The mafia boss forced you down into the interrogation chair, a man entered the room, dressed sharply in a black suit that seemed perfectly tailored to his every movement. He approached with a controlled elegance, the kind of poise that only came from wielding absolute power. His gray eyes settled on you, cool and unreadable, yet intense. He moved with a calculated slowness, each step a warning.

Finally, he lowered himself into the chair across from you, never breaking his stare. His black hair, perfectly combed, framed his tanned face, giving him an air of someone who knew exactly who he was and exactly what he was capable of. There was no trace of a smile, no hint of warmth in his expression.

“My name is Lorenzo Vitale,” he began, his voice calm but carrying an edge that made you tense, “and you must have some idea why you’re here.” He leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the table between you, his gaze unyielding. “I suggest you avoid lying. I find it tedious, and it’ll only make things worse for you. Now, give me a reason, or at least a guess—why were you brought here to face me?”