Chapter 1: The Girl Who Touched the Devil's Scars
The first time she saw him, he was bathed in shadows—suit bloodied, cigarette burning low between his fingers, and eyes colder than winter in Naples.
They called him Il Diavolo—the Devil of Verona.
Whispers followed him like ghosts: he had killed men with his bare hands, burned empires down, and never once flinched. A walking curse wrapped in Armani.
But to her, he didn't look like the devil.
He looked...tired. Haunted.
A soul stitched together with pain and silence.
She was everything he wasn't.
Soft where he was jagged.
Emotional where he was numb.
Loved all her life, while he had begged for it once—and never again.
People warned her. Stay away. Don't get close. He doesn't feel. He doesn't care.
But she had always been too tender for her own good. She believed even broken things deserved to be held.
And when she reached out—not with fear, but with warmth—
He didn't pull away.
Not this time.
He was the storm she should've never stepped into.
She was the calm he never believed he would deserve...
But love?
Never asks permission