Chapter 1 Collision Course
Hello! I’m Roseline, a storyteller embarking on my writing journey.
I’m thrilled to share my very first chapter with you all and take you on an adventure through my world of romance. Every word is a step forward in this creative process, and I can’t wait to hear what you think.
I believe in the power of stories to connect us, inspire us, and ignite our imaginations. So, whether you’re a fellow writer or a passionate reader, I hope you enjoy this first chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Thank you for being part of this journey – let’s dive into the world I’ve created together!.
Nadia felt the weight of the room around her. The lavish gala buzzed with laughter, soft clinking of crystal glasses, and the distant hum of a live band. Every surface gleamed with opulence, but none of it mattered to her. She wasn’t here for the glamour; she was here for the paycheck. Just another catering job in a city full of them.
The rich, powerful Milanese elite weaved through the crowd, their conversations laced with an air of superiority, the women in their fur coats and the men with their Italian bravado. As she passed, she couldn’t help but feel like an outsider—a shadow in a world too foreign for her to touch.
Then, she saw him.
Marcello Rossi.
At thirty-three, the mafia boss of Milan commanded attention in ways no one else did. Tall, dark, with that sharp edge of danger to him. The way he moved—like he owned the entire room, like it bent to his will. His eyes, cold as ice, locked on her for the briefest moment, and in that instant, Nadia felt something shift inside her. She was just a girl in an ugly uniform, but he saw her.
Her hand shook as she offered a glass of wine, the delicate crystal in her grip trembling. Her gaze dropped nervously to his pristine white shirt, the glint of silver cufflinks barely visible under the rolled sleeves of his tailored black jacket. But before she could recover, the glass slipped—wine spilling across his chest in a spray of red.
“Porca miseria,” she cursed under her breath. It was the perfect disaster.
The room went silent. Every head turned toward the scene unfolding before them, and Nadia’s heart skipped a beat.
But Marcello? He didn’t seem angry. Not really. Instead, his eyes narrowed, as if he was studying her. Slowly, a small smile tugged at his lips—something between amusement and something darker, something dangerous.
Instead of fury, he spoke with an unsettling calm. “Non preoccuparti, piccola. È solo vino.” (Don’t worry, little one. It’s just wine.)
Nadia froze, caught in the command of his gaze.
“But... I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to,” she stammered, desperate to fix her mistake.
Marcello took a step closer. His presence was suffocating, the room suddenly feeling too small, too intimate. “Accidenti,” he murmured, his voice low and smooth, a sound that seemed to cut through the tension. “You owe me more than an apology, don’t you think?”
Her breath hitched. What did that mean? His words had no anger—only intrigue.
Before she could respond, Marcello turned and, without another word, summoned someone with a subtle gesture. A moment later, a man appeared at his side.
“Trova il suo numero.” (Find her number.)
Nadia barely had time to process what was happening before Marcello walked away, as if nothing had happened, as if her clumsy mistake meant nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. It was everything. The way his eyes lingered on her. The way the air between them crackled with something unspoken.
Her pulse raced as she tried to regain composure. She was a girl just trying to survive in this city, but Marcello Rossi? He was the storm. And she was already caught in it.
