Author's Note

Hey guys!

So I was inspired after a suggestion by a reader to write sort of a prequel to my Elijah/OC one shot named Cobblestones of Rome. It's by no means necessary to read that to be able to understand this, after all this is the prequel. So this story will tell how Elijah and my OC Zorana met and how they fell in love. It might also be little bit AU, but this is how I envisioned their story. Hope you will all like it :)

Disclaimer: I do not own the Vampire Diaries, the Originals or their characters or anything that you might recognize, I only own my original character Zorana.

Rome. The capital city of the beautiful and unique Italy, a place that is home to thousands of years of history and culture. The city where you feel obligated to toss a coin into the Fontana di Trevi, only with the right hand and over the left shoulder so that you will return to Rome in the future – or so the legend says. Of course – if you want to – you can also wish for more luck by throwing in three coins instead of one. It is believed that the first one guarantees your return to Rome. The second coin that you throw into the fountain should ensure a new romance in the future, and the third coin is the one that is responsible for ensuring marriage. Those three reasons are primarily why you see tourists from all over the world throwing coins into the fountain, hoping that the legends might eventually come true. I was reminded of this particular ritual on a Wednesday as I was leaving my cappuccino date and I was walking towards my favorite restaurant.

Seeing all those tourists rushing to stand in front the fountain, pull out a few coins, turn around and then throw them into the fontana made me laugh at them and then at myself. I was once one of those tourists who were eager to see the Fontana di Trevi. I had prepared my three coins the night before I had arrived to Rome and had placed them in a small zip pocket inside my bag. I was nineteen years old then, a freshman at university and having had enough of my summer job, I had decided on my own, just me, myself and I to go backpacking through Europe for the whole month of July. Unlike most people who would spend months organizing a trip of such magnitude, I decided on a particularly boring Friday afternoon on the 27th of June at around three o'clock in the afternoon that I would buy a plane ticket and be on my merry way by that Sunday. And that is exactly what I did.

On the 29th of June, I was standing at the Budapest International Airport in line to check in to my 10 am flight that would take me directly to Rome. I don't remember ever doubting myself and my decisions as much as I had been during those 20 minutes that I was standing in line. Was this really what I had wanted to do? Was I, two goody shoes Zorana Milovanovic, the people pleaser of the century really ready and prepared to do this? Had I really thought this through? Had I really just decided to spend a whole month galloping around Europe with my sweet pink suitcase and backpack? Spontaneity was not something that I had favored at the young age of nineteen or at any point in my life. I had always much preferred to plan everything ahead and calculate each detail to the last bit. Yet there I was, standing in line at the airport, with all the money that I had received for my graduation that previous year and with what I little had made with my summer job at the downtown café. I had thought about turning on my heels, calling a cab and hauling my behind back to my apartment to continue my summer the way that I had planned to. I hadn't said goodbye to anyone, not to a single member of my family or my friends. I had left a letter at my apartment addressed to my roommate, telling her that it was time for me to make stupid decisions and to go and see what the world has to offer. And that is exactly what I was doing on that Sunday, making probably the stupidest decision of the first 19 years of my life. And somehow in my mind, between all those doubts, fears and feelings of discomfort and nerves, I had willingly handed my plane ticket to the lady sitting at the desk and said a polite thank you to her when she told me to have a safe journey. And thus, I had begun my one month journey around Europe that would ultimately result in moving to Rome two and a half years after my trip.

As I had mentioned, when I arrived in Rome with my pink suitcase, I had made no arrangements and thus had no idea where I would be staying. All I had known was that I would land at the airport and that I would have to figure out then and there how to get into the city center and find myself a nice and cheap hostel that would put me up for the upcoming ten days. After finding a cab driver who had seemed nice and decent enough, I had asked him to take me to a hostel possibly located in the city center and had also requested the man, whose name turned out to be Lorenzo, to direct me to a few places where I could experience Rome through the eyes of a local. And Lorenzo had done just that and spent the majority of the ride from the airport telling me about place that I just must to visit while I was in Rome. After he had dropped me off, I had managed to find an available room at the hostel and once I had unpacked, I left my hostel to explore Rome. Looking back now, two years after my first visit to Rome, I realized that I had missed out on so much. Although, I had gotten to experience most of what Rome had to offer for a nineteen year old tourist, there was still a lot that I had missed. That week was spent with getting lost in a city that I hardly knew anything about, let alone my way around it. I had visited all the famous sights that were reportedly a must on every website that I could have found about visiting Rome. I had tried authentic Italian food and had found myself falling in love with the country's cuisine. Ultimately, the Italian cuisine and food had been partly responsible for cancelling my plans to visit other countries and instead opting for staying and discovering the whole of Italy. Although I had never been more alone in my life than during those four weeks that I had spent travelling through Italy, I had never felt less lonely. I had forged friendships that, little did I know, would last for years. These bonds were made mostly by getting lost or getting on the wrong means of transportation.

As I was reminiscing about my first time in Italy, I found myself arriving to the restaurant where I was supposed to meet my friend Cecilia for lunch. I had met Cecilia shortly after coming to the decision to spend the month in Italy, during a train ride to Florence. She was a Finnish girl who had been on her way to Naples, but somehow had managed to end up on the wrong train. We had quickly struck up a conversation and after about an hour of getting to know her and learning that she, just like me, was travelling on her own I had invited her to spend the next two days in Florence with me. Little did we know then that for the remainder of July we would become inseparable and eventually make the decision to move back to Rome together two years after meeting each other. As I had entered the terrace area of the restaurant, I smiled at the waiter, Gianni, who had been working at the restaurant since my first visit to Rome. He greeted me loudly in Italian, the 'buon giorno bella' nearly echoing through the streets of Rome.

Gianni spoke English fluently with the typical Italian accent, adding a little e sound to the end of almost every word. We had developed quite an adorable way of communication since I had moved to Rome four months ago and decided to improve my barely existing Italian skills. After greeting me in Italian, he would switch to English and start asking me about my day and eventually his line of questioning would be directed at my order. I would try my best and hardest to answer him in Italian and when at loss for the words that I needed, I would try and describe the word that I was looking for. This way, we both managed to improve our language skills even if it was only for a few minutes each day.

I made my way over the table where Cecilia I would always eat at and sat down under the sunshade. I placed my bag on the vacant chair next to mine and reached into it to place my phone on the table, checking the time. I was about twenty minutes early for our lunch date so I pulled out a packet of cigarettes from my bag and quickly lit up one while signaling to Gianni for an ashtray. Smoking was a vice that I had developed during my first trip to Italy. I had seen so many people do it in this country and while I had never tried smoking before coming to Rome, I had thought that I might as well do that while I was here. My mother had always warned me against smoking, seeing that my father has been a smoking since before he had met my mom. She had seen firsthand how easy it was to get addicted to it and how difficult and time consuming it was to quit the habit. She had always said that it was in my DNA and that I would most likely get addicted to smoking once I had tried it. She was right. Boy, was that woman right. At first it was just a couple of cigarettes during our nights out, something to chase down the alcohol with. Eventually, my body and mind would request the smokes for coffee and after a heavy lunch or dinner. After some time, it became a method of passing time. I would light up when I was feeling bored, waiting for someone, reading a book or just because I had nothing else to do. By the end of my one month trip to Italy I had become a regular, smoking a few cigarettes shy of a pack a day, much to the horror or my mother. Once I had returned home, I had tried to quit several times, all the attempts turning into epic failures. So after a few months I had made peace with this change and had accepted it. Although I have managed to cut down the number of cigarettes I smoked in day, in the back of my mind I knew that I was nowhere near quitting. Also the fact that my friend Cecilia like myself was a smoker did not help my case at all.

Gianni had come to my table after a few minutes with and small glass ashtray and a menu in hand. He gave me a wide smile and asked me in Italian how my day was. I answered in Italian that so far it had been uneventful and told him that I would like to get a glass of white wine with my lunch.

"Very good, bella. Will Cecilia be joining you soon?" just as the words left his mouth my phone beeped on the table, signaling that I had a text message from the devil herself. Speak of her and she shall make an appearance.

Running late at the embassy, something came up. Raincheck? - C x

"It seems like it's just me today, Gianni." I told him in English as I proceeded to text my friend back, telling her that I will be at the restaurant ready to go if she needed any assistance.

"Alrighty then." that had become his favorite word in English. "What will you be having then, bella?"

He gave me an encouraging smile and I took a deep breath, preparing myself for the task at hand. After four months of living here, I had yet to improve my Italian to the level where I could confidently order myself a meal without tripping over a few words or making horrible grammatical mistakes. Gianni and I had been practicing that for the past month or so. Here it goes.

I blew out the air from my lungs and slowly began to tell him that I would like to have half a portion of carbonara with lots of a parmesan cheese on top of it and a half portion of pesto basilico, again with a tremendous amount of parmesan. After the main course, I told him that I would like to have crema di fragola and a large cappuccino with brown sugar only. As I pronounced the last words, I felt my eyelids close and braced myself for the correction that would come from my tall, tan skinned waiter. Instead I heard none. I opened my eyes to see Gianni give me a large smile, showing his two crooked teeth in the front and watched him place his notebook under his arms and gave me a small round of applause.

"Brava, bella. Perfetto!" he told me and I felt my own smile widen.

I, Zorana Milovanovic, had managed to order a smaller feast for lunch, dessert and cappuccino included, in Italian. Without making a single mistake. Well I will be damned, miracles do happen.

"Grazie mille." I finished my Italian and handed the menu back to him with a large smile. He left praising me and saying I was nearly a native speaker. As if, my kind waiter with your crooked teeth. As if.

As he left I felt my smile widen even more, if that was possible at all and allowed myself a moment of childishness as I broke out in a miniature celebratory dance. I felt like I was on cloud nine after my successful delivery of ordering. This is probably how Martin Luther King Jr. felt after delivering his famous speech – well, not quite like that but pretty much up there. As I finished my little dance of joy, I realized that I was still in the middle of a very public restaurant and in a very public place. I could feel some of my old shyness butting up its head, but I quickly dismissed it. This was a big moment and it as sure as hell deserved a happy dance and a glass of wine – or two. Letting go of my insecure thoughts and replacing them with more positive and confident ones, I let myself look around and take in my surroundings. As I let my gaze wander around the tables that were placed close to mine, I saw families with kids sitting out enjoying a nice day. There was a couple a few feet away from my table on the left, enjoying what looked like a spaghetti Bolognese, sharing as if they were the two lovesick puppies in that old Disney movie. I saw two women in their twenties, much like Cecilia and myself, having their desserts and gossiping animatedly probably about their love life. And then, out of the corner of my eye I saw a person seated on the other side terrace of the restaurant – I saw him.

He was the definition of tall, dark and handsome as he sat at his table with a glass of water and a cappuccino in front of him. He was on the phone with someone speaking slowly and quietly into the device. I took a second look at him after noticing that he was clad in a perfectly tailored dark blue suit, the jacket on the placed on the back of his chair. The sleeves of the crisp white shirt that he wore were neatly rolled up to his elbows; the top three buttons of the white shirt were unbuttoned as he continued on with his conversation. He had pale white skin and dark brown, almost black hair that was neatly combed back, shorter on the sides and a tad bit longer at the front. I couldn't tell exactly what color they were from the distance, but that dark eyes were looking at the streets, as if he was searching and waiting for someone to appear. He had probably one of the most perfect faces and bone structures that I had ever seen on a human being. His high cheekbones were paired with symmetrical features making him, for the lack of better words, look like a Greek god. Holy sweet Jesus, that man is beautiful.

Although I had never used the word beautiful before to describe a man or his appearance, it seemed like today was the day of firsts. As I realized that I was quite frankly staring at the poor man, I quickly moved my gaze to the packet of cigarettes in front of me and pulled out one. As I was lighting up the stick of Marlboro, I tried to let my gaze wander back to that god of a man sitting a few steps of a distance away from me without anyone noticing it. Tried is the key word here, ladies and gentleman. And try I might, I was noticed immediately by Gianni as came up to my table with a glass of cold white wine on his tray.

"Handsome man, yes, bella?" I looked up at him, giving him my best unimpressed look and then took a hold of the glass and took a little sip from the wine.

"I have no idea what you're talking about, Gianni." I answered in Italian, flicking the ash on my cigarette into the little glass tray.

"Well, he is an Englishman if you would find yourself having an idea of what I was talking about. Very polite as well, he always leaves nice tips. No ring on his finger either." And without further ado, my waiter turned on his heel and left.

As long as I can remember, that poor waiter had tried to set me up with each and every man that walked into this restaurant and who was just a fraction of the phrase 'easy on the eyes'. All his attempts were unsuccessful so far, mostly because those men were either married or Italian. And God forbid that I find myself casually flirting with one of those Roman womanizers.

However, I found myself wondering over my dear waiter's words as I allowed myself another glance at the gentleman in the midnight blue suit. He had just finished his conversation on the phone and was taking a sip of his cappuccino. I was once again mesmerized, literally mesmerized, by this man's beauty and had conveniently missed him placing his cup back on the table and lifting his gaze upwards. Our eyes connected for a second and I found myself nearly choking on the sip of the wine that I had taken moments before. Little coughs followed immediately, as the wine had managed to go down the wrong way and I felt mortified. Not only had this man caught me staring at him, he also probably witnessed me nearly suffocating on a sip of white wine. Swallowing a bit more of my wine and also my wounded pride, I allowed myself a second look at this poor man who by now had probably thought that he had a new crazy stalker. Day of firsts, right?

Just as I had thought that to myself, I found him looking right back at me with a small smile appearing on his face. Unconsciously, I felt myself smiling back at him before I could stop myself. His own widened as he slowly nodded his head in greeting, the smile remaining on his pink lips. Maybe he's not that afraid of crazy ladies. Our little exchange was interrupted as Gianni had returned with my lunch and placed the two plates in front of me. My lovely waiter had the nerve to outright smirk at me and my little smile directed at that man-god. My mortification continued when that lovely Italian man let out a small laugh at my antics and quietly murmured something along the lines of "no idea what I'm talking about, of course" in Italian.

"Grazie" I thanked him and put out my cigarette in the ashtray before reaching for a fork and my plate. Could this day get any better? I thought to myself as I dug into the deliciousness that was my pesto basilico with linguine.

My thoughts about that beautiful looking man seemed to have escaped my mind as I allowed myself to taste the food that was in front of me. All worries about wounded prides and mortification vanished as the first bite of my pesto basilico reached my taste buds. Before coming to Rome I hadn't been much a foodie, always preferring to stick to the foods that I had already known and liked. I was raised with tastes of the Hungarian and Croatian cuisine, which were quite diverse and just plainly delicious. I can recall distinctively about four different occasions when I had tried Italian food before visiting Rome. Looking back now, as a self proclaimed foodie I couldn't blame myself for not developing too strong feelings for what people called Italian food in my home. It really was not Italian food. My love affair with the Italian cuisine began in Rome and has been going strong since then. Cecilia often liked to joke about my adoration for the cuisine of this beautiful country. She would say that if it was possible, I would probably marry the Italian cuisine and make beautiful love children of food. She's right, though.

I was halfway through my spaghetti carbonara when I looked up for a fraction of a moment to see the man-god himself raising his hand and requesting Gianni's assistance. He's leaving already, I thought to myself sadly and not wanting to dwell much on thoughts of a man whose name I did not even know continued eating my carbonara. He probably has a girlfriend or a fiancée at home anyway. Who was I kidding anyway, a man that looks like that and dresses like that cannot possibly be single. Or if he is in fact single then he has to be some sort of a nut job, or just a few days away from being hunted down by a single woman with one good eye. Men like that one do not stay single.

A few minutes passed and I had managed to wolf down both meals and light up a cigarette while casually sipping on what little was left of my white wine. Gianni came about a minute later to take my now empty plates, asking if everything was alright with my lunch. After giving him an affirmative answer in Italian, he said 'very good' and left my table, but not before sending a wink my way. Okay, what the… hell was that? However, my mental question did not remain unanswered as a few seconds later I noticed my man-god – well not actually mine, but him nonetheless – standing up from his table, placing his suit jacket on his left forearm and slowly making his way in my general direction. No, no way. He's probably just coming over to laugh at what a klutzy mess I am for almost managing to suffocate on my own saliva and white wine.

I diverted my gaze from his advancing form and tried to find something interesting on the marble round table that was right in front of me. I quickly counted that there were exactly seven cigarette bums in the glass ashtray, three of which I remember smoking and the other four probably happened somewhere between drooling at the sight of the man-god and choking on my wine. However, I could not focus on the wonders and the contents of the little glass ashtray that was on the table in front of me. Instead, out of the corner of my eye I noticed a pair of long, suit clad legs and classic light brown colored leather shoes coming to a stop next to my table. A second after I refused to raise my head and gaze to acknowledge the presence next to me, a throat was cleared and I heard probably the sweetest deep voice address me in a perfectly accented English baritone.

"Pardon me for the intrusion, but I was wondering if you would be interested in sharing a dessert with me?"

Well, fuck my life and pardon my French, a day of firsts this is.

I would love to see and read what you guys think of this story, so please review and PM me. Positive comments, negative ones and constructive criticism is welcomed :) I would like to know whether you guys think that I should continue this story or not.

x, Lexi