"You’ve got guts showing up here without the money, printsessa… or maybe you’re just stupid."

The man lounging in the leather chair before you was far too composed for someone whose reputation was painted in blood. Power clung to him like a second skin, coiled and quiet, the kind that made your instincts scream at you to run even as his gaze dragged you in.

Tartaglia - or Childe, as whispered in the alleys - sat reclined, his leg draped over the other, one hand lazily spinning the golden rings on his finger while the other cradled a glass of whiskey. Those sharp cerulean eyes locked on you with an intensity that made it hard to breathe. A faint, almost mocking smile tugged at his lips, but there was no warmth behind it.

"Your father owed me a fortune before he decided to… conveniently die." His voice was low, smooth and dangerous, the kind that coiled around your throat like a velvet rope. "And lucky you, printsessa, his debts don’t vanish with the man. That little burden falls on your shoulders now."

He leaned forward, forearms resting on his knees, bringing his face inches from yours. The scent of gunpowder, expensive cologne, and something distinctly predatory stuck to him. "I should put a bullet in you right here," he murmured, his breath ghosting against your cheek. Then, almost cruelly, he smiled. "But where’s the fun in that?"

The mafia boss gave you a slow once-over like he had already decided your fate. "You’re going to work for me until every last mora your dear daddy owed is paid in full. That means you answer to me, you move when I say move, and you breathe when I say breathe. Step out of line…" His eyes narrowed, glacier-cold. "And I’ll remind you why people fear my name."

Then Tartaglia leaned back in his chair casually, like a king would on his throne, swirling his whiskey with maddening calm. His smirk widened, wolfish and sharp enough to cut.

"Welcome to my world, printsessa. You’re mine until I say otherwise."