"Lad, you're late again! How many times do I have to tell you? That big man up there will fire you, my boy," Uncle Julian said to Enzo as he rushed through the door, nearly toppling the tray from a waitress's hand.
"My dear uncle, how will he know if you don't tell him? You love me, right?" Enzo said, making a pouty face. Uncle Julian shook his head and let out a defeated sigh.
"My, my, when will this boy grow up?" Uncle Julian muttered as Enzo excused himself to the staff changing room.
He changed into his uniform, which was supposed to tame his personality but failed miserably.
"Mamma mia, che bellezza!" Enzo exclaimed while checking himself out in the mirror. "I'm sure to get good tips today," he added, striking a pose. Enzo had light, curly hair that bounced playfully with every movement. His skin was the fairest of porcelains, naturally flushed with a soft rosiness that seemed to come alive whenever he smiled.
But it wasn't just his looks that made him unforgettable—it was his personality. Enzo was the kind of person you met once and never forgot, a whirlwind of joy and light-heartedness, always leaving a smile in his wake.
The shift progressed as usual until Enzo's mischievous side kicked in. He overheard a couple discussing a luxurious hotel in Portofino, Italy, where they planned to stay for two weeks to "cool down from the burden."
"Burden of being too free, for sure," Enzo thought to himself.
As he placed their black coffee on the table, his eyes caught a glimpse of a paper—their hotel booking receipt.
It was of a famous hotel he heard of. Well someday he might get to visit it.
At that very moment, the restaurant's bell rang, signaling the arrival of a new customer. A young woman wearing a headscarf and baggy clothes walked in. She caught Enzo's attention immediately. The world seemed to pause. Everything became brighter and livelier—or was it just Enzo's imagination?
She walked toward him with shy strides, her head lowered but still enough to glance at him. When she reached him, she softly asked for a table.
Enzo froze, staring at her, utterly mesmerized.
"Signore, sign—" she began.
Enzo still staring at her, couldn't pinpoint where exactly this fascination was coming from.
"Umm, yes, uhh, sorry, I was just… never mind. " Enzo tried to explain as the women before he furrowed her eyebrows. "Ma'am, what can I do for you? And uhmm sorry. By the way, you don't have to call me Signore. I'm comfortable in English."
The women before him waited for a second then as she was about to speak.
" Oh, I haven't introduced myself. I'm Enzo. How may I help you today?" Enzo blurted out nervously.
"Uh, sure, okay, thanks," she replied, baffled by his rapid words.
"I'm usually not this talkative. Maybe I'm just nervous?" Enzo tried to explain.
"Nervous?" she asked, raising a brow.
"I, um… What's your name, ciao bella signora?"
"Dalia, Dalia Lombardi," she replied, looking up at him briefly.
"What a beautiful name, Dalia. Would you like to—? Ah, wait. Were you crying? Are you alright, miss? Can I do something?" Enzo asked, his concern genuine.
"My seat? A table…?" Dalia asked pointedly.
Enzo frowned but realized his mistake. Of course, she wouldn't want someone asking personal questions in a restaurant while she was hungry. What a fool, he thought. Is it the way to hell or the way to her heart through her stomach? Regardless, he decided to guide her to a table and took her order.
Still, his mind wandered back to the hotel receipt on the couple's table. An idea struck him.
What if...
Like ...
What if...
He asked that girl for a date...
Like not a date date...
At that hotel...
Like...
What if...
Without thinking twice, he approached the couple under the guise of asking for feedback. He listened to their self-indulgent bragging, bowing politely before pretending to accidentally drop the receipt under their table.
With quick thinking, Enzo offered them a complimentary dessert and directed them toward the cashier, distracting them just long enough. Once they were gone, he snatched up the receipt and shoved it into his pocket.
"Ecco fatto!" he declared triumphantly. Heads turned toward him, including Dalia's, prompting him to shrug and flash an awkward smile.
Later, as a waitress prepared to deliver Dalia's order, Enzo intercepted it, insisting he'd handle it himself. He placed the order on her table and seated himself across from her.
"Um, hi. My name's Lorenzo, but you can call me Enzo. Uhh, so, I wanted to, umm, say something. Can I?"
Dalia raised a brow, visibly confused.
"I'll just say it: I think I like you. You look really cute, and I'd like to ask you on a date, Not like a date date but-" Enzo blurted out.
"Sir, I didn't mean to give you any wrong—" Dalia started, but Enzo interrupted.
" Pretty please! If you don't, you'll break someone's heart, and plus—"
"What do you want, sir?" Dalia cut him off, visibly annoyed now.
"II just think you look really beautiful and I could you know if I could like shoot my shot... just… I noticed earlier that you looked like you'd been crying, and I'd hate to see such a beautiful lady sad. Can I help in any way?" Enzo asked, his tone softening.
"Mr. Lorenzo, that is my personal business. Please do not interfere," Dalia snapped.
"Then, will you go on a date with me? I really seem to like you, and—oh, I have tickets!" Enzo said, pulling out the crumpled booking receipt from his pocket and placing it on the table.
"How is that any of my business?" Dalia asked, furious now.
"Will you join me for a little date at Hotel Belmond? It's really luxurious, and—"
Before he could finish, Dalia tossed her tea at him, her face a mix of anger and disbelief.
"Bella, wait! I'm sorry!" he called after her, but she stormed out of the restaurant without a word.
After Dalia left the restaurant, Enzo was called by his manager, who then berated him. He went on to mix his personal hatred with the fact that Enzo had clocked in five minutes late for the past week.
"Lorenzo, I took you in and gave you this job only because I pitied you. Why would someone hire a no-name like you with no education, no degree, no identity? The only thing you have is that goddamn pendant of yours and the name of your orphanage. Well It doesn't exist now! You should be grateful I gave you this job. But you repay my good deeds with this." The manager angrily stomped out, throwing a few euros at him. "Here. This is the pay for this month."
"You're firing me?" Enzo asked.
"You should take the money and leave peacefully. You know very well I can call the cops on you, young man."
"But—" Enzo reasoned.
"No 'ifs' and 'buts.' OUT. THIS. INSTANT. MR. LORENZO," the manager said, pointing toward the door.
Enzo picked up the meager amount from the floor and left. Uncle Julian looked at him from his counter, giving him a melancholic smile. Enzo waved a goodbye to him and the others.
"Goodbye." Enzo mumbled.
Enzo went to his apartment in Gavinana. He had rented a single room from a man whose brother had studied in the US. It was a rundown place, and his room was even worse—paint chipping off was the least of his worries.
After packing whatever little trinkets he had, he checked his savings. Three months of work had left him with just over 500 euros. The rest had vanished into old debts.
He had worked his whole life to pay off the debt of an unknown person—just someone biologically related. He didn't like to think much about his past. What was there to think about, anyway?
12 years ago.
"Welcome, handsome! This will be your new home from now on. There are many kids your age—you'll love it here," the matron cooed, her voice gentle, but it did nothing to stop the tears streaming down little Enzo's face.
"Grandma… Grandma! Where is she? I want to go back to her." His voice broke between sniffles.
"She must be waiting for me," he insisted, gripping the pendant around his neck. "She was lying in a beautiful, expensive bed. Why can't I see her? She must be well now!"
The young matron knelt beside him, her hands warm yet useless in soothing the sobbing child.
.
Enzo was knocked out of his memories by a knock on the main gate. It was Mr. Whittaker, the father of Liam and Adam Whittaker, who rented him the room. Enzo greeted him and invited him for a cup of tea. A chipped cup and coffee that wasn't quite drinkable were presented, and Mr. Whittaker politely refused.
Enzo started the conversation, "Uh—Mr. Whittaker, I wanted to talk to you about something. I'm moving out and need my deposit. Today."
"Giovane, that's not quite possible. As you know, to get your deposit, you need to inform us one month in advance."
"But Signore, we never signed an agreement. It was a rundown apartment sold off of our verbal agreement."
"This just proves you've been living here illegally. Would you like me to elaborate on the situation, Lorenzo? If you want to stay, sure, rent increased. But if you want to leave, you're not getting a single penny."
"Aren't you ashamed of keeping someone's money? Aren't you ashamed of your actions?"
"Oh, look, Mr. Righteous. Grow up, boy. The world ain't revolving around you. Wake up from your dilemma."
It seemed that the last straw holding Enzo in place was gone. The stability he had so wished for vanished in an instant. Now, he had nothing. Life had never given anyone a chance, and he knew it too well. Still, he believed he could be stable. He could be something his parents were. He could live a happy life—buy a nice house in the countryside and marry the love of his life. He would spend his days working and then return home to meet his children and wife.
Shattered.
Like him.
Without entertaining Mr. Whittaker any longer, Lorenzo grabbed the bag he packed and the little savings he had and left for the hotel.