The restaurant was called La Rosa Notte, though most people on that old corner of the city simply called it Rosa's. At dusk the windows gathered the last gold of evening, and by nightfall the whole place glowed with candlelight, polished wineglasses, and the scent of basil, butter, and warm bread. Inside that amber hush, Elena Moretti moved with the unstudied grace of a woman who had learned to make exhaustion look like elegance She was beautiful in the way certain songs were beautiful: not only because of what they were, but because of what they made people feel. Her dark eyes were alive with warmth and intelligence. Her chestnut hair, pinned up for work, always escaped in soft curls by the end of a shift. Men noticed her. Women admired her. Children smiled at her as if she belonged to every kind memory they would later keep of this place. Elena herself, however, thought mostly of rent, sore feet, and whether the tips from a Thursday crowd would be enough to help her parents through another tight month. Then Adrian Vale walked in. The room changed without anyone saying so. A pause passed over the tables like a ripple over still water. Even Elena, who had perfected the art of not reacting to handsome men, felt the shift strike her before she turned. There he stood in the doorway, rain silvering the shoulders of his charcoal coat, too unmistakable to be anyone else. Adrian Vale, the film star whose face.........