A Stranger's Bargain

Enzo stared at the lone slipper resting on the plush ottoman in front of him. He had brought it inside after she threw it at him. A single hotel slipper. 

"Well, she threw her slipper at me. Soon, she'll throw her heart. At least it's a start—better than nothing." 

A smirk tugged at his lips, but it didn't last. He slumped onto the oversized bed, four times too big for him, sinking into its luxurious cushions. The room was rich in décor, grand in every way, yet it felt hollow. Something was missing. 

Lifting an arm over his eyes, Enzo drifted into memories of his childhood—warm, chaotic, and full of love. 

"Brutto monello, sei finito nel fango di nuovo! Quante volte devo impedirti di giocare con la terra? Potevi almeno cambiarti in qualcosa di più normale!" 

"You brat, you got into the mud again! How many times do I have to tell you to stop playing in the dirt? You could've at least changed into something decent!" 

His grandmother's exasperated voice rang in his ears, clear as if she were right beside him. 

"Calmati, nonnina bella! Un po' di sporco non mi rovina mica, sono ancora bellissimo, vero?" 

"Calm down, my beautiful granny! A little dirt won't ruin me—I'm still super handsome, aren't I?" 

He could still see her defeated sigh, the shake of her head before she led him to wash up. He almost smiled at the memory when a knock at the door pulled him back to reality. 

"Mr. Rinaldi, you asked for a concierge?" 

Enzo straightened, shaking off the nostalgia. He was no longer that boy caked in mud. 

"Ah, yes—come in." 

Gone was the crisp suit from earlier; now, he wore a loose t-shirt and trousers, comfort replacing sophistication. 

"I need to know the best spots for dresses. I want to buy one for a beautiful lady. Also, reserve the best seat in your hotel for dinner. I have a few more requests, but I'll notify you later." 

Enzo spoke with careful poise, keeping his tone refined, as if the money in his pocket wasn't dwindling fast. 

"Of course, sir. Would you like me to write it down?" 

The concierge pulled out a notepad from seemingly nowhere, jotting down names. 

"Brunello Cucinelli… That sounds fancy as hell." 

The man finished his notes and excused himself to make the arrangements. Now, the real problem—money. It always came down to that, didn't it? 

Enzo dressed and left the hotel, wandering through Portofino's cobbled streets. He needed a way to earn. Something fast, something that wouldn't strip him of his dignity. 

As he moved through the high-end district, he caught sight of a scene unfolding—a woman dressed in what looked like diamonds from head to toe, screaming at a man. 

"You imbecile! How dare you cheat on me?" 

Enzo loved drama. If he weren't in such a rush, he might have stayed to watch the spectacle unfold. But he had more pressing matters. 

His feet carried him away from luxury, away from wealth, and into the streets where real people lived. The air grew heavier, the roads rougher. The suit he wore—the same one he first entered Hotel Belmond in—felt increasingly out of place. 

He had barely walked for minutes when it happened. 

A rag, thick and suffocating, pressed over his mouth. Strong arms yanked him into the shadows of a secluded alley. 

Enzo thrashed, limbs flying in all directions. His fists swung wildly, his legs kicked at anything they could reach. A lucky shot—his foot connected hard with one of the men's shins. 

"Damn it, hold him tighter!" one of them snarled. 

Another man, wiry with cold, calculating eyes, muttered, "Stop struggling, or I'll make you stop." 

Enzo's mind raced. He couldn't let them take him. Not without a fight. Not to wherever they planned. 

Then— 

"Hey! What the hell is going on here?" 

The voice cut through the damp night air like a blade. 

All four turned to see a figure striding toward them. 

"Walk away, friend," one of the men warned, tightening his grip on Enzo. 

The stranger scoffed. 

He stepped closer, his eyes flicking toward Enzo's struggling form. 

"Let him go. Now." 

The wiry man reached inside his coat. The stranger was faster. A sharp movement—a fist cracking against a jaw. The man stumbled back, groaning. 

Enzo took his chance. He drove his elbow into the ribs of the one holding him, twisting free. 

"Run!" the stranger barked, engaging the attackers head-on. 

Enzo didn't need to be told twice. He bolted, feet pounding against the pavement, dodging through the maze of alleyways. His rescuer kept pace beside him. 

The shouts of the kidnappers grew distant. The city opened up before them, bright and alive, indifferent to the chaos left behind. 

Panting, hearts hammering, they finally slowed. 

"You okay?" the man asked between breaths. 

Enzo exhaled sharply, the phantom grip of his captors still lingering on his skin. "Yeah… but I doubt they'll give up that easy." 

The man cracked a grin. "Then we'd better keep moving." 

Enzo gave a breathless laugh, flashing a grin of his own before taking off down the streets. 

___________________________________________________________________________________________________ 

The man slides a fresh glass of water across the worn wooden table. Enzo grips it, his throat dry from the relentless Portofino sun, and takes a long, grateful gulp. The cold liquid soothes him, but it does nothing to ease the exhaustion weighing on his shoulders. 

"So," the man leans forward, curiosity flickering in his eyes, "how did you end up here?" 

Enzo wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, setting the glass down with a soft clink. 

"Well… it's complicated," he admits with a smirk. "I was actually out to buy a dress for my future wife, but I didn't have any money. So, I figured I'd look around, maybe find some petty jobs to scrape enough together." 

The man raises an eyebrow, scanning Enzo up and down. "In that bespoke suit? You're broke?" 

"Stolen," Enzo shrugs, completely unfazed. 

The man nods in understanding, as if this answer makes perfect sense. 

"How much do you need?" 

"Quite a lot. I'm planning to buy from one of the rich boutiques here in Portofino. I want the best for her." 

"You've got big ambitions for someone with no money," the man remarks, leaning back in his chair. 

Enzo doesn't argue. He merely holds the man's gaze, offering no explanation. 

After a beat of silence, the man gestures toward him. "What's your name, by the way?" 

"Lorenzo." 

"Lorenzo…?" The man waits for a surname that never comes. 

"Just Lorenzo." 

"Ah, quite a cool name," the man muses, trying to dispel the awkward tension settling between them. 

Enzo takes a sip from his drink, then gestures vaguely at the man's attire. "And why exactly are you in those… well, those rags?" 

"You mean, why do I look like I don't belong?" The man questions. 

Enzo hesitates. "You carry yourself like someone polished. Like someone trained to be in the company of the elite. But your clothes tell a different story. Your body language is too controlled, like you're playing a part." 

"That obvious?" The man exhales sharply, rubbing his temples. 

"Just an observation," Enzo shrugs. 

"Well, whatever I was before, it doesn't matter now. I'm homeless." The man spreads his arms as if to say this is all I have. "I had a place. Briefly. But it's gone now. Vanished—like it never existed." 

Enzo stiffens slightly. 

"Vanished?" Enzo repeats, his brows knitting together. 

The man shakes his head, suddenly uneasy. "Nothing much. I'll leave now. Enjoy your hunt, amico." 

He stands abruptly, pushing his chair back. But before he can walk away, something catches Enzo's eye. 

A crimson envelope. 

The moment Enzo reaches for it, the man spins around, lunging for the envelope with a frantic expression. But Enzo is quicker, pulling it away. 

Rip. 

The paper tears between them in their struggle, fragments fluttering to the floor like fallen petals. The man's face drains of color. He stares at the ruined envelope, his chest rising and falling rapidly, as if he's trying to process what just happened. 

His last hope—shredded. 

"Oh, shit—I'm so sorry, man! I didn't mean to—" Enzo scrambles to gather the torn pieces, his hands moving frantically. One fragment catches his eye. 

A handwritten address. 

Hotel Belmond Splendido. 

Enzo freezes. 

"That's where I'm staying." 

The man lifts his gaze, searching Enzo's face as if confirming whether fate has just played a cruel trick on him. His jaw tightens. 

"You live there?" His voice is cautious, calculated. "Can you get me in?" 

Enzo hesitates, still gripping the torn paper. "I… I guess I could." 

"Can you or can you not?" 

Enzo exhales. "I will. I will." He raises his hands in surrender. 

The man looks around, as if gauging the weight of this moment. A flicker of something—relief, desperation, hope—crosses his face. He reaches into his pocket, rummaging through the fabric. After a few seconds, he pulls out a small velvet box and sets it down on the table between them. 

Enzo furrows his brows. "What's this?" 

The man flips open the lid. 

A diamond ring. A deep-cut masterpiece, encrusted with tiny diamonds that catch the light in a breathtaking display. 

"If you take me to Hotel Belmond Splendido," the man says quietly, "it's yours." 

Enzo's breath hitches. His wide eyes flicker from the man's face to the ring and back again. "You're serious? This is… this is real diamond. This isn't some joke?" 

"Take it to a jeweler if you don't believe me," the man replies, his tone empty. 

Enzo narrows his eyes. "What's the price?" 

The man exhales slowly, staring at the ring as if it holds memories too painful to speak of. 

"Pay me back when you can," he finally says. "Or don't. I have no use for it anymore." His fingers graze the edge of the box before pulling away. 

Something about the way he says it makes Enzo hesitate. 

"Is it right for me to take something so precious?" 

"Doesn't matter anymore." 

Enzo grips the box, exhaling sharply. "Alright. I will." He shoves the ring into his pocket. Maybe a ring is better than a dress. 

The man smirks slightly. "As for the dress… I might have some connections." 

"Connections?" 

"Lend me your clothes." 

Enzo blinks. "For what?" 

"I'll get you a dress." 

"How in the—" 

"Strip." 

"Wait, wait, brother, hold on a damn minute—" 

Before he can protest further, the two exchange clothes in a hurried, almost absurd process. The man adjusts Enzo's suit, straightening the fabric. "Wait here. I'll be back." 

Enzo watches as he vanishes into the city. 

Minutes pass. 

Hours. 

The sky darkens. The clock ticks mercilessly. 

6 p.m. 

Enzo exhales sharply, tapping his fingers against the bar counter. He has to be at the hotel for dinner by 7. 

And the man is nowhere to be seen. 

"Where the hell did that guy go?" Enzo grits his teeth, running a hand through his hair. 

Finally, he snatches a piece of paper, scribbles a note, and hands it to the weary bar owner. 

"If someone by the name-" Oh, he doesn't know his name. 

Shit. 

"If someone comes asking for Lorenzo, give him this note." 

The bartender, a middle-aged man with heavy eyelids and an expression of someone who has seen too much and cared too little, barely looks at him. With a practiced indifference, he takes the note, crumples it slightly in his thick fingers, and tosses it into the drawer beneath the counter without a second thought. 

Something about the casual dismissal makes Enzo hesitate. 

The entire interaction—no, the entire day—has been off. 

His eyes drift toward the door again, as if expecting the man to stroll back in at any moment, perhaps with an apologetic smile and some extravagant excuse for taking so long. But the entrance remains empty. The stool beside him, still warm from where the man had sat, now feels like an eerie void. 

Who the hell was he? 

Enzo realizes with a sinking feeling that he doesn't even know the man's name. He'd handed over his own clothes, taken a diamond ring from him, and promised him access to one of the most exclusive hotels in Portofino—all without so much as a proper introduction. 

What kind of idiot does that? 

A small, bitter laugh escapes him as he runs a hand through his hair. The absurdity of it all creeps up on him like a delayed punch to the gut. The stranger had been desperate—anyone could see that—but desperation alone doesn't make someone trustworthy. 

And yet, Enzo had played along. 

Something isn't right. 

And for the first time since their chaotic meeting, Enzo wonders if he's just made a mistake.