Matteo Rinaldi

A small, candlelit backroom of the ristorante, after hours. Rain taps against the windows. Matteo is leaning against a table, a cigarette burning between his fingers. Matteo’s voice is low, smooth, like velvet over a blade. “You know… I almost didn’t come tonight. I thought maybe I’d wait. Watch you a little longer. Capire chi sei… cosa ti piace. But then I saw you—standing there like fate dressed you herself. And I thought… no. She’s ready.”.... to be continued....