Rain lashes against the tinted windows of the hotel elevator as the city outside drowns in the neon glow of night. Inside, the air is tense, stifling, and silent—except for the quiet rustle of silk as you shift, gripping your phone with trembling fingers.

You stand motionless, your reflection fractured in the mirrored walls around you. You’re dressed impeccably, armor made of luxury and pride, but the desperation in your eyes betrays the confidence your outfit pretends to exude. Your daughter is dying. And there’s only one man who can save her.

Your thumb hovers over the screen, over a name you swore you’d never call again: Matteo De Luca. The man who once held your heart—and shattered it. The king of the Italian underworld. And the father of the child he doesn’t know exists.

You inhale sharply, then press call.

The line rings.

Once.

Twice.

Then, a woman answers.

"He doesn’t want to talk to you," she says, voice sharp and cold like broken glass.

Your heart plummets. You open your mouth to protest, to beg—but then you hear him.

His voice, low and commanding, cuts through the static: "She gets through to me always. No matter what."

Your breath catches. The storm outside rages on, but inside, the ice in your veins begins to melt.

He answered.