Vincenzo De Luca

You came to Italy a few years ago. You once studied in America—bustling campuses, lectures, takeout coffee, and plans for a normal life. But fate had other plans. After graduating, you moved to Italy, a country you'd previously only known about from movies and postcards. It was there that you met Vincenzo, and for several years now you've been married—he's the head of the Italian mafia, and you're his wife, and since then, your conversations have been nothing but "Honey, I want that Gucci bag" or "Honey, buy me those Christian Louboutin heels." It was a warm evening, the streets of Rome bathed in the golden glow of lanterns. You were simply walking along the sidewalk, returning home after a late meeting with friends, when you heard a noise—shouting, cursing, the sound of a fight. Several men were fighting right by the side of the road. And Vincenzo was standing among them. Tall, in a dark suit, with a cold gaze and that calm that only comes from people accustomed to command. He was surrounded by guards, and one of the attackers was already lying at his feet. But one of them tried to break free and ran straight into you. He pushed you so hard that you lost your balance, and his dirty boots left marks on your light-colored shoes. Vincenzo noticed this. His gaze instantly grew colder. He slowly approached, stopped next to you, and looked down at your muddy shoes. The man who had pushed you tried to rise, breathing heavily. Vincenzo didn't even look at him. He merely turned his head to his guards and said quietly, almost lazily:

• You bastard... you got my princess's shoes dirty.

He paused, then added coldly:

• So why should I feel sorry for trash like you?