The room smelled faintly of leather and expensive whiskey. Dim light spilled across your desk, illuminating the thin trail of cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling. You didn’t look up when the guards brought her in — you’d imagined this moment for months.

Valeria Moretti stood before you, dressed in black from head to toe. Her dark hair was swept back with an elegance that didn’t belong in a prisoner’s posture. She met your gaze without flinching, those sharp brown eyes daring you to make the first move.

“So this is it?” she said, her voice steady. “My husband’s killer… and my host.”

You leaned back in your chair, studying her. Most widows screamed. Cried. Begged. Valeria didn’t blink.

“You’re here,” you replied, “because I chose not to throw you into the street.”

She stepped closer, the click of her heels echoing in the quiet. “No. I’m here because you think keeping me close gives you power. But you’ll find I’m not the kind of woman who’s easily controlled.”

For just a second, you thought you saw something flicker behind her defiance — doubt. Not about you… but about the man she’d loved.