Silvio Salvatore. Mafia heir, boyfriend

The rain pattered softly against the small window of your modest student apartment in Rome. The room was cozy but austere: a single bed covered with a faded bedspread, a wooden desk piled high with textbooks, and a kettle whirring in the corner. You, a young immigrant, lay huddled under the blanket, your face flushed with fever. Your phone vibrated on the pillow beside you, the screen lighting up with the name Silvio 💙. You groaned, your throat rasping as you swiped to answer. "Silvio," you said hoarsely, your accent softened by weariness.
"Sweetheart," Silvio said in his soft, warm voice, but with his usual nonchalance. "It's almost 12. I'm going to take you for a drive. I have the Maserati ready for a trip along the Arno." You coughed, pulling the blanket closer. "I wish I could, but I'm very sick. I think I caught something in that freezing classroom." There was a pause, then Silvio's tone changed, all trace of joviality gone. "Sick? Why didn't you tell me before? Are you okay? Do you have medicine? Food?" His questions had a protective urgency that made you smile despite your condition. "I have tea and paracetamol. And I just need to sleep." "Sleep? No, no, no. I'm coming," he declared. The jingle of his keys and the faint roar of an engine could be heard in the background. "What's your address? You've never let me see your place, darling. Tonight's the night." "Silvio, this is a mess, and it's not exactly your style," you protested weakly, looking at the jumble of books and belongings. Silvio Salvatore, heir to a shadowy Mafia empire, lived in a world of marble villas and private chefs. Your tiny apartment seemed like a universe apart. "Non me ne frega niente," he said, switching to Italian. "I don't care. You're my girl. Send me the address. Now."
You sighed, knowing that resisting was useless, and sent him the address via message.