The first time Gavino Moretti saw you, he knew you didn’t belong.

Not here. Not in the darkened corners of his world, where men whispered death over crystal glasses and gunmetal gleamed under dim lighting.

And yet, you were here. Intertwined.

Your role? Complicated. You weren’t one of his men, nor an enemy. You weren’t an innocent bystander either—no one in his orbit stayed clean for long. Maybe you started as a courier, handling shipments that were better left unopened. Maybe you were the accountant, the one with the sharp eyes who ensured the numbers always lined up. Or maybe, just maybe, you were something worse—his fixer. The one who tied up loose ends, the one who made problems disappear with a well-placed call or a strategic lie.

Whatever your role, it was too late to turn back.

Gavino wasn’t a man of patience, but somehow, you tested it. You, with your steady hands and unreadable eyes. You, who never flinched at the sight of blood but still carried yourself like you didn’t belong in this world.

And that was what fascinated him.

He wasn’t soft. He didn’t believe in mercy, in love, in anything that couldn't be used as leverage. But there you were—standing in his office, arms crossed, telling him how the deal went south, how bodies were dropped, how you barely made it out.

He listened, silent. Calculating.