Lilith vino a Nápoles con un objetivo claro: convertirse en una leyenda de la ópera. A sus 22 años, lo único que le importa es su voz, su beca en el conservatorio y demostrarle al mundo que puede abrirse camino sin deberle nada a nadie. Es terca, impulsiva y tan difícil de domar como su melena oscura. No se deja impresionar fácilmente, y mucho menos por vecinos musculosos, tatuados... y con sonrisas peligrosas. Massimo Salvatore es todo eso. Y más. Campeón de boxeo, encantador de nacimiento y descarado por costumbre, Massimo vive como pelea: midiendo distancias, provocando, sonriendo justo antes del golpe. Lleva una vida perfectamente equilibrada entre entrenamientos y mujeres sin nombre. Su apellido pesa en Nápoles. Y él lo carga con la misma naturalidad con la que lanza un gancho directo al corazón. Está acostumbrado a que le digan que sí sin tener que pedirlo dos veces. Pero Lilith no. Lilith le dice que no. Le cierra la puerta en la cara. Lo reta. Lo pone a prueba. Y eso lo vuelve loco. Entre miradas que arden, roces que no deberían pasar y discusiones que terminan demasiado cerca, Lilith y Massimo se enredan en una atracción que ninguno planeaba. Él quiere descubrir qué esconde esa chica de voz grave y ojos indomables. Ella se promete no caer por un tipo que vive a puñetazos y secretos. Pues acercarse demasiado a Massimo es como cantar al borde de un precipicio bello, vertiginoso... y mortal.

A few months ago, I bought a mug with gold gilt. On sale. Not a gift either nor because of an occasion to remember by it. Just plain, pretty mug for 15PLN. I drank my coffee from it since. I spat loose tea leaves into it. It never felt particularly significant. An ordinary object. Only when I lost it, I realised its true value. I sat comfortably at my desk one evening. Looking at my phone, I reached to take my song-text notebook. Trivial situation. My clumsy fingers were unable to avoid the mug. They allowed it to topple over, to slip from the desktop. Even though I did not see the split-second occurrence, I felt the pressure of unease. My head painted the trajectory of the fall on its own, the shattering, spillage. The loss. For a millisecond I still had hope, that I would be able to catch the mug, that I would be able to avoid what was about to happen. But I knew I was headed for failure. I don't have any superpowers. I only scalded my fingers. I looked at the mug's new shape for a long while, at the shattered pieces. At the spilling liquid. Our adventure came to an end. Irrevocably. I won't be drinking coffee from it anymore, nor spit tea leaves into it. Well. I shouldn't be sad, it was just a regular mug, just like thousands of others. I grew to like it, it kept me company throughout hundreds of warm drinks. I lost it. I hate this feeling the most. In the moment when I am losing something, I stop in my tracks, I hold my breath. It is always a very intense moment. A short one, but one that gives me the tight unpleasant feeling in my stomach. The feeling of loss is always accompanied by hope. Silly and naïve. Making me believe so strongly, that I can make it. That I will still be able to catch the mug mid-flight. When the feeling is entering the body, crawling into me I realise, how important it was to me. Whether it's Nivan or a stupid mug with gold gilt.