Vittorio Moretti's study felt more like a tribunal than a library. Luca stood before the massive desk, weathering his grandfather's silent, disappointed scrutiny.
The old man finally spoke, tapping a single sheet of paper—a report, no doubt, on Luca's recent frequent visits to a certain coffee shop.
"Cynthia Calvano," Vittorio stated. "She is intelligent, connected, and her family's interests, for now, align with ours on the port expansion. A union would be… strategic."
"A union?" Luca echoed, cold dread seeping into his veins. "This isn't the Middle Ages, Nonno. We're not trading daughters for land."
"We are securing a future!" Vittorio's fist came down softly but with immense finality on the desk. "The Calvanos are a rabid dog. It is better to have them muzzled and on our leash than snapping at our heels. She is the muzzle. Your attention on this… *student*," he said the word like a distasteful diagnosis, "is a weakness they smell,Cynthia's little performance at the café was a warning shot. She is telling you, and telling *us*, that she sees what you value. And she can reach it."
The threat to Melissa, now explicit, sent a jolt of pure, protective fury through Luca. "She is not involved."Luca claimed.
"She is involved because you looked at her!" Vittorio roared, then subsided into a weary cough. When he continued, his voice was gravelly with emotion. "I buried your father, Luca. I will not bury you. This life, it demands sacrifice. It demands that the heart is not the master. You think I wanted this for you? For any of us? The roots of this tree are in dark soil. We must ensure the branches reach the sun, no matter the cost. Even if the cost is your personal… infatuation."
The word *infatuation* was wrong, but Luca had no other to replace it with. What did he feel for Melissa? Not simple desire. It was a longing for her clarity, her unvarnished reality, a life where consequences were immediate and honest, not deferred and bloody.
"Leave her be!, Luca." Vittorio implored, a rare glimpse of the grandfather beneath the patriarch. "For her safety, if not for ours. Let her be a passing regret, not a permanent casualty."
The advice was sound. It was the logic of his world. As Luca left the estate, the weight of his name felt heavier than ever.
#A WEEK PASSED
No sign of Luca at Melissa's cáfe shifts, meanwhile Melissa, was trying to scrub the encounter with Cynthia from her mind. It was Sophie who forced the issue, dragging her to a cheap campus bar after their Friday classes.
"Okay, spill," Sophie demanded over a pitcher of watery beer before Melissa narrated the whole story.
"The Mob Prince and the Ice Queen. This is better than any telenovela." Sophie said and chuckled.
"It's not a story, Soph," Melissa sighed, tracing a watermark on the wooden table. "It's a mess. He's a mess. I told him to leave me alone."
"But he won't , trust me I've seen a lot of telenovelas" Sophie pointed out, ever the pragmatist. "And now the Terminator has marked you. You can't just ignore this."
Melissa knew she was right. The sense of being watched had intensified. A sleek black car she didn't recognize had idled near her bus stop twice this week.
Paranoia was a luxury she couldn't afford, but fear was a free gift that kept on giving.
Her phone buzzed—a notification for a final tuition payment, past due. The numbers swam before her eyes. Her mother's latest medication refill was also due. The fragile tower of her responsibilities trembled.
It was in this state of desperate anxiety that she found herself, on Saturday afternoon, standing before the imposing glass-and-steel headquarters of the Moretti Group.
The fellowship application information was publicly available online, the deadline was in two days. She had told Luca she didn't want it. But staring at the eviction notice that had arrived that morning—a mistake, surely, but one that would take weeks to fix—her principles felt like a weight she could no longer carry.
She took a deep breath and pushed through the revolving doors.
The lobby was a cathedral of capitalism, all marble and echoing space. The receptionist, polished and polite, directed her to the 42nd floor: The Moretti Family Foundation.
The elevator ride was silent and swift. When the doors opened, she stepped into a serene, tastefully decorated reception area. Before she could approach the desk, a door to a side office opened, and Luca walked out.
He stopped dead, his composure slipping for a fraction of a second, revealing pure, unguarded shock. He was in his element here—the powerful heir in a flawlessly cut suit, surrounded by the tangible evidence of his dynasty. And she was there, in her second-hand coat and scuffed boots, a living embodiment of the world he'd been warned to avoid.
"Melissa." He recovered quickly, his face settling into a neutral mask. "Is everything alright?"
She clutched her folder containing her academic transcripts and a draft application. "I… I came to get information. About the fellowship." The words tasted like ash.
A complex series of emotions crossed his face—surprise, a flicker of hope, then a dawning, painful understanding as he took in her pale, determined face, the shadows under her eyes. She wasn't here for him. She was here because she was cornered.
"Okay" he said, his voice carefully neutral. He gestured to the receptionist. "Ms. Vance is here for fellowship materials. Please provide her with every assistance." He turned back to Melissa, his gaze intense. "The selection committee is independent. Impartial."
He was telling her she wouldn't get special treatment. He was also telling her he wouldn't stand in her way. It was the most respectful thing he could do, and she hated him a little for it.
"Thank you," she said stiffly, turning to follow the receptionist.
As she walked away, Luca watched her go, Vittorio's warning echoing in his head. He had tried to leave her be. But fate, or her own desperate courage, had brought her right to his doorstep. The parallel lines were not just meeting; they were becoming dangerously, irrevocably tangled.