I WAS ON A DATE WITH A STRANGER—BUT THE WAITRESS KNEW SOMETHING I DIDN’T
I was at a restaurant with a man I’d met online.
He offered to bring me my coffee. Just as the waitress approached, the cup tipped and spilled all over the table.
His face turned red with frustration. As we got up to leave, the waitress leaned in close and quietly said,
“I did it on purpose. He’s not who you think he is.”
I froze, coat halfway on, purse swinging at my side.
“What?” I asked, confused.
Without another word, she slipped a folded napkin into my hand and walked away.
I glanced at my date—Renzo, or so he said. Clean-cut, designer watch, polished shoes. Everything about him screamed “put-together.” But now I couldn’t stop noticing the way his jaw was tight, like he was holding something back.
In the car, I tried to keep things light.
“That was… unexpected,” I said with a nervous laugh.
He didn’t reply. Just kept driving.
When I got home, I unfolded the napkin.
“Google: Renzo DiLuca Sarasota 2019. Be careful.”
I did. My stomach dropped.
Renzo DiLuca wasn’t even his real name. The man in the articles used multiple aliases and had scammed at least three women in Sarasota back in 2019—promising love, investment deals, and a future together. Then he vanished with their money.
I sat there, staring at the screen, stunned.
How close had I come to being the next name on that list?
The next day, I didn’t text him. But he reached out.
“Had a great time last night. Want to do dinner again?”
I said nothing. Instead, I returned to the restaurant.
The waitress was there. She looked surprised to see me.
“I just wanted to say thank you,” I told her.
She nodded slowly.
“You looked like me. That’s how I knew. He found me three years ago. Same routine. I spilled the coffee then, too. His reaction confirmed it was him.”
I sat across from her in a booth.
“Why didn’t you go to the police?”
She sighed.
“I did. But nothing stuck. He used fake names, fake accounts. By the time I realized, he’d emptied my bank account and disappeared.”
Her name was Maribel. She’d lost $14,000. It had taken her two years to get back on her feet. She shared everything—how he lured her into a fake business plan, asked her to co-invest, and made her believe it was love.
I believed her. Completely.
But instead of blocking him, I chose to play along.
I agreed to dinner. I picked the restaurant—a public place I knew well. I brought a friend who sat nearby, watching.
Renzo showed up with roses, all charm.
“Sorry again about the coffee incident,” he said, grinning.
“Hope you weren’t too shaken.”
I smiled.
“Not at all.”
Halfway through dinner, I asked casually,
“Ever been to Sarasota?”
He paused, just briefly.
“No, never. Why?”
I leaned in.
“Because I saw your name in a news article. And I spoke to someone you hurt.”
His expression changed instantly.
I continued.
“She remembered you. Said you used the same name, the same lines. You should really try something new.”
He stood abruptly, muttered something about the bathroom, and never came back.
My friend watched him slip out the side exit.
I reported everything—his aliases, the phone number, his face. The detective said there wasn’t much to go on, but they were starting to build a stronger case as more women came forward.
Weeks went by. I blocked his number. Life moved on.
Then one night, I got a message on Instagram.
“His name was Luca this time,” the woman wrote.
Her name was Trini. She’d found me through a local women’s safety group.
“Your story… it’s him. I know it is.”
We met for coffee. He had used the same approach. Same restaurant. Even brought her the coffee.
But this time, we were ready.
We started sharing what we knew. Quietly, carefully.
A few of us created a private Facebook group. Women from different cities began telling their stories.
And Maribel? She joined too.
Now, we meet once a month—not out of fear, but with purpose. We’re not staying silent anymore.
Here’s what I’ve learned:
It’s not about being paranoid. It’s about being prepared.
Trust your instincts. Pay attention to the little things.
And when women support one another, we are unstoppable.
If you’ve read this far—thank you.
Please share this story. It might help someone recognize the signs before it’s too late. ❤️
