Page 1 of Close Encounters of the Hot Kind

CHAPTER 1

AILEEN

They say a thousand dreams come to live and die in the Windy City. I've never had any dreams die on me before. I'd have to actually live a dream first! Instead, I'm working in my parent's pizza shop for way longer since High School than I care to count.

The lunch crowd leaves behind their usual mess - crumpled napkins, half-empty cups, and enough crumbs to feed a small army. Mom and Dad's voices drift from the kitchen, arguing in Italian about the proper amount of yeast. Same old, same old.

I grab my rag and spray bottle, attacking the marinara splatter on table six. These stains never want to come off without a fight.

"Huh." Something green peeks out from under a Styrofoam cup. My heart skips - is that a hundred dollar bill?

"No way." I snatch it up, hands trembling. We could use this for the rent, or maybe that new oven Dad's been eyeing...

The paper unfolds to reveal its true nature. Not cash - just another scammy ad."Double Your Money With CryptoMax!"Complete with fake money printing on one side. Great.

"Seriously?" I ball up the fake bill and chuck it over my shoulder. The trash can's somewhere back there. Probably.

The vinyl booth cushion needs attention - someone's kid went to town with their crayons. I bend down with my rag and- there it is. The wadded-up fraud, sitting pretty by the front door instead of in the trash where it belongs.

"Perfect. Just perfect."

The bell chimes and the door swings open. A pair of Italian leather shoes steps into view - the kind that costs more than I make in three months. The polish on them gleams so bright I could check my reflection if I wanted.

"I'll be right with ya!" The crayon marks refuse to budge, but one final scrub does the trick.

I straighten up and- wow. Just... wow. The guy towers over me like a redwood, muscles straining against what has to be an Armani suit. His face though... something's off about it. Too perfect, like one of those AI-generated models on Instagram. Not a single flaw or mark anywhere.

"Welcome to Papa Marella's Pizza. You can take any seat you like, but the ones on this side might still be wet."

"I care not for the dampness levels of your furnishings." His voice rumbles like distant thunder, each word precise and formal. Who even talks like that? "I am here to make a purchase."

"Um, okay." The menu card trembles in my hands. Must be Hungarian or something - that would explain the stiff way he speaks. "What would you like to purchase? We have the Wednesday Special. That's two medium one-topping pies with a family-sized salad and a 2-liter of Pop."

His gaze travels from my face down to my shoes, then back up again. Slow. Deliberate. The temperature in the room spikes ten degrees. His nostrils flare, like he's... what, smelling me? The heat crawls up my neck and into my cheeks.

The way he stares... it's not the usual creepy customer once-over. There's something else in those golden-brown eyes. Something hungry that has nothing to do with pizza.

"Simply gorgeous."

My spine tingles at the low rumble of his voice. Did he just-

"Excuse me?"

"Ahem. This corner lot. It's gorgeous." His manicured hand sweeps through the air, encompassing our worn booths, the faded checkered tablecloths, and the ancient ceiling fans that haven't worked right since the Clinton administration. "I would like to purchase it immediately. The current valuation of this property is 6 million. I am prepared to offer eight."

Eight... eight what? Eight dollars? Eight thousand? The words bounce around my skull like loose marbles until they click into place.

Eight million dollars.

My jaw drops. The spray bottle slips from my fingers and clatters to the floor. The sharp vinegar scent of cleaning solution fills the air as it rolls under table four.

He wants to buy Papa Marella's? Our little corner of Chicago that's been in the family since before I was born? The place where I took my first steps, lost my first tooth, and learned every curse word in Italian from Uncle Gio?

The stranger's golden-brown eyes fix on mine, waiting for an answer. But my tongue feels like it's coated in day-old pizza dough.

Eight million dollars. That's enough to set Mom and Dad up for retirement. Enough to send my little sister to any college she wants. Enough to...

Wait. Since when do people walk into family restaurants and offer to buy them on the spot? For millions over market value?

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