Luca Moretti moved through the world like a storm contained in an Armani suit. At twenty-eight, he was a heir of Moretti empire—a conglomerate of legitimate businesses that bloomed like flowers atop deeply buried, less savory roots, the parents he only knew was his grandpa.
His life was a curated exhibition of excess: penthouse views of the city's glittering skyline, cars that purred like contented predators, and a revolving door of beautiful, interchangeable companions who never stayed long enough to see the cracks in the gilded facade.
He's only have grandfather, Vittorio, the family's aging patriarch, watched Luca's escapades from his oak-paneled study with a mixture of amusement and concern. "A tree with shallow roots falls in the first storm," Vittorio would rumble, but Luca only heard the distant echo of an old world. He was modern, untouchable, a prince of a shadow kingdom.
#OTHER SIDE
Across the city, in a neighborhood where the buildings wore their age like a weary sigh, lived Melissa Vance. Her world was measured in bus fares, overdue textbooks, and the quiet, heroic fatigue in her mother's eyes. At twenty-two, Melissa navigated her final year at Hillcrest's College on a scholarship that felt as thin as tissue paper, stretched over tuition, rent, and her mother's medical bills.
Their life was a delicate balancing act of hope and relentless practicality. Her beauty was not the cultivated kind found in Luca's circles; it was in her intelligent grey eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw as she worked late shifts at *The Grind*, a campus coffee shop, and the gentle strength with which she braided her mother's thinning hair.
Their worlds were parallel lines, engineered by fate and fortune never to meet.
#BEGINS
The collision happened on a rain-lashed. Luca, fleeing another suffocating charity gala hosted by his family, he ducked into *The Grind* to escape the downpour and his grandfather's latest lecture on responsibility.
The place was a universe away from his usual haunts—all scuffed linoleum and the scent of burnt coffee beans, he stood out like a panther in a petting zoo, his tailored coat dripping onto the floor.
Melissa, wiping down the counter at the end of her shift, glanced up. She didn't see the Mafia prince or the billionaire playboy, She saw a man who looked profoundly, unexpectedly lost. And he was holding up the line.
"Sir," she said, her voice cutting through the espresso machine's hiss. "It's closing time. You can wait out the rain, but I can't make you a macchiato."
Luca turned, a dismissive retort on his lips, meant to put this girl in her place, It died there. He was accustomed to being looked at with avarice, fear, or calculated allure. Her gaze held none of that, It was direct, impatient, and utterly devoid of recognition, It was the most refreshing thing he'd encountered in years.
"Just a black coffee," he said, his voice softer than he intended.
"Machine's off," she replied, not unkindly but firmly, She gestured to a small, worn chair by the window. "You can sit there until your driver braves the weather."
He almost laughed. *Driver*. She assumed. He found himself taking the seat, watching her with awe as she continues moved with efficient grace, locking cabinets, counting the till. He learned her name from the embroidered tag on her apron: *Melissa Vance*.
"You're staring," she stated, not looking up from the cash register.
"I'm bored," he countered, the familiar mask of casual arrogance slipping back on.
"Then read a book," she said, nodding to the community shelf of dog-eared paperbacks. "It's what they're for." She added.
A challenge, unadorned challenge, Luca Moretti, who commanded boardrooms and made men twice his age tremble, was being schooled by a barista on a Tuesday night. Instead of anger, a strange, electric curiosity sparked in his chest.
When his head of security, Marco, a mountain of a man with a face like granite, finally pushed through the door, the atmosphere shifted. Marco's eyes scanned the room, his hand subtly moving toward his jacket.
Melissa froze, the color draining from her face. She'd grown up in these streets; she knew the look of danger.
Luca saw the fear flash in her eyes—fear of him, or more precisely, of his world. He stood up smoothly, placing himself slightly towards Marco "It's fine, Marco, Chill!." He turned back to Melissa, pulling a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and placing it in the tip jar—a jar that usually collected coins.
"For the hospitality," he said.
Melissa looked at the money, then at him, her initial fear hardening into something unreadable, expression of disbelief.
He left it there, before he walked out into the diminishing rain, Marco holding an umbrella aloft, quick steps before opened door for Luca and then they drove off.