Strange Man.

Mia

The restaurant always smelled like spice but it smelled more like home because I made it so. Mom's recipes stayed in my drawer and using it had been one of the reasons why we still had a few customers.

By 8:50 p.m., the last customer had just left, a tired woman with swollen feet and two crying toddlers trailing behind her. I had handed her the bag of leftovers with a smile, like always, and locked the door behind her, sighing as I leaned against it.

Outside, the air was starting to become strong, blowing past like it had the intention of ripping a building off. The flat-screen above the bar was blaring the news: a last-minute storm warning. Category-level winds. Torrential rain expected by midnight.

Of course. Why not? Let’s all wait until the sky starts snarling before we warn people.

I shook my head, grabbed a rag, and started wiping down the counter. This place may be my family’s, but it always felt more like mine. I was the one who closed up. I was the one who memorized recipes, who kept things running when everyone else disappeared into drama or comfort.

The wind had already started to pick up. I glanced outside and noticed one of the patio chairs tipping over. I set the rag down and went out to gather the rest of the furniture. The sky was a dark navy, rumbling like it had a bone to pick with the earth.

As I stacked the chairs, something across the street caught my eye.

A man. Or rather, a wall of a man, standing at the bus stop like he wasn't supposed to be there. He had his back to me, dressed in a dark coat, tailored to a form that looked too broad and too commanding to be ordinary. He kept checking his watch, then glancing at his phone like both had betrayed him. His posture was stiff, like patience wasn’t in his vocabulary. And then the sky broke open.

Rain came down like it was furious, unapologetic and loud. I squealed and ducked back under the restaurant awning, but the man didn’t move. He just stood there, completely exposed, drenched within seconds. Why was he standing there like the rain didn't bother him? Or he expected nature to listen to him and do his bidding?

I looked again. He was tall. Definitely over six feet. Six-five, maybe. Easily twice my size. He had broad shoulders, defined arms even under the coat, and legs that looked like they could knock down a tree.

I don’t know what made me do it. Maybe it was the weather. Maybe it was the exhaustion. Or maybe I was just tired of watching people suffer alone. I ran through the rain, my shoes sloshing, hair sticking to my forehead.

"Hey!" I called out, panting as I reached him. "You’re going to freeze out here. Come inside, we’re still open."

He turned around slowly, and I swear, I forgot how to breathe. At first glance, he looked terrifying. Jaw tight, brows furrowed like he was often annoyed by the slightest thing. His eyes were dark and piercing, their blue colour glinting like he saw through things instead of at them. A faint slant scar cut across his nose bridge from the side of his temple, down between his brow and toward his jawline, giving him a permanent scowl. He looked like he could command a mountain to stand up and walk.

But he was beautiful. In the kind of way that wasn't normal. Or it wouldn't seem normal if someone described him to me.

Still, he didn’t speak. He just stared at me with his cold, blue eyes. I motioned toward the restaurant. "You’ll get sick standing here. Come on."

To my surprise, he followed.

Finally inside, I rushed behind the counter, my wet clothes clinging to my skin. I pulled out a bowl and ladled hot pappa al pomodoro, my mother’s favorite tomato-bread soup, into it. On the side, I added two garlic knots and a mug of herbal tea. The recipe was one Mom made whenever someone was having a bad day.

Maybe he didn’t deserve it. Maybe he did. Either way, I brought it to him.

"No need to pay," I said, placing the tray in front of him. "It's on the house. Just... warm up."

He didn’t say anything and just stared again at me like I was doing something strange and bizarre.

I gave a nervous laugh. "Not much of a talker, huh? That’s okay. I can talk enough for both of us."

Nothing. Not even a smile.

"Storm caught you by surprise?" I asked. "It's the same here. Imagine I didn't see the news on time. I'd have to buy my family a new set of chairs by tomorrow. And Clara doesn't let that kind of thing go. Ever. Would you?"

He grunted. Grunted.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes and turned away, suddenly aware of how awkward the silence had become. I reached behind the counter for a towel to dry my arms, trying not to think about how wet I looked.

The door opened behind me. I didn’t need to turn to know who it was. The voice was enough.

"Miabella!"

Clara’s shrill tone stabbed the air like a nail on glass. Fiona followed close behind, soaked from the rain, and clearly in one of her drama moods.

"What the hell do you think you’re doing?" Clara spat. "Feeding strangers before collecting a dime?"

Right. Fiona must have gone to tell her immediately she heard I was giving a stranger the house special. "It’s just a bowl of soup. And I made it myself," I mumbled. "He looked cold. I was just helping."

"He looked cold," Fiona mocked in a high-pitched tone, rolling her eyes. "God, you’re such a desperate little do-gooder."

"He’s a customer," I tried.

"Who didn’t order anything," Clara snapped. "Do you own this place? Do you buy the groceries?"

They walked around the counter, invading my space, pointing fingers.

"He’s literally still eating. Can you at least let him leave first?" I whispered.

"Are you defending him still?!" Fiona scoffed. "You’re unbelievable. Always trying to play saint so someone, anyone, notices you."

My throat tightened. The stranger was still sitting there, eating, with no defense and no comment. Just silent sipping and chewing like none of this concerned him.

Of course not. Why would it?

Clara yanked my hair, dragging me toward the back. I winced and tried not to scream. I saw him glance over once. Just once, and then he stood, adjusted his coat, and left without a word.

Not even a damn thank you.

By the time I got home, my head ached and my scalp throbbed. I sat on the edge of my bed, holding an ice pack to the side of my head, breathing through the pain. I remembered the day my dad came into my room, heavy-eyed and smelling like cheap whiskey.

He sat at the edge of my bed and said, "I need you to help us, Mia. My business...the restaurant that your mother and I built together. It's slowly falling apart. I have this friend. He is a rich guy, but he has no wife. He can help the business if we’re family. You’d be taken care of."

I was twenty, fresh out of community college but not too fresh to say yes to a man I never met and was old enough to be my dad. I never met the man. He backed out a week later.

But that was the first time I realized that I was never a daughter. I was just a transaction.

Now, with Matteo, I had a second chance to escape. I would have a new life, and a name people respected. A mansion with no screaming behind closed doors. Even if it came with silence. Even if it came with pretending I didn’t see his lies. Even if it came with being invisible.

I didn't care as long as I was free.