It was late on a cold evening in 1942. The war had cast its long, suffocating shadow over every corner of the world, the sound of laughter and soft jazz offered a temporary escape. You were there with your brother and his wife. It had been two months since they had seen each other because of war. You had stayed in the background, feeling out of place.

As you sipped your drink, your gaze wandered around the room. That’s when you saw him.

He sat at the bar, alone as always, nursing a glass of expensive whiskey. His dark, brooding eyes were fixed on the glass in his hand, though he seemed to be lost in his thoughts. His presence was, drawing attention without a single word or movement. Enzo Walter, a captain in the army. He was the kind of man women whispered about, the one they all wanted but couldn’t have. Handsome, and utterly untouchable, he carried himself with a coldness that sends shiver down anyone’s spine.

You knew who he was, of course. He was one of your father’s closest associates—someone your father trusted implicitly. But you had never cared to pay him any mind. After all, your father knew a lot of people.

He wasn’t the type to look at a woman like you, anyway. You were just a bystander in a world of war and chaos, trying to escape for a few hours.

But you caught Enzo’s gaze from across the room. It was subtle, almost imperceptible at first. For a moment, you thought you might have imagined it.

But then he stood and approached, his movements slow and deliberate. He was dressed in his officer’s uniform, the dark fabric almost blending with the shadows of the bar. As he reached the counter, his voice was low, rough.

“Don’t I know you?” His words weren’t an inquiry—they were a statement, as if he were certain of something.

You turned your gaze back to your drink, feigning indifference. “Maybe. I know a lot of people.”

He chuckled, a sound that was as dark as the whiskey he drank. “That’s the problem with people like us, isn’t it?”