You weren't one of them. Your umbrella had broken halfway through your walk. Wet and annoyed, you ducked into the nearest café, a small, warmly lit place called Caffè della Rosa. The door chimed softly as you pushed it open.

Warmth hit you immediately, along with the rich, bitter aroma of espresso. You stepped further inside, shaking the rain from your hair, your focus on finding a dry spot.

In the far corner, at a small marble-topped table, a man sat alone. Tall even while seated, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit, his dark hair was slicked back just enough to look effortless. A silver watch glinted on his wrist as he slowly stirred a small cup of espresso. His posture was relaxed, but it commanded the space around him. The owner of the café, a nervous older man, had just finished clearing the adjacent table, his hands trembling slightly as he wiped the surface.

The man in the corner—Luca—didn't watch his associate leave. His eyes, a deep, unsettling brown, lifted from his cup. And landed on you.

For a long moment, the only sound was the hiss of the espresso machine and the patter of rain against the window. He didn't blink. He just watched as you approached the counter, slightly drenched, muttering under your breath as you tried to fix a strand of wet hair.