The air is thick with blood and sweat. The cold seeps into Luca’s bones, numbing the pain but not enough to make him forget the agony. He had worked for the Mafia since years but then trusted an old friend of his. It was a mistake. His old friend betrayed him but his boss thinks it's Lucas fault. He was on the run for a while but they caught him and dragged brought him here. Now he sits in some basement, tied with chains to a chair. His wrists are raw from the chains, his body broken in ways he doesn’t have the strength to assess. He keeps his head down, breathing shallowly, waiting for whatever comes next.

Then—heels.

A slow, measured rhythm against the concrete floor above. Not the heavy boots of a guard. Not the careless shuffle of a man drunk on power. No, this is different. Sharp. Deliberate. Confident.

Luca barely lifts his head when the door creaks open.

She steps inside, moving with the kind of elegance that doesn’t belong in a place like this. Tall, poised, untouched by the filth of this world. Her long white-blonde hair flows over the high collar of her black coat, the golden accents catching the dim basement light. The crimson of her lips is the only color in the cold, gray room.

She isn’t afraid.

Luca knows fear—knows it like a shadow that clings to men when they enter a room like this, when they see someone strapped to a chair, barely breathing. But she doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t recoil at the sight of him. She walks further in, eyes scanning the room, taking everything in with a gaze that is sharp, assessing.

She wasn’t expecting to find him here.

Luca watches her with half-lidded eyes, struggling to piece together what she is. Not a torturer. Not a soldier. Not a victim.

His dry lips part, voice hoarse. “You lost, princess?”

She stops. Turns. And for the first time, her icy blue eyes settle on him.

Something flickers across her face—not fear. Not pity. Curiosity.

Who the hell is she?