Chapter 1 The Man Without a Face

The rain drizzled lightly over the city, creating a soft patter against the windows of a small café tucked away in a quiet neighborhood. The place was nothing grand-just a modest coffee shop with wooden tables, the scent of roasted beans lingering in the air, and a handful of regulars who barely glanced at newcomers. It was exactly the kind of place where no one would think to find him.

Leandro Castellano sat at a corner table, his gnarled fingers wrapped around a cup of black coffee. To anyone who spared him a glance, he was just another elderly man-gray hair, weathered skin, slightly hunched posture. His clothes were plain, his demeanor unassuming. There was nothing about him that screamed billionaire. And that was exactly the point.

For years, Leandro had been a name whispered in boardrooms and exclusive parties, feared and respected in equal measure. A man of power, 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 purpose, and it was never love. They wanted his wealth, his name, the security that came with being attached to a Castellano. It sickened him.

So he had disappeared. Not in the way the world would have expected-no dramatic scandals, no public goodbyes. Instead, he had stripped away everything 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 for one person: his assistant, Matteo, the only man he trusted enough to carry out his affairs while he played this ridiculous, necessary game.

He wasn't sure what he was looking for-perhaps a sign that there was still something real in the world. That not everyone could be bought with power and money. But after months of living in obscurity, he had found nothing but disappointment.

Until tonight.

Leandro's eyes flickered toward the entrance as a woman stumbled inside, drenched from the rain. She was young, perhaps in her mid-twenties, her dark curls clinging to her skin, her simple dress soaked through. There was an air of desperation about her, the kind that came from someone with nowhere else to go.

She hesitated at the door, her gaze scanning the café as if searching for someone. When her eyes landed on him, she stiffened. He didn't know her-he was certain of that. And yet, there was something in her expression, a flicker of recognition, as if she did know him.

She approached cautiously, her hands trembling slightly. "Are you Enzo Valente?"

Leandro leaned back, feigning mild surprise. "That depends," he said, his voice roughened with the weight of his disguise. "Who's asking?"

The woman swallowed hard, her dark eyes filled with something he couldn't quite place-fear, urgency, maybe even regret.

"My name is Seraphina Duarte," she said softly. "And I need to marry you."