You sure you want oranges, sir? We have imported fruits down the street."
His lips curved not a smile, not yet. "I prefer local."
There was something unsettling in his gaze calm, observant, but piercing. Adora looked down, pretending to count the oranges, her fingers fumbling more than usual. "That'll be three dollars."
He handed her a crisp note too large, too new, and she had no change for it.
"Keep it," he said before she could speak. "For your time."
Adora frowned, suspicious. "It's too much for two oranges."
"I don't pay for the oranges," he replied. "I pay for honesty."
Her chest tightened. No one ever spoke like that not to her, not here. "Well, then you're wasting your money," she said lightly, trying to sound unaffected. "Honesty's free."
That made him smile, small but real this time. "Then I'll remember that."
He took the oranges, nodded once, and returned to his car. The crowd parted again, whispering as the black car slid away like a shadow.
For the rest of the day, Adora couldn't stop thinking about him the stranger who spoke like poetry and looked like trouble.
That night, when she lay on her small bed, the sound of the market still echoing in her mind, she found herself wondering who he was. Something about him didn't fit. He wasn't a businessman, or a politician, or a customer lost in the wrong neighborhood. He was something else entirely.
And yet, she didn't know that the man in the black car had already asked someone to find out her name.
Two days later, he came again.
This time, he didn't stop at her stall. He parked at the far end of the street and stood watching her his eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. The crowd still parted around him, like the market had learned to fear him.
When she finally approached, her curiosity winning the war against caution, she crossed her arms. "Are you following me, mister?"
"Marco," he said simply. "Marco DeLuca. And no. I was passing by."
"Right." Her lips curved in sarcasm. "And I'm the Queen of England."
He tilted his head, amused. "You have spirit, Adora."
Her breath caught. "How do you know my name?"
He smiled faintly. "You wear it on your heart. Anyone paying attention could see it."
She looked away, unnerved by how easily he spoke as if words were a game he always won. "If you're trying to sell something, I can't afford it."
"I'm not selling," he said. "I'm offering."
"And what's that?"
He stepped closer, close enough for her to smell the faint trace of expensive cologne mixed with smoke. "A chance to leave this place."
She laughed sharp and short. "You don't even know me."
"I know enough," he said quietly. "I know you're too good for this market. I know you don't belong here."
Her heart skipped once, traitorously. "You don't get to decide where I belong."
For a moment, they just stared at each other two worlds colliding in the dust and heat of the city. Then he reached into his pocket, placed a single white card on her stall, and walked away.
When she picked it up, she saw only two words written in bold, elegant ink:
Marco DeLuca.
And below that, a number
That night, Adora placed the card on her table, beside the candle that flickered weakly in the dark. She told herself she wouldn't call. She didn't need rich strangers or fancy offers. She had survived this long without anyone's help.
But as the night deepened and her room filled with silence, her eyes kept finding that card again and again until she whispered his name softly, as if it were a sin:
"Marco."