Chapter 1 - The kitchen doors swung open, releasing a blast of heat and Chef Marco’s cursing in rapid Italian. I didn’t speak much of it—just enough to survive working here—but I understood cazzo perfectly well.
I delivered the carbonara to table twelve, refilled water glasses, and was heading back to check on the appetizer order when the front door opened.
The entire restaurant shifted.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t obvious. But suddenly, every conversation dropped half an octave. Every server straightened their spine. Even the couple arguing near the window went silent.
Three men walked in wearing suits that cost more than my rent.
But it was the man in the center who made my breath catch.
Tall. Dark hair swept back with careless precision. A face carved from marble and shadow. Sharp jawline. Full lips pressed into a line that suggested he’d forgotten how to smile years ago. His eyes were the color of espresso, and they swept the room like he was cataloging every exit, every threat, every weakness.
Power radiated off him like heat.
“Madonna Santa.” Sophia, the hostess, crossed herself quickly.
“Who is that?” I breathed.
She shot me a look like I’d just asked who the Pope was. “Dante Vitale. Don’t stare.”
I looked away immediately, heart pounding for reasons I couldn’t name. Dante Vitale. Even I’d heard whispers. The kind of name people said quietly, glancing over their shoulders. The kind of man you didn’t cross unless you had a death wish.
Mafia.
Sophia led them to the private section in the back—the area we reserved for special guests. Translation: people we didn’t ask questions about.
I busied myself clearing table four, trying to ignore the way my hands trembled slightly. This wasn’t my section. I had no reason to go back there.
Except Marco appeared in the kitchen doorway, his face red and furious.
“Arya. Get back there. Antonio just quit.”
My stomach dropped. “What?”
“Walked out the back door. You’re covering his tables.”
“But I don’t—”
“Now, Arya.”
I grabbed my notepad, smoothed down my apron, and walked toward the private section on legs that felt like water.
The three men sat in a curved leather booth beneath a painting of the Tuscan countryside. Low lighting. White tablecloth. Crystal glasses already filled with what looked like very expensive scotch.
Dante sat in the middle, leaning back with the casual confidence of a king holding court. The men on either side looked dangerous—scarred knuckles, cold eyes—but they were planets orbiting a sun.
I approached the table, pen ready, professional smile locked in place.
“Good evening, gentlemen. Can I start you with—”
“You’re late.”
Dante’s voice was low, dark, and cut through my words like a blade.
I blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“We’ve been sitting here for three minutes.” His eyes lifted to mine, and the full force of his attention hit me like a physical blow. “Is service always this slow, or are we not worth your time?”
Heat flooded my cheeks. “I apologize, sir. Your server just—”
“I don’t care about excuses.” He leaned forward slightly, and suddenly the air between us felt charged. “I care about competence.”
One of the men beside him—stocky, with a scar through his eyebrow—smirked into his scotch.
Something hot and reckless flared in my chest.
I should have nodded. Apologized again. Taken their order. Disappeared.
Instead, I heard myself say, in perfect, clear Italian: “Forse se trattassi le persone come esseri umani invece che come servi, riceveresti un servizio migliore.”
Maybe if you treated people like human beings instead of servants, you’d get better service.
The private section went dead silent.
The smirking man stopped mid-sip. The other guard’s hand moved toward his jacket. Sophia, hovering near the entrance, went white as a sheet.
But it was Dante who truly froze.
His eyes locked onto mine with an intensity that made my pulse hammer in my throat. For three heartbeats, no one moved. No one breathed.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t kind. It was the smile of a wolf spotting something unexpected in the hen house. Something that might actually be interesting before he tore it apart.
“You speak Italian,” he said softly. Dangerously.
“My mother was from Naples.” I don’t know where the steadiness in my voice came from. My knees were shaking.
“And you think I’m rude?”
“I think you’re used to people being afraid of you.”
The scarred man made a sound like a strangled laugh. The other guard looked like he might draw a weapon.
Dante’s smile widened a fraction. “What’s your name?”
“Arya.”
“Arya.” He said it slowly, tasting each syllable. “Do you know who I am?”
“I know enough.”
“Then you know,” he murmured, leaning back again, eyes never leaving mine, “that people who speak to me that way usually regret it.”
My heart was trying to punch through my ribs. But I lifted my chin.
“Are you going to order, or should I come back when you’ve decided?”
For a moment, I thought I’d gone too far. His expression shifted—something dark and calculating moving behind those espresso eyes.
Then he gestured lazily to the menu.
“Surprise me, Arya from Naples. Bring me something worth my time.”
It was a dismissal. A test. A threat. And a challenge wrapped in velvet.
I nodded once, turned on my heel, and walked back toward the kitchen, feeling his gaze burn into my spine with every step.
When I pushed through the kitchen doors, my hands were shaking so badly I had to grip the metal counter. Sophia burst in seconds later, eyes wild.
“Are you insane? Do you have any idea what you just—”
“I know.”
But the truth was, I didn’t. I didn’t know what I’d just done. Didn’t know why my heart was racing or why my skin felt electrified.
May you like
All I knew was that Dante Vitale’s eyes had seen straight through me.
And somehow, impossibly, I wanted him to look again.
