ISABELLA

Chapter 11

ISABELLA’S POV

The bell above the café door chimed as Nico and I slipped into the warmth. The air smelled like roasted beans and cinnamon, the kind of cozy comfort I always craved in the mornings. Nico immediately claimed a table near the window, slouching into the chair like he owned the place.

“Double espresso, right?” I asked.

“You know me so well.” He smirked, pulling out his phone already.

I rolled my eyes and headed toward the counter. The café wasn’t crowded, but enough people sat around to create a low buzz of chatter. A few college students hunched over laptops, an older man reading his newspaper, and a group of girls at the corner whispering animatedly about something on their screens.

I stood in line, scrolling through my thoughts more than my phone, until the café door opened again.

The hum of conversation faltered, replaced by sharp intakes of breath and hushed whispers. Even the barista at the counter straightened her posture, her smile turning nervous. I frowned and turned slightly, catching a glimpse of the man who had just walked in.

Tall. Dark suit, perfectly tailored. Hair slicked back with practiced ease, sunglasses tucked into his shirt pocket. He moved with the kind of confidence that made space for itself—people glanced, people noticed, people couldn’t help but react.

I didn’t know him personally, but I didn’t need to.

The girls at the corner immediately began giggling, tossing their hair and adjusting their clothes, one of them even pulling out her phone to take a subtle photo. A woman at a nearby table nearly spilled her drink when he walked past, her cheeks flushing crimson when he gave her the barest smirk.

Everyone reacted.

Except me.

Because honestly? I didn’t care.

I stepped up to the counter, offering the barista a polite smile. “One caramel latte and one double espresso, please.”

My voice broke the weird tension, and I felt eyes on me—his eyes.

I didn’t turn around. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t giggle like the girls. I just pulled my wallet from my bag, tapped my card, and waited.

“Anything else?” the barista asked, her tone suddenly nervous, glancing behind me like she was more concerned about him than me.

“No, that’s all. Thank you.”

As I collected the drinks, I could feel it—the heavy weight of a gaze that lingered longer than it should. He was watching me. Not the girls fluttering around him. Not the staff trying too hard to impress. Me.

I didn’t understand why, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

I carried the cups back to Nico, who was grinning like a fool.

“What?” I asked, setting his espresso down.

“Do you have any idea who just walked in here?” he whispered, leaning forward like a gossiping child.

I glanced over my shoulder briefly, catching him casually adjusting his cufflinks, his gaze still flickering in my direction. My stomach twisted, but I forced a shrug.

Stirring my latte.

Nico nearly choked on his espresso. “And you’re just… calm? Isabella, that’s Riccardo Deluca. Girls throw themselves at him. He doesn’t even look at anyone twice.”

I sipped my drink, pretending not to care. “Good for him.”

But deep down, I knew it wasn’t good. Not at all. Because he wasn’t supposed to notice me.

And yet… he did.

Nico was still rambling, going on about how Riccardo Deluca was basically untouchable, when the sound of polished shoes against the tiled floor drew closer.

Nico noticed too. His eyes widened. “Oh, s**t. He’s coming this way—”

Before I could process, a shadow fell across our table.

“Mind if I sit?”

His voice was smooth, deep, carrying a kind of authority that didn’t really ask for permission. When I looked up, Riccardo was standing there, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed directly on me. Not Nico. Not anyone else. Just me.

Nico nearly spilled his espresso, scrambling to sit straighter. “Of course, Mr. Deluca—sir, please, sit—”

Riccardo ignored him completely, his lips tugging into the faintest smirk as his eyes lingered on mine. He pulled out the empty chair beside me and sat, his movements unhurried, deliberate.

“You don’t seem impressed.”

My brows lifted. “Should I be?”

A ripple of amusement passed over his face. The girls at the corner table were practically choking on their excitement, whispering and stealing glances, but Riccardo leaned back comfortably, like this was exactly where he wanted to be.

“Most people can’t look me in the eye,” he said casually, his gaze never wavering. “You’re either very brave… or very foolish.”

Nico cleared his throat awkwardly. “She’s… uh… she’s just like that.”

I shot him a warning look. “I don’t need a translator.” Then, turning back to Riccardo, I added, “Maybe I just don’t believe in putting people on pedestals. Titles, money, power—it’s all noise.”

His expression was unreadable, though I caught the faintest spark of interest flicker in his eyes.

Then he leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, his voice low enough that it was meant for me and me alone.

“I think I like you already.”

My pulse skipped, but I held my ground, sipping my latte as if he hadn’t just said something that would make half the women in this café faint.

“You don’t even know me.”

“That’s the point,” he murmured, his lips curving into a slow, dangerous smile. “And I intend to change that.”

“Tell me your name,” Riccardo said, leaning closer, voice smooth but edged with command.

I arched a brow, deliberately slow to answer. “Why? So you can have it written down on some list of yours?”

He smirked, tilting his head slightly. “If I wanted your name on a list, you’d already be there. I just want to hear it from your lips.”

Nico almost choked on his coffee. “Isabella—her name is Isabella—”

I shot him a glare sharp enough to slice steel. “Really?”

Riccardo’s gaze softened—just a flicker—before settling back into that effortless, dangerous charm. “Isabella,” he repeated, like he was tasting the word. His tongue brushed the corner of his teeth as if savoring it. “It suits you.”

I rolled my eyes, pretending not to feel the warmth creep up my neck. “And you must be Riccardo Deluca. Judging by the way half this café is staring at you, I don’t even need an introduction.”

His smile widened, slow and deliberate. “I like that you’re not impressed. Everyone either wants something from me… or fears me. You? You’re different.”

“Maybe I just don’t care,” I said flatly, sipping my coffee.

“Or maybe,” he countered smoothly, “you care too much, and you’re trying to convince yourself otherwise.”

That made me pause for just a second too long. His eyes locked onto mine, and I hated how it felt like he could see through me—like all my carefully built walls weren’t even there.

Nico shifted uncomfortably, trying to cut the tension. “S-So, Riccardo… what brings you here?”

Riccardo didn’t even glance his way. He kept his gaze pinned on me. “Curiosity,” he said simply. “And maybe… fate.”

I nearly scoffed, but the intensity in his voice made my heart skip. He leaned closer, so close I could catch the faint, clean scent of his cologne—woodsy, dark, intoxicating.

“I’ll be seeing you again, Isabella,” he murmured, low enough that only I could hear. Then, with the same unhurried confidence, he stood, adjusted his suit jacket, and left the café—just like that.

The moment he was gone, the air seemed to rush back in. Conversations picked up, laughter returned, but I sat frozen, coffee cup untouched.

Nico let out a low whistle. “Holy s**t, Bella… Riccardo Deluca is interested in you.”

I shook my head, ignoring the way my pulse still hammered. “Or maybe he’s just bored.”

But even I didn’t believe my own words.