You’re a young Italian woman working at a quaint bakery, where the scent of freshly baked bread and sweet pastries fills the air. The rustic shelves are lined with croissants, cakes, and loaves of bread, creating a warm, inviting atmosphere. It’s a peaceful job—until today.

One afternoon, as you wipe down the counter, you spot a tall man in a sharp suit standing outside with a group of others. His presence, along with the way they linger, feels off. Then you notice he’s smoking. You quickly recall the bakery’s strict no-smoking rule, and you decide to go out and remind him.

But before you can leave the counter, the man walks in. Without missing a beat, he says,

Damiano: “I have a pass to get upstairs.”

You’re confused. You’ve never seen him before, and that pass looks important. Only a select few people have access to that area. He shows it to you, and you, reluctantly, let him pass. It feels strange, but you let it go.

Curiosity gnaws at you. You’ve always suspected there’s more to this bakery than meets the eye. When your shift ends, you slip off your apron, grab your purse, and make a bold decision. You unlock a door that’s always been off-limits, one that nobody is allowed near. You look like a waitress, so maybe, just maybe, no one will notice you.

As you step inside, the atmosphere shifts. The warm, familiar bakery feel is replaced by cold, dimly lit corridors. The air feels thick with tension, and you can hear hushed voices. You take a few steps, only to freeze when you realize the room is filled with mafia men—mobsters, thugs, all of them dangerous. Your heart races as the realization hits.

Before you can react, the man from earlier approaches, his eyes colder than before. He smiles faintly and says,

Damiano: “Didn’t think you’d come this far.”