Prologue
The bell over the door jingles and, naturally, I assume it’s another mom-with-a-stroller coming to buy the same three Colleen Hoover books we restock hourly.
I don’t look up. I’m in mourning. Deep, profound, operatic mourning and sulking. Not that I’d ever admit to sulking. Moretti men don’t sulk, we brood, we glower, we stare into the middle distance like tragic Italian statues.
It's been a whole month since Mariela “I-just-want-something-casual” broke up with me because apparently I was “getting too serious.”
Me.
Matteo Moretti.
The man who spent the better part of a decade treating relationships like dessert samples. The man who once forgot a woman’s name while still kissing her. The man who could’ve seduced a marble statue if given ten minutes and a bottle of wine.
Too serious? Laughable. Except it wasn’t. It isn’t because for the first time in my entire adult life, I didn’t want casual. Mariela was different. She didn’t look at me like I was a Moretti. She didn’t look at me like I was dangerous or charming or a walking scandal.
She looked at me like I was a person. A stupid man with bad jokes and good hair who made her laugh. I stopped flirting with other women. Stopped sleeping around. Stopped pretending I didn’t want something more.
I even, God help me, downloaded a recipe app.I was going to cook for her but no.
She decided she “wasn’t looking for anything serious,” which apparently included me, my jokes, and my stupid roasted chicken recipe.
So now I’m here at a bookstore. Rearranging the front table for the fourth time because heartbreak has turned me into a 1950s housewife and I haven’t been with anyone since her. Not because I couldn’t but because I didn’t want to.
Do you know how disturbing that is for someone like me? I feel like my entire personality folder got corrupted.
Luca keeps calling it “character development,” like he’s personally responsible for this emotional glow-up.
Sofia pats my cheek sympathetically and tells me heartbreak builds empathy. Empathy. No thank you. But then something shifts in the air. Like a disturbance in the force. Like the universe whispering, Heads up, King — chaos is coming.
So I finally look up and see an eight-year-old girl annihilate my front display like she’s reenacting Fast & Furious: Bookstore Drift.
Books everywhere.
Glorious chaos.
Behind her is a woman. A beautiful woman.
A diner-uniform, exhausted beyond salvation, mascara-smudged, hair-falling-out-of-the-bun-but-still-somehow-sexy beautiful woman.
She stops dead when the books hit the floor.
“Oh my God—no, no, no—I’m so sorry—she’s just—today has been—I—please don’t kick us out—”
The panic in her voice is pure, distilled chaos.
I love it here.
I grab a cart and stroll over casually like I’m not already planning to flirt so hard she questions her life choices. She’s on her knees gathering romance paperbacks in frantic armfuls.
I crouch beside her.
“It’s fine,” I say. “Gives the shop some personality. And me something to do besides alphabetizing the mystery section again.”
She looks up at me like being spoken to kindly might break her into forty pieces.
Before she can respond—CRASH.
Round two. We both turn. The kid has obliterated a fantasy display this time. A dragon plush sits on her head like a crown of victory. The woman whispers something like a prayer begging for death.
“She’s usually not this—this—this—”
“Lively?” I offer.
She groans. “I swear I’m a competent guardian.”
I grin. “Don’t worry. Books are durable.”
The kid lights up like I’m the tooth fairy.
“DO YOU WORK HERE?” she yells.
I nod solemnly. “I do. And I’m very important.”
The woman, Libby, according to her name tag lets out a choked, exhausted laugh.
Then the kid beams and proudly announces:
“MY SISTER’S NOT MY REAL MOM!”
Libby freezes. I freeze. The dragons on the floor freeze.
The kid continues cheerfully, “She’s my mom NOW because our dad KILLED OUR ACTUAL MOM.”
Libby starts malfunctioning beside me.
“I—no—okay—nope—we’re leaving—sorry—please pretend none of this happened—”
She grabs the kid’s arm, mortified, face redder than the romance covers scattered at her knees.
The kid digs her heels in long enough to shout:
“BYE HOT BOOK MAN!”
Libby sputters, “DO NOT CALL HIM HOT—”
“And MY SISTER THINKS YOU’RE CUTE!”
Libby looks ready to ascend to the afterlife.
I cannot resist. It’s a gift.
A curse.
I call after them:
“Your sister has exceptional taste!”
Libby stumbles like she’s been sniper-shot by embarrassment and drags the kid out the door. The bell jingles as they disappear into daylight and chaos.
I’m still grinning when Luca appears beside me like an angry shadow summoned by stupidity.
He eyes the destroyed displays.
Then he eyes me.
Then he eyes the door where Libby fled.
He sighs the sigh of a man who once carried an entire crime syndicate but is now carrying a newborn on three hours of sleep.
“That,” Luca says, “was the most chaotic thirty seconds I’ve ever witnessed.”
I place a hand over my heart.
“Thank you.”
“No,” he says flatly. “Not a compliment.”
I smirk anyway, bending to pick up a dragon plush but my mind is back on the woman with the diner uniform and sad eyes.
She looked tired. She looked overwhelmed. She looked like her life was unraveling in her hands and for some reason I really, really hope she walks in again because maybe chaos is exactly what I need right now.
