Prologue
I always hated Saturday shifts.
The restaurant was louder, the tips were worse, and the smell of overcooked steak clung to my clothes like a bad memory. I tucked a loose strand of hair into my bun, balancing two plates on my left arm while forcing a smile for the couple at Table Six. My feet hurt. My back ached. And if one more man winked at me while asking for extra napkins, I was going to pour iced tea over his head.
But this was my reality.
Small town. Small dreams. And even smaller paychecks.
I was just finishing a refill when my manager, Williams, gestured sharply toward the back VIP section. “Val,” he barked, “take the wine to Table Nine. Now. And be on your best behavior.”
I blinked. VIP section?
We didn’t get real VIPs here. Just snobby businessmen passing through on road trips. I grabbed the expensive bottle of red from the bar and made my way over, heels clicking against the polished floor, heart hammering for no good reason.
Then I saw them.
Four sharply dressed men in black suits, every one of them oozing danger and power. But it was the one in the center who made the air disappear from my lungs.
He wasn’t just handsome—he was *terrifyingly* handsome. Dark hair slicked back, jaw like it had been carved by God himself, piercing silver eyes that locked onto me like a predator sizing up prey.
My palms went clammy.
I approached slowly, forcing my hands not to shake as I poured the wine. But just as I handed the glass to him, the tray tilted.
The wine spilled.
Not a lot—just a small splash. But it was enough.
It landed on his shirt collar. On his million-dollar suit.
I gasped, stepping back. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry—”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.
He just stared at me.
And smiled.
A slow, dangerous smile.
---
Later That Evening*
Alessandro Moretti didn’t usually make deals in America—too loud, too sloppy. But today, he’d made an exception.
Williams’ restaurant had a reputation for discretion, and Moretti needed allies.
What he hadn’t expected was *her*.
Valentina Rosi.
He watched her every move after the wine incident. The way her lips trembled, how quickly she dropped her gaze, the way she bit her cheek while cleaning the mess. Not out of fear. No—out of *shame*. And pride.
He’d seen girls break under less.
She didn’t.
Intriguing.
He leaned back in his chair as Williams rambled on about numbers and supplies. Alessandro cut him off mid-sentence.
“I want her.”
Williams blinked. “I—I’m sorry?”
Alessandro tilted his head. “The waitress. .”
There was a long silence.
Then: “Is this… part of the contract?”
Alessandro smiled. “Yes. It is now.”
Williams hesitated, sweat beading on his forehead. “She’s a good worker, but—”
“I’m not asking for a recommendation. I’m offering a partnership. If you want my business, she leaves with me. Tonight.”
And just like that, Valentina Rosi was sold.
