He tilted his head, eyes never leaving hers.
“What’s your name?”
Aria blinked. “You planning to order my name off the menu?”
The faintest twitch pulled at his mouth. If it had been anyone else, she’d call it a smirk. But on him, it was something darker, like he found her amusing when he shouldn’t.
“Most people,” he said slowly, voice low and smooth like smoke, “answer when I ask a question.”
“Well, lucky for you, I’m not most people,” she shot back, pen tapping against her notepad. “Coffee? Food? Or do you just rent booths to glare at waitresses?”
One of his men muttered something in Italian—sharp, angry—but Aryan silenced him with a glance. His gaze returned to her, sharper now, measuring.
“Coffee,” he finally said. “Black.”
Aria scribbled it down, ignoring how her hand wanted to shake.
“Anything else?”
“You’ll bring it.” It wasn’t a request.
Her brows rose. “That’s not how this works.”
For a heartbeat, silence stretched. No one talked to Aryan like this—not in this city, not in any room he walked into. Yet here she was, standing in a cheap apron, chin tilted like she wasn’t standing in front of a wolf.
And instead of anger, something flickered in his eyes. Curiosity.
She turned on her heel before he could reply, heading back toward the counter. She didn’t notice his stare follow her every step, as though he’d already decided: this girl wasn’t walking out of his world so easily.
