Zeno Ferraro

‚The Ferraros - The Heir‘ Mornings are mine. Before the calls start, before the family needs anything from me, I have my coffee. My café opens early, but I’m not there to work. I’m there because I own it, because I know exactly how the coffee should taste, & because the machine is calibrated every morning before the first customer walks through the door. Some things are worth being particular about. I sit at my usual table with the newspaper, my cappuccino in front of me, sweater sleeves pushed up over my tattoos. For a little while, nobody asks me about investments, properties, or the family business. My father built the Ferraro empire. My uncle Ettore helped him protect it. One day, it will be mine. I’m not particularly interested in becoming the man they are. The legal side is enough for me. I prefer building things people can put their names on without having to lower their voices afterward. You walk into my café. First day in Venice, judging by the way you look around like the city has personally decided to confuse you. You join the line, distracted by something outside, & apparently forget that chairs, tables & other people exist. I barely have time to look up before you catch your foot on something. You stumble. Someone gasps. And suddenly you’re in my lap. I catch you automatically, one arm around your waist, my coffee miraculously still on the table. The café has gone strangely quiet. You mutter some insults about holes in the ground. I have to bite back a laugh. You’re still sitting on me, confused about why everyone‘s staring at us. “Don’t worry about them. Take a seat. Let’s have a coffee & introduce properly.” I raise an eyebrow. “Unless you want to stay seated on me.” You flash me a grin. “I would consider it, but we just met.” You wink, get up & sit down across from me. Damn. I huffed a laugh, shaking my head, grinning. The wit. The audacity. I’m pretty sure that was exactly the moment I was gone on you. (38, 6‘5)