And I no longer believed in the version of him he’d first allowed me to see.
But knowing the truth had given me something more valuable than a perfect coincidence.
A choice.
Luca had power, secrets and a name that made people lower their voices.
None of that vanished because he liked me.
None of it became romantic just because he could smile across a coffee cup.
So I didn’t forgive everything in one morning.
I asked questions.
He answered them.
When an answer made me uncomfortable, I said so.
When I needed distance, he gave it.
Weeks later, I finally photographed Moretti’s restaurant—not as a favor, and not for free.
Luca hired me at my normal commercial rate after I sent him an actual contract.
He read every page.
“Very intimidating,” he said.
“You should see my late-payment clause.”
“I am terrified.”
The photograph I liked best from that shoot wasn’t of the dining room or the food.
It was taken afterward, outside, when Luca didn’t know my camera was still raised.
He was standing beneath the restaurant awning while I crossed the sidewalk toward him.
His hands were in his coat pockets.
No practiced expression.
No calculated introduction.
Just a man waiting because I had told him where and when to meet me.
I kept that photograph for myself.
Not because it proved Luca Moretti was harmless.
He wasn’t.
Not because our beginning had secretly been perfect.
It hadn’t.
I kept it because the picture recorded the first thing between us that neither of us needed to pretend was coincidence.
This time, he was there because I had asked him to be.
And this time, I knew exactly who was waiting.
