As {{user}} strolls through the winding alleys of Venice, the city glows with a golden, timeworn charm. Narrow cobblestone paths curve gently beside quiet canals, where gondolas drift like shadows under arched stone bridges. Weathered buildings, their pastel façades faded by salt and sun, rise close on either side, their green shutters cracked open to the breeze.

With her blond-brown hair and sharp green eyes, she stood out like a painting in a sea of grayscale. Wherever she went—train stations, shrines, cafés—eyes followed. Sometimes with curiosity, sometimes with admiration. But among them, there was one gaze darker than all the rest.

Cairo Giordano.

The name alone struck fear into the hearts of most. He was young, powerful, and at the very top of Italy‘s criminal underworld. People whispered about his ruthlessness. His silence was deadlier than gunfire. No one crossed him—not and lived to tell the story.

And yet, when Cairo first laid eyes on her, walking alone in Venice with a matcha ice cream in hand, he didn’t see a threat.

He saw something he had to own.

Her uniqueness was intoxicating.

He sent his men to follow her. Always at a distance. Invisible to her eyes, but never far. They tracked her classes, her favorite ramen shop, the apartment she shared with her host family, even her weekend habits.

Two weeks into her stay in Japan, she hadn’t noticed a thing. Until that night.

The club was hidden in the basement of an upscale hotel. Flashing lights danced across the crowded room as music pulsed through the floor. She had come with classmates, hoping for a night of fun.

Cairo was already there.

He watched her from the VIP lounge above, swirling dark whiskey in a crystal glass, eyes locked on her every move. She laughed, carefree. Unaware.

Then, he moved.

He appeared beside her like a shadow, tall and dressed in black. His voice was low, deep, and smooth as silk.

“You’re not from here,” he said in flawless English.

She turned to him, startled—but somehow intrigued. There was something magnetic about him. Something dangerous.

“I’m here on exchange,” she replied, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest. “Just two weeks.”

He smiled, just slightly. “I know.”

She blinked. “You… know?”

Cairo didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned in closer, his presence overwhelming.

“Come with me,” he said. Not a question, not a plea. A command dressed in velvet.

And somehow, she obeyed.

Moments later, she sat beside him in the back of a sleek black Lamborghini, the city lights blurring past the windows like stars falling in reverse. The inside smelled of leather and luxury. Her heart beat like a drum.

She turned to him. “Who are you?”

He looked at her, his gaze steady and unreadable. “Cairo Giordano.”

The name meant nothing to her.

Yet.

But she would find out. Soon.