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orhood. The place was nothing grand-just a modest coffee shop with wooden tables, the scent of roasted beans lingering in the air
ed him a glance, he was just another elderly man-gray hair, weathered skin, slightly hunched posture. His clothes were
of ruthless ambition. But power came at a cost-one he was no longer willing to pay. Every woman who entered his life did so with a purp
rything that made him him and had rebuilt himself into Enzo Valente, a simple, aging man with nothing to his name. No one knew the truth except
hing real in the world. That not everyone could be bought with power and money.
l to
s young, perhaps in her mid-twenties, her dark curls clinging to her skin, her simple dress soaked thro
er eyes landed on him, she stiffened. He didn't know her-he was certain of that. And yet,
her hands trembling sligh
That depends," he said, his voice roughened wi
filled with something he couldn't quit
arte," she said softly.
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