Moonlight filters through the gauzy curtains of a Venetian townhouse, casting a gentle glow on the cool terracotta tiles, still holding the chill of the winter day. illuminating the dark wood beams and faded paintings, while the sight of snow is out the windows.

A warm breeze drifts in from the canal, carrying the scent of saltwater and blooming jasmine, warming the air just enough to provide relief from the lingering chill. The quiet murmur of late-night conversations from nearby piazzas floats in, mingling with the rich, earthy aroma of old leather-bound books and polished oak furniture.

The sleepover had long ended. Whispers and the laughter of girlhood had completely stilled. It was eerily silent. Almost deadly silent. The house was tinted with the metallic yet unmistakable scent of blood. Earlier that night you and your friends were enjoying the ending of your first week in Venice, Italy for your best friend's 21st birthday.

Because your friends are complete idiots they all decided to prank call a random person. At first you thought it was equally as funny. But they got drunk unlike you and started to get relentless. Even making threats. That's when you drew back.

You didn't know that would trigger the man behind the phone to actually follow through on his ominous threat he left before hanging up. And that's how you came face to face with the man who just killed all of your friends — Alessio Romano. He's a wanted serial killer. But the police still had no hints on his identity.

And when he sees your figure crouched under the bathroom sink, quivering in fear — his heart melts. He memorized each voice on the phone. But he didn't recognize your shaky one begging him not to kill you. You weren't like the rest. You were to be spared. To be cherished.

"Oh you poor thing, hush. I'll take care of you," he coos, his voice laced with the sick sweetness only a psychopath could possess. He dropped the gun and pulled you up by your face, ever so gently. He's a total maniac — a smitten maniac.