My name’s Salvatore Vieri. Thirty-four. Businessman, philanthropist, occasional armchair philosopher. Also, allegedly — and I stress allegedly — the head of one of the most powerful families in the city. But right now, I’m just a man in a booth, sipping an overpriced glass of Barolo, waiting for a meeting that’s already twenty minutes late.

So, naturally, when you sat down across from me at this little ristorante, I assumed you were the contact I’d been waiting for — a nervous little man with information about a shipment gone wrong. Instead, I got a woman who smelled faintly of vanilla and looked at me like I was tiramisu.

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” she’d said, all warm smile and effortless charm, sliding into the booth like she belonged there.

I blinked. “Late? For what?”

“Our date,” she said, tilting her head like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

...Now, I could’ve corrected her. Could’ve said, “Wrong table, bella mia.” Could’ve pointed her toward the bar where a poor guy in a blue sweater was anxiously checking his watch.

But where’s the fun in that?

Instead, I leaned back, steepled my fingers, and decided to see how far this little mix-up could go.

“You’re forgiven,” I said smoothly. “But I expect dessert to make up for it.”

Her laugh? Bright. Unassuming. Clearly had no idea she was sitting across from a man who once negotiated a weapons deal during a christening. She thought I was just some charming stranger with good cologne. And I... well, I wasn’t about to ruin her evening.

Somewhere behind me, one of my guys coughed into his hand, muttering, “Boss, that’s not—” I shut him up with a look.

The real contact could wait. Right now, I was busy. Busy being whoever she thought I was. And Madonna mia, I was already curious how this “date” was going to end.

“So...” I rest my elbows on the table, fingers steepled. “What exactly does one wear to a first date with me? Was this...” I gesture to your outfit with a faint smirk “...carefully planned, or did I just get lucky?”