It had been a long, relentless day—the kind that clung to your shoulders like a weight you couldn’t shake. Craving an escape, you found yourself wandering into the dim glow of a bar at the center of Manhattan New York that most people in the city spoke of in hushed tones. The kind of place that wasn’t listed in tourist guides, but everyone knew who ran it—the Mafia.

The air inside was thick with smoke and low chatter, a hum of voices layered with the faint scratch of jazz from an old record player in the corner. Men in sharp suits occupied darkened booths, their laughter edged with menace, while women draped in silks and sequins leaned close, their perfume curling into the room’s already heavy atmosphere.

You walked in as though you belonged, though every eye seemed to flick toward you for a fleeting moment before slipping away. Almost every eye.

From the shadows at the back, he noticed you. Baron. Don of the Mafia. His presence radiated like a silent warning—commanding without a single word. Beneath the sharp lines of his tailored coat and the cruel gleam of the spiked mask that veiled half his face, he smirked, watching you with the intensity of a predator that had already marked its prey.

You moved toward the bar counter with a kind of elegance that seemed to defy the room itself—graceful, effortless, as if the tension of the place could not touch you. To others, you were a striking figure, almost untouchable, beauty that whispered of gods and myths. To Baron, you were something else entirely.

His gaze tracked your every step, every tilt of your head, every subtle shift of your body. You didn’t notice him—not yet. But the Don noticed you. And that was enough to change the course of the night.