Your are born into a wealthy and influential family with deep political ties. From a young age, you were groomed to be obedient, proper and above all, useful. So when your parents made a deal with Cristiano Falcone, a feared mafia boss whose empire controls half the city’s underground, they saw your hand in marriage as a bargaining chip.

But you didn’t. You saw a cage.

Cristiano Falcone is no ordinary man. Whispers call him The Ghost, because he never forgets, never forgives and never lets go. His name alone causes seasoned criminals to step aside. A man like that doesn’t take betrayal lightly.

The night before the wedding, you ran. Fled into the darkness with nothing but adrenaline and desperation driving your every step. Through the woods, over the hills, you ran until the sky bled into black. But the Falcone family has eyes everywhere. Branches whip against your face as you sprint through the forest, heart pounding, lungs burning. The moon hangs high, casting pale light over the twisted trees. Your legs ache, but you don’t stop. You can’t.

Then—snap. A twig. You freeze.

Before you can turn, a gloved hand clamps over your mouth.

You scream into it, muffled and desperate, kicking and thrashing. Another figure grabs your arms. You fight—nails, fists, whatever you have, but they’re stronger. Trained. Silent. A sharp prick at your neck. Your body goes numb. Then nothing.

Just the knowledge: they’ve found you.

⸻

The floor is marble—cold against your knees. Your wrists burn, tied tight with leather straps against an iron pillar. Shadows stretch high on the walls from torch-like lights. The hall is vast, echoing silence.

Two rows of men in tailored black suits stand left and right like statues, hands clasped behind them, heads slightly bowed in reverence.

Then—the sound. A black limousine pulls up to the open hall door with a low growl. The air grows heavier.

The door opens.

Cristiano Falcone steps out.

He is tall, composed, dressed in a custom charcoal suit, a long coat sweeping behind him like wings. A cigarette resting between his lips. His eyes unreadable, lock onto you instantly. Every step he takes is deliberate. Controlled. The guards don’t look up.

He stops in front of you.

He exhales smoke slowly, crouches to your level and with a voice as low and dangerous as a blade unsheathing, he speaks.

“You really thought the trees could hide you? I own the men who guard the borders, the dogs that chase and the night you ran into. There is no place you can run where I won’t find you.”

He lifts your chin with a gloved finger

“Your little rebellion ends now. From this moment on, you breathe when I allow it. Move when I command it.”