Black Coffee, Cold Eyes

The espresso machine hissed again, louder this time, like it was warning Ahaan that something was about to go wrong.

He glanced up from the steaming cup and froze.

There he was.

Matteo Romano.

The CEO. The face of Romano Tech. Known across Milan for his mind, his money, and most dangerously — his complete lack of warmth. The man had never smiled in a photograph. He was always in headlines but never in cafés like this.

Ahaan blinked once.

He had seen Matteo on magazine covers, company newsletters, even the huge screen in the lobby on his first day as a low-level intern. But now… he was standing at the counter of Caffè Rosso, looking completely out of place, yet somehow owning every inch of the space.

Tall, tailored, terrifying.

“Your order, sir?” Ahaan managed, gripping the edge of the counter so his fingers wouldn’t tremble.

Matteo looked at him, slowly. His eyes scanned from Ahaan’s messy curls to the name tag pinned crookedly to his chest.

“Ahaan.” The CEO’s lips curled slightly. “You make a habit of forgetting customers who sign your paycheck?”

Ahaan’s stomach dropped. “You’re... with Romano Tech?”

Matteo arched a brow. “You interned in Data Division last month. Didn’t last a week.”

He remembered.

“I—I didn’t quit,” Ahaan stammered. “I was just... transferred.”

“To coffee duty?” Matteo said, dry as ever. “That explains the bitterness.”

Ahaan couldn’t tell if he meant the drink or him.

He turned around to make the coffee, pretending not to feel that heavy, assessing gaze pressing into his back. He could feel it like heat through his shirt — like fire with no flame.

He placed the cup down on the counter with shaking hands. “Black. No sugar.”

Matteo didn’t pick it up.

Instead, he stepped closer.

Too close.

Ahaan’s breath caught.

“Tell me something, Ahaan,” Matteo said. “Why are you here? You graduated top of your class, didn’t you?”

Ahaan stayed quiet. Words never seemed to come out right when his chest felt like it was cracking.

“I’ve seen a hundred interns just like you,” Matteo said, fingers tracing the rim of the coffee cup. “They beg for attention, cry when criticized, and disappear the second it gets hard.”

“I’m not like them,” Ahaan said quietly.

Matteo’s eyes flickered. “No. You’re worse.”

He picked up the cup. Took a slow sip. Then stared.

“The coffee’s good,” he said, setting it down. “But you... you’ve got a bad habit of hiding.”

Ahaan looked up, finally meeting those cold gray eyes. “And you have a habit of breaking people just to see if they beg.”

Silence.

Then — a smile.

Not kind. Not warm. But real.

Matteo pulled a black card from his coat and dropped it on the counter.

“9 a.m. Tomorrow. My office. Dress better.”

Ahaan blinked. “I thought you said I was worse.”

“You are,” Matteo said. “That’s why I want to see what you do when I push you.”

He turned to leave, coat swaying with effortless arrogance.

At the door, he paused.

“Oh, and Ahaan?”

“Yes?”

“I like my coffee strong. And my men stronger.”

And then he was gone.

The door swung shut behind him, the bell above it trembling like Ahaan’s heart.

He stared at the card on the counter.

Matteo Romano — Private Office Extension.

On the back, in red ink, a single word was written:

> “Brew me something better next time.”

---

Ahaan didn’t sleep that night.

He lay in bed staring at the ceiling, heart pounding louder than the storm outside. It wasn’t just nerves. It was something else. Something burning in his chest that wasn’t fear.

It was... expectation.

The kind that only comes when someone sees you — even if it’s through ice-cold eyes.

Even if it’s the most dangerous man in Milan

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