The bar was nearly empty when the man walked in.
It was the kind of slow Tuesday night where the world felt quieter than it should be—where the street lamps outside glowed with a yellow hue, and the air smelled faintly of rain and old stone. Rome at night had a pulse of its own, but here in Trastevere, tucked between worn buildings and narrow cobbled alleys, Bar Luciana existed in its own little silence.
Sofia Bianchi was wiping down the counter when she heard the bell above the door chime. She didn't look up immediately. The regulars had all gone home, and the only ones who wandered in this late were either tourists who got lost or locals avoiding something worse.
"I'll be with you in a moment," she called softly.
"No rush," came the reply. A low, velvet voice. Smooth, calm, and rich with something she couldn't quite place. Something dangerous.
She glanced up.
He was already seated—in the far corner of the bar, beneath the old framed photograph of the Trevi Fountain. Alone. Perfectly still. His dark coat was tailored, expensive. His hair was slicked back, not too neat, not too messy. And his eyes… they were fixed on her. Not in the way drunk men stared. No. His gaze was deliberate. Studious.
Sofia swallowed and smoothed her apron. She walked toward him with measured steps, menu in hand.
"We don't have a lot at this hour," she said. "Coffee, wine, some leftover pastries."
"Espresso," he replied. "Hot. No sugar."
Of course. The classic Italian order.
She nodded and turned, his eyes following her every move like a silent command. She felt them on her back—piercing, watchful. As if he was memorizing her.
---
Giulia, her co-worker, popped her head out from the back room. "Is he back again?" she whispered.
"Back again?" Sofia asked, turning to look.
Giulia's eyes widened. "That man. He's been coming in every night for the past three days. Same time. Same seat. Same order."
Sofia frowned. "You never mentioned that."
"You weren't here Tuesday night. Or yesterday."
She peeked back at him. Still there. Still watching. Calm and completely unreadable.
Sofia returned with the espresso and set it gently on the table. "Here you go."
"Grazie," he said.
"You're welcome," she replied. "Should I know your name?"
He looked at her for a moment longer, then set the cup down untouched. "Maybe someday."
That answer made her pause.
"Fair enough," she said, backing away slowly.
---
The night moved on.
He didn't touch his espresso. He just sat there, watching. Sometimes glancing out the window toward the street. Sometimes, she noticed, his hand would drift to the inside of his coat—like a nervous habit, or something else entirely.
At 11:43 PM, without a word, he stood, placed a crisp 50-euro bill on the table, and walked out into the Roman night. No goodbye. No lingering.
Sofia stared at the untouched espresso.
Who orders something just to ignore it?
---
The next night, he returned.
Same time. Same seat. Same order.
But this time, she sat across from him.
"I don't usually sit with customers," she said, her heart beating a little too fast.
"I'm not your usual customer," he replied, his voice smooth as ever.
"No," she said quietly. "You're not."
He studied her face. "You're not afraid of me."
"I don't know you."
"That's not what I asked."
She hesitated. "Should I be?"
His smile was almost imperceptible. "Maybe someday."
That answer again.
---
The conversation was short. Sparse words. Long silences. But in those silences, something passed between them—curiosity, tension, an invisible thread neither of them pulled but both felt.
As she stood to return behind the counter, he finally introduced himself.
"Alexandro."
The name hit like a ripple in her chest.
"And you?" he asked.
"Sofia," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
He nodded once. "A good name."
Then he sipped his espresso for the first time.
---
Later that night, when the bar was closing, she found a single black rose left on the table where he had sat.
Wrapped in black ribbon.
No note. No name.
But Sofia didn't need one.
She knew.
---
The third night, the air outside was colder. A storm was coming, and thunder rolled faintly across the city. Yet at 10:30 PM sharp, Alexandro returned. This time, he wasn't alone.
Two men in dark coats waited near the door as he entered. They didn't speak. They didn't sit. They only stood, arms crossed, scanning the street.
Sofia served the espresso again.
This time, Alexandro spoke first.
"Do you know who I am yet?"
She looked at him. "Should I?"
"You live in this city. You should have heard my name by now."
She swallowed. "You said your name is Alexandro."
"That's not what I mean."
She stared at him. He stared back, expressionless.
Then it clicked—his last name. She hadn't asked it. He hadn't offered it.
Vitale.
Vitale.
Her eyes widened just a little.
Alexandro Vitale.
The name whispered across Rome like a ghost story.
A name spoken behind closed doors. A name that came with blood, fear, and power.
Alexandro saw the shift in her eyes.
"There it is," he murmured. "Recognition."
Sofia didn't speak. She couldn't.
"Are you afraid now?" he asked softly.
She considered her answer.
"I don't know," she said truthfully. "Should I be?"
He leaned forward, voice like silk. "Yes."
---
That night, he didn't leave the rose.
That night, he left a card.
No words. Just a phone number, and a symbol engraved in gold—a lion's head encircled by thorns.
She held it between her fingers long after he disappeared into the Roman dark.
And for the first time, Sofia Bianchi didn't sleep.