The espresso cup clicked softly on the counter as Enzo set it down, his back still to Alessio, shoulders squared like he was bracing for impact.
“She’ll shake things up,” he said quietly. “God knows this place needs it.”
Alessio was quiet. His gaze was fixed on the screen, but he wasn’t reading anymore. Just staring—at her name glowing in black and white like a warning label he’d ignored for three years.
Enzo turned, arms crossed now, leaning against the edge with that effortless model slouch he’d perfected for magazine covers. The same slouch that had sold cologne to half of Europe and earned him two million followers who thirsted over his moody black-and-white portraits. But right now, there was no filter, no caption, no carefully angled lighting. Just him, raw and restless.
“You should hire her.”
“No.”
“Come on.”
“No.”
“You’re really going to pass on the chance to watch a full-blown emotional wildfire unfold right in front of you?”
Alessio gave him a warning look—sharp, tired, the look of a man who’d already seen too many fires burn out.
Enzo smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Look, maybe she’s here for drama. Or maybe… she’s got something real to offer our emotionally constipated friend who still pretends he doesn’t remember the smell of her perfume.”
Alessio exhaled through his nose, slow and deliberate.
“Don’t give me that face,” Enzo continued, more playful now, though the playfulness felt forced. “You think he forgot her? He still drinks that same shitty red wine she liked—claims it’s ‘out of habit’. The guy has no habits. He forgets his own birthday. But he remembers every lyric to that godforsaken song she used to hum while she sketched in the back room. He remembers the exact shade of lipstick she wore the night he told her they were ‘too much’. He remembers everything, Alessio. And he’s still punishing himself for it.”
Alessio looked back at the screen. Her name still glowed there. Luna D’Amico. The same name that had once lit up Dario’s phone every night, the same name he’d deleted from his contacts in a fit of self-preservation, only to stare at the empty space for months afterward.
“She could’ve gone to Paris,” Enzo went on, voice quieter now. “Or Milan. She could’ve stayed in Rome, running boardrooms and wearing heels that cost more than this entire shop. Her family controls half this coast and most of the capital—vineyards, hotels, real estate deals that make politicians sweat. She doesn’t need minimum wage and sticky counters. She doesn’t need anything. And yet she’s here, applying to scoop gelato like it’s the most natural thing in the world.”
A long pause stretched between them.
Alessio’s thumb hovered over the call button. “She could destroy him without even trying.”
Enzo’s smirk faded completely. “Or save him. Either way, he’s already half-destroyed. Let her finish the job—or fix it. He’s been stuck in limbo for three years. Time to see if he can still feel something.”
Alessio stared at the screen a moment longer. Then, with a quiet curse under his breath, he tapped the number from the application and waited. One ring. Two.
Then a soft voice answered. “Luna D’Amico.”
He cleared his throat. “Luna, it’s Alessio from Bar Gelato.”
A silence, not heavy, but definitely surprised. Then, her voice again, lighter, almost amused. “Alessio. Wow. That takes me back.”
“You applied for the job?”
“Is it that hard to believe?”
“Yes,” he said bluntly, then added, “but I’m calling anyway.”
He could hear her smile over the phone—small, knowing, dangerous.
“I just wanted to ask you a few things,” he continued, professional now, though his pulse betrayed him. “You’ve never worked in food service, right?”
“Nope.”
“You know it’s long hours, hot, and customers who treat you like a vending machine?”
“I live for it,” she said, dry as sandpaper.
He almost smiled.
“Okay then. Come in tomorrow, 8 a.m. We’ll try you for the morning shift.”
A beat of silence. “Seriously?”
“I’m curious,” Alessio said, and hung up.
Behind him, Enzo was already opening a fresh coffee pod, the metallic click loud in the quiet.
“What?” Alessio said without turning.
Enzo grinned—this time real, wide, a little wicked. “Nothing. Just proud of you. Letting chaos in like that. It’s growth.”
Alessio shook his head, walking out of the backroom. “It’s a mistake.”
Enzo’s voice followed him, soft but certain:
“The best stories always start that way.”
