CHAPTER 4: THE DINNER
1171 Words
My jaw nearly hit the floor.
I turned to my mother, pure disbelief in my expression.
“You’re more than a b***h for capturing this one,” I said, shaking my head.
She only smiled, flashing white, perfect teeth.
“I’m Veronica Lazcano,” she said smoothly, her Mexican accent curling around her name like silk. “I always play my cards right.”
I swallowed. This was real.
The doors swung open as two bodyguards stepped forward, their presence imposing, their movements sharp and rehearsed.
We slid into the limo, the scent of leather and wealth swallowing me whole. Everything inside reeked of power. The polished black interior, the soft hum of classical music, the chilled wine waiting in crystal glasses.
“Damn,” I breathed, sinking into the plush seat.
I felt like a high-class girl.
I felt rich.
I felt alive.
Across from me, my mum sat with her legs elegantly crossed, lifting a glass of wine to her lips. She looked like a queen, her eyes glowing with satisfaction, her smirk never fading.
She was happy.
She had won.
She had escaped poverty.
She was marrying the man who owned half of Italy.
How she did it—I had no idea.
But deep down, in the pit of my stomach, something twisted.
Something dark.
Something that whispered:
This is bigger than you ever imagined.
The First Encounter
The sleek black car came to a slow, deliberate stop. The moment the door opened, I widened my eyes in shock, my breath hitching as I took in the sight before me.
Da Vittorio.
The most expensive restaurant in Milan, Italy.
I barely swallowed my gasp, my throat going dry as I took in the golden glow of chandeliers reflecting off marble floors, the valet men in their pressed suits standing at attention, and the elegantly dressed people walking in like royalty.
"Damn," I murmured under my breath.
I felt the weight of the bodyguards' stares as they opened the car door with precision, one of them offering his hand to help me and my mother, Veronica, step out. My mother, as always, wore a victorious smirk, a silent declaration that she had won whatever game she was playing.
I had no idea how she had managed to bag this one.
And by "this one," I meant the man waiting inside.
I followed my mother, my steps unsure, hesitant. The glass doors of the restaurant loomed in front of me, and for a second, an irrational fear crept into my mind.
Would the door sense my poverty and shatter at my touch?
But my mother? She walked like she owned the damn place—like a queen making her grand entrance into her throne room.
I straightened my back, forcing composure, trying not to gawk at the breathtaking interior. The ceiling stretched high, adorned with gold detailing. Every table was set with silverware that probably cost more than my entire life savings. The air smelled like money—wealth, power, and exclusivity.
"This way, ma'am," an attendant said, leading us toward a private section.
I glanced at my mother, noting the way her smirk grew just a little. My stomach tightened in anticipation.
Then I saw him.
Seated at the head of the VIP table, his posture was relaxed yet exuded an unshakable authority.
I had expected a bald, aging billionaire with a swollen gut and a cigar between his fingers.
I had never been so wrong in my life.
My breath caught in my throat as I took him in.
He was tall—unforgivably tall—even seated. Broad shoulders encased in a tailored black suit, the fabric stretching over his muscled frame like it had been stitched directly onto his skin. His dark hair was thick, sleek, and slightly tousled, as though a frustrated hand had run through it just moments ago.
And his face…
A masterpiece.
Sharp, symmetrical—like it had been carved by gods with cruel precision. A strong jawline, high cheekbones, and full lips that pressed into an unreadable expression.
But it was his eyes that nearly knocked the air out of my lungs.
Dark. Piercing. They held a weight that I couldn’t place—something ancient, dangerous.
He radiated power.
The kind that didn’t need to be spoken aloud. The kind that made men kneel and women tremble.
And for some godforsaken reason…
I think I liked it.
The bodyguard beside me pulled out my chair. I sat down, my heart hammering wildly, though for what reason, I wasn’t sure.
My mother wasted no time, sliding into her seat beside him, her hand resting delicately on his forearm as she laughed at something he hadn’t even said.
He remained unbothered, his cold indifference more brutal than any rejection. He hadn’t spared me a single glance. Not even an acknowledgment.
I clenched my jaw.
I already hate him.
"…And this is my baby girl, Mellu," my mother said, her voice sugar-coated, flashing her perfect white teeth.
I lowered my head slightly, waiting, anticipating his reaction.
Nothing.
Not a single look. Not even a damn blink.
He just checked his watch like this dinner was a waste of his precious time.
"Hm," he hummed, the sound dismissive.
Rage simmered beneath my skin.
Asshole.
The server arrived, ready to take our orders.
"And for you, miss?"
"Fries," I muttered.
For the first time that evening, I felt his gaze shift. It landed on me, slow and deliberate, like he was only now realizing I existed.
Why?
Was fries too cheap? Did I offend his billionaire sensibilities by not ordering caviar and gold-plated lobster?
I swallowed, suddenly feeling ridiculous, but I refused to look at him.
My mother, ever the performer, let out a fake laugh.
"Hahaha! Mellu is just a shy girl," she said, her voice high-pitched.
I shot her a withering glare.
Then I heard him speak.
"Is that so?"
The way his voice dipped, smooth yet commanding, sent an involuntary shiver down my spine.
I forced myself to lift my gaze slightly, trying not to meet his eyes directly.
But it was impossible.
The moment our eyes locked, I felt something.
Something dark. Something consuming.
His stare wasn’t just looking at me.
It was unraveling me.
Like he could see straight through every layer of me, down to my very bones.
My breath hitched, but I masked it with a swallow.
Then, in the most casual yet possessive tone, he spoke again.
"Fine, then. The wedding takes place on Saturday."
My heart stopped.
I choked.
"Saturday?" My voice came out strangled.
"Tomorrow." His gaze didn’t waver.
I whipped my head toward my mother, expecting her to argue, to protest at the absurd timing.
But she was already nodding.
"I’d love the whole of Italy to attend!" she said excitedly.
Lorenzo’s sharp voice cut through her words like a blade.
"Nothing grand. Just mafia style."
Mafia.
The word alone made my blood run cold.
But my mother, ever the opportunist, simply shrugged.
"Okay."
- Writer
