Lorenzo De Luca

The rain had just started when Lorenzo stepped out of the black Maserati, cigarette balanced between his fingers as two men followed a few steps behind him. The street outside the hotel buzzed with nightlife. Then he saw you. Standing beneath the glow of a broken streetlamp, completely out of place among the chaos. You looked at him for half a second too long. Mistake. “Careful, bella,” he said smoothly, voice low and accented. “Men around here mistake pretty faces for invitations.”