The next morning, Isabella woke up to the sound of her mother's voice echoing through the paper-thin walls of their cramped apartment.
"Isabella! Did you forget the rent is due today?"
Her stomach clenched before her eyes even opened. She sat up in bed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning weakly overhead. Rent. Always rent. Always bills. Always the constant reminder that no matter how many shifts she pulled at Caffè Vincenzo, she was running on empty.
"I know, Mamma," Isabella muttered, dragging herself out of bed. Her little sister, Sofia, was sprawled across the couch, earbuds in, scrolling TikTok like the world wasn't caving in.
"Don't know, Mamma me," her mother snapped, arms folded. "I've asked your father for help, but he's useless. Maybe if you stopped mouthing off to customers, you'd get better tips."
Isabella froze, heat rising in her cheeks. If you stopped mouthing off… The words hit hard because she thought of him — the arrogant bastard from last night, the one who treated the café like his personal kingdom. She could still smell his cologne, could still hear that low, sinful voice saying, I don't wait in lines.
"Are you even listening?" her mother snapped.
"Yeah, Mamma, I'm listening," Isabella bit back, tying her hair into a messy ponytail. "I'm listening to the fact that somehow it's always my job to fix everything."
Her mother rolled her eyes and muttered something in Italian about ungrateful daughters. Isabella grabbed her bag and stormed out, her sister's laughter following her.
Great fucking morning.
By the time she got to work, the café was buzzing. Tourists snapped selfies, students hunched over laptops, and the smell of espresso clung to the air like perfume. Isabella tied her apron and slid behind the counter, determined to stay invisible.
It lasted fifteen minutes.
Because he walked in again.
Damiano Moretti.
This time, no sunglasses. Just dark eyes that locked on her the second he entered, like he'd come here looking for her.
Her stomach dropped, heat coiling low in her belly.
He didn't cut the line this time. No, he waited—though the way people instinctively moved aside made it clear he didn't need to. Power clung to him like a second skin. His presence filled the room, commanding, magnetic.
When he finally reached the counter, he didn't order. He just smirked, leaned an elbow casually on the polished wood, and said,
"Still angry, little waitress?"
Her throat tightened. "Still arrogant, billionaire prick?"
Gasps. Again.
The barista beside her nearly dropped a cup. Someone in line whispered, "That's Moretti. Damiano Moretti."
So the name had a weight. It rolled through the café like thunder.
Damiano tilted his head, eyes glittering with amusement. "You know my name. That's a start."
"I don't need to know your name to know you're trouble," Isabella shot back.
"Trouble," he repeated softly, tasting the word like wine. "That's what people usually call me… right before they can't stay away."
Fuck. Her pulse jumped, and she hated herself for it.
She shoved the coffee toward him. "Here. On the house."
His brow arched. "On the house?"
"Yeah," she snapped. "So you stop throwing money around like you own Florence."
He chuckled—low, rich, damn near sinful—and leaned closer. "Tesoro, I don't just own Florence. I own half of Italy."
The words were arrogant. Unbelievably arrogant. And yet… when he said them, she believed him.
By evening, Isabella's shift ended, but fate wasn't done humiliating her.
Because when she stepped out into the street, a sleek black Maserati purred to the curb.
The window rolled down.
And there he was, one hand on the wheel, sunglasses back in place, smirk firmly intact.
"Get in."
Her mouth fell open. "Excuse me?"
"Get in the car, Isabella Romano."
Her heart stuttered. How the fuck did he know her name?
"I'm not getting in your car," she scoffed, folding her arms. "What are you, a kidnapper now?"
He smirked wider. "If I wanted to kidnap you, tesoro, you'd already be tied to my bed."
Her jaw dropped. Heat rushed to her cheeks, down her neck, into places she refused to think about. People on the sidewalk stared.
"You're insane," she muttered, turning to walk away.
"Or," he called after her, "I'm giving you an opportunity."
She froze.
"An opportunity to leave shitty coffee machines and shitty tips behind," he added, his tone dark, velvet, and sharp. "You're wasted here."
Her pulse hammered. She wanted to tell him to fuck off, but something in his voice snared her.
She turned slowly, narrowing her eyes. "And what exactly are you offering?"
His lips curved. "A job. My secretary."
The world tilted.
Her? His secretary?
She laughed—a harsh, bitter sound. "Right. Because rich men in suits always hire broke waitresses as their secretaries."
"Not always," he admitted smoothly. "Only when the waitress is stubborn enough to call me an arrogant bastard in public."
Before she could respond, a voice shouted from across the street.
"Isabella?"
Her heart sank. No. Fuck no.
Her ex. Marco.
He stormed toward them, eyes narrowing at the sight of her standing beside the billionaire's car. "What the hell is this? You're—what? Selling yourself now?"
"Fuck off, Marco," Isabella snapped, her voice shaking.
But Marco wasn't looking at her. He was glaring at Damiano, chest puffed like a dog guarding territory. "Stay away from her, you rich piece of shit. She doesn't need you."
Damiano leaned back in his seat, calm as a king, and sipped his espresso from the car's cupholder. He didn't even look at Marco, just smirked.
"You're still here?"
The words were quiet. Deadly.
Marco's face turned red. "You fucking—"
"Careful," Damiano cut him off, finally looking up, his dark gaze sharp as knives. "One more word and I'll have you crawling on your knees, begging me for mercy. And trust me, ragazzo, you wouldn't survive it."
The threat hung in the air like smoke.
Marco blanched, fists trembling, then spat on the ground before storming off.
Isabella's hands shook, torn between fury and… something else. Something hotter. More dangerous.
She stared at Damiano. "You're insane."
He smiled—wolfish, devastating. "And yet you're still standing here."
Her stomach flipped, her pulse screaming at her to run. But her body wouldn't move. Because when Damiano Moretti looked at her like that—like she was already his—running felt impossible.