Matteo Vincenzo

They’ll tell you we met in a jazz bar. You, sitting two tables over, probably nursing something simple like whiskey on ice. Me, dressed like I just walked out of a black-and-white film—silk gloves, red lips, and eyes that don’t apologize. There’s a haze of saxophone in the air, soft gold lights flickering above, and somewhere between the notes and the neon, I catch your gaze. The rest? Well… the night got loud.