Dalia sat across from Enzo, facing the terrace of Hotel Belmond. The fencing was elegant, wrought iron twisted into delicate designs, framing the breathtaking view of Portofino's coastline. The night stretched wide, a velvety expanse dotted with golden lights from distant villas.
She let her gaze drift, soaking in the serenity—until a bopping head interrupted her line of sight, swaying left and right like a ridiculous metronome.
Dalia sighed. "Quit blocking the view, will you?"
Enzo barely glanced at her, still bobbing to a tune that existed only in his head. "What's there to see in the dark?"
Dalia closed her eyes for a moment, inhaled deeply, then exhaled through her nose—her mouth twitching, her patience on a knife's edge. Just as she opened her mouth to respond, the manager arrived, impeccably timed, saving Enzo from whatever scathing remark she had planned.
Enzo leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs like a man who had not, just an hour ago, caused a scandal in the hotel lobby. He glanced at the manager, who stood with the cautious politeness of a man dealing with a guest who had, technically, been the victim of a crime—but had reacted like the lead in a tragic opera.
"So," Enzo said, picking up the menu and skimming it like he was searching for the meaning of life. "Since I have suffered a great injustice today—"
"A missing outfit," Dalia muttered.
"—A great injustice," he repeated firmly, "I will be ordering accordingly."
The manager, ever composed, inclined his head. "Of course, Signor Rinaldi."
Enzo's eyes gleamed. "I'll have the lobster ravioli, the filet mignon—medium rare, obviously—and, ah… let's throw in a truffle risotto. And a tiramisu. No, two. I am emotionally fragile."
Dalia lifted a brow. "You sound fine to me."
"Ah, but my soul is in ruins." He tapped his chest dramatically. "Tiramisu is medicine."
The manager, well-versed in handling guests of all temperaments, did not blink. "And for the drinks?"
Enzo didn't hesitate. "Espresso."
Dalia stared. "You're having steak, pasta, and espresso?"
"What else would I drink?"
"Literally anything else."
Enzo waved a hand. "Dalia, Dalia, Dalia. You know nothing of the art of contrast. Life is about balance. Rich food, sharp coffee—it's the poetry of existence."
She exhaled sharply. "You just like making people question your life choices."
Enzo grinned. "That too."
The manager cleared his throat. "We'll have your food ready shortly, Signor Rinaldi."
As he walked off, Dalia leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand. "You do realize this dinner was meant to make up for the embarrassment you caused in the lobby, right?"
Enzo picked up his water glass, swirling it like it was fine wine. "Oh, absolutely." He took a sip. "And I intend to enjoy every single bite."
Dalia sighed, but a ghost of a smile betrayed her.
The food arrived in a grand flourish, silver domes lifted with practiced elegance. The scent of truffle, butter, and perfectly seared steak filled the air, and Enzo sighed like a man reunited with a long-lost love.
"Ah," he said, pressing a hand to his heart. "Now this is justice."
Dalia rolled her eyes but picked up her fork. "It does smell incredible."
The first few bites passed in rare silence—Enzo too enraptured by his filet mignon to run his mouth, and Dalia savoring her ravioli in peace. But, of course, Enzo could only be quiet for so long.
"So," he said, slicing into his steak, "what brings you here, Dalia?"
She glanced up. "The dinner? You dragged me into it."
"No, no." He waved his fork. "Here. This hotel. This beautiful, wildly expensive establishment that seems… hmm, a little too nice for an ordinary vacation."
Dalia took a slow sip of water, the picture of calm. "And you think I can't afford a luxury stay?"
Enzo smirked. "Dalia, cara mia, if you were here for a leisurely holiday, you wouldn't have spent our first conversation looking like you were working." He gestured at her with his knife. "And that weird tall guy in the tragic suit wouldn't have approached you."
She cut into her ravioli with surgical precision. "Maybe I just like talking with handsome people."
"Maybe." He twirled his fork in the air. "Or maybe you have a very secret, very interesting reason for being here. Like stalking me because you actually love me."
Dalia exhaled through her nose, unimpressed. "Ha." She rolled her eyes as if she had heard the most unbelievable thing ever. "And what about you? You haven't told me what you're doing here."
Enzo's grin widened. "Enjoying my dinner."
She gave him a flat look. "Enzo."
"Rinaldi," he corrected, lifting his espresso in a toast to himself.
Dalia was unimpressed. "Your room key says Dolce Vita Suite."
Enzo took a slow bite of steak, eyes twinkling with mischief. "You went through my things?"
"They were in plain sight." She tilted her head. "And yet, here you are. Rooftop dining. Wearing a suit that looks… borrowed."
He sighed, setting down his knife and fork. "Fine, fine. If you must know…" He leaned forward, lowering his voice dramatically. "I got a very exclusive, very generous invitation."
Dalia stared. "Enzo."
"Rinaldi."
"Did you steal someone's ticket?"
He gasped, clutching his chest. "How dare you—"
"Enzo."
"…Okay, fine, yes, but in my defense, they weren't using it. And I asked you to share it with me, but you refused." He huffed. "And threw my offer back at me. Literally. That tea was hot."
Dalia pinched the bridge of her nose. "So, to recap—you stole someone's ticket, got your own clothes stolen, and somehow still managed to upgrade yourself to rooftop dining?"
He pointed his fork at her. "That is the magic of being me."
She sighed again, but amusement flickered at the corner of her lips.
"What about you?" Enzo tilted his head, still watching her. "If I have secrets, you definitely have secrets."
Dalia met his gaze, unshaken. "I'm just here on business."
"Business," he echoed, swirling his espresso. "Ah, such a professional, mysterious word. What kind of business?"
She dabbed her lips with a napkin. "The kind you wouldn't know about."
Enzo smirked. "That makes me so much more curious."
Dalia took another bite, unfazed. "Good."
Enzo sighed dramatically. "Well, since we're both here with questionable motives, we might as well enjoy the food." He lifted his tiramisu spoon. "After all, the best secrets are shared over dessert."
Dalia smirked. "Not this one. And I don't have a questionable motive, thief."
Enzo clicked his tongue. "Dalia, you wound me."
She merely smiled, sipping her drink.
______________________________________________________________________________
Enzo woke up feeling well-fed and well-rested—a rare combination last few days. Last night's dinner with Dalia had been... lively.
He stretched, letting out a lazy sigh before rolling out of bed. The morning light streamed through the sheer curtains, casting golden streaks across the luxury of the Dolce Vita suite. Not bad. Not bad at all.
A hot shower, a fresh set of clothes, and a ridiculously overpriced room service breakfast later, Enzo finally felt like himself again. He grabbed the crumpled booking receipt from the bedside drawer, idly skimming through the long list of perks this stolen reservation had gifted him.
Free this. Free that.
His eyes landed on something unexpected.
A masquerade ball.
Enzo raised an eyebrow. Now, that's fancy.
How much had that filthy rich bastard planned for this trip? A lavish suite, unlimited services, and now an exclusive event? Well, Enzo wasn't one to waste opportunities. If life threw him luxury on a silver platter, who was he to refuse?
Still... would someone come looking for their missing reservation? He leaned back against the headboard, twirling the receipt between his fingers. No, they wouldn't. Right?
Shaking off the thought, he picked up the hotel phone and dialed the concierge.
"The masquerade ball," he said casually. "When is it?"
"Ah, sir. It's scheduled for next weekend." A brief pause. "That would be...a week from now."
Enzo hummed, tapping his fingers against the nightstand.
"Well," he muttered to himself with a smirk, "looks like it's time for another party."