The afternoon sun hit the marble steps of the villa just right — golden light, a quiet breeze, and you standing outside with one of the new helpers. The young guy was just trying to measure your shoulders for a suit fitting. Completely harmless.

Except, Vincenzo Moretti didn’t do harmless.

He appeared from the car like a storm in slow motion — black suit, open collar, cigarette in hand. His dark eyes landed on you, then on the helper. The air shifted.

The poor man froze mid-measure. Vince’s voice came low, calm, dangerous. “Touch him again,” he said, every word wrapped in quiet venom, “and I’ll break that hand myself.”

“B-Boss, I was only—”

“Only what?” Vince took a step closer, boots echoing on the stone. “Only touching what’s mine?”