The hundred-dollar bill remained in the tip jar till Melissa's manager, a pragmatic woman named Brenda, finally exchanged it, handing Melissa her share with a raised eyebrow. "Your admirer, he didn't come back for his change?"Brenda asked,Melissa just shook her head, tucking the money into her worn wallet with a sense of unease. It felt less like a tip and more like a transaction for a service she hadn't provided—her silence, her ignorance.
Her world, meanwhile, spun on its familiar, demanding axis. Between classes on post-modern literature and shifts at The Grind, she spent evenings at the small apartment she shared with her mother, Helen. Helen's condition—a degenerative nerve disorder—was stable but required expensive medication that their insurance only partially covered.
They sat together on the sofa, Helen's hands, once skilled at sewing intricate costumes for the local theater, now resting lightly in her lap.
"You're quiet tonight, sweetheart," Helen said, her voice a soft rasp.
"Just tired," Melissa replied, forcing a smile, she couldn't bring herself to mention the strange, intense man from the coffee shop.
"You should watch yourself, sometimes you need to rest"her mother low pitched voice sound worried, she couldn't answer but hug her mom in silence.
Luca's world felt like a graphic novel—vivid, dangerous, and utterly separate from their reality of coupon-clipping and physical therapy appointments.That world, however, had taken notice.
#MORETTI'S PENTHOUSE
In penthouse, Luca found the memory of Melissa's clear, unimpressed gaze disrupting his usual patterns.
The women who circulated in his orbit were polished and dying for his attention, their conversations a predictable dance of flattery and ambition.
Melissa's bluntness was a dissonant, intriguing note,Luca had Marco run a discreet background check—a standard precaution.
The file that landed on his tablet was thin, clean, and achingly ordinary: Melissa Vance ,a scholarship student, a responsible daughter, a life of commendable struggle. No hidden agendas, no connections to his family's rivals. Her very normalcy was her shield.
His grandfather Vittorio, summoned him to the family estate in the hills. The study was a temple to old-world power, smelling of leather and fine cigar smoke. Vittorio, seated behind his massive desk, didn't mention the charity gala Luca had fled.
"The Calvano family," Vittorio began without preamble, referring to their oldest and most aggressive rivals, "are making noises on the waterfront. Their daughter, Cynthia, is back from Switzerland."
He fixed Luca with a steely look. "She is not a girl anymore. She is a strategist and more evil, with her father's cold blood. She sees an opportunity in your… distraction."
Luca's jaw tightened. "I'm not distracted."
"A tree with shallow roots," Vittorio repeated his favorite adage, leaning forward. "You play at being a businessman, Luca, but you are first and foremost a Moretti. Your life is not your own. It is a pillar of this family. Your choices have consequences for us all." The warning was clear: his casual interest in a coffee shop girl had been noted, and it was seen as a vulnerability.
The reprimand, instead of quashing his curiosity, ignited a stubborn defiance and walk away from his grandfather sight.
Later that week, he returned to The Grind. He didn't wear a suit worth more than the shop's monthly rent this time, just dark jeans and a simple sweater, though the quality of the fabric still marked him as an outsider.
Melissa was at the register, explaining the difference between a latte and a cappuccino to a flustered freshman. When she saw Luca, her shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. When the student left, she turned to him, her expression carefully neutral. "Can I help you?"
"Coffee. Black. For here," he said.
She prepared it in silence, taking his money and returning his change with precise efficiency.
As she handed him the mug, their fingers brushed. A simple, accidental contact, but it felt like a static shock, she pulled her hand back as if burned.
He took a seat by the window, the same worn chair he'd occupied before. He didn't read. He just watched her work—the way she memorized regulars' orders, the patient smile she offered a customer struggling with the new self-serve tablet, the quick efficiency with which she wiped down tables. It was a ballet of unglamorous competence.
During a lull, she walked over, a cleaning rag in her hand. "Is there a problem?"
"No problem," Luca said, sipping his fourth cup of coffee. It was terrible, bitter and over-extracted. He drank it anyway.
"Then why are you here? This isn't your kind of place." Her tone wasn't rude, just factual.
"How do you know what my kind of place is?"
She gave a small, humorless laugh, gesturing to his watch, a sleek, minimalist piece that screamed silent luxury. "It's not a coffee shop where the chairs are duct-taped. You're either slumming it, or you're lost. Again."
He looked at her, truly looked. The grey of her eyes wasn't flat; it was like storm-lit sea glass, holding depths of resilience and weariness. "Maybe I just like the coffee," he lied.
Melissa shook her head, turning to leave. "Enjoy your slumming, then."
"Melissa," he said, the name feeling unfamiliar and right on his tongue.
She paused almost not surprised,but she didn't turn back fully.
"My name is Luca."
"I know," she said softly, finally looking at him over her shoulder. "I read the papers Sometimes plus social medias. Luca Moretti." The name hung in the air, charged with all its unspoken meaning—wealth, power, danger. She had pieced it together after his first visit. "Your chair is by the window. There's no rain today" And with that, she walked away, leaving him with the bitter dregs of his coffee and the unsettling feeling that for the first time in a long time, he was the one being observed, judged, and found wanting.