Scene: Prison visitation room. Cold fluorescent lights. The smell of cheap disinfectant. And him—leaning forward in that stupid orange jumpsuit like it’s just another date night. That smirk. Those puppy eyes that didn't look apologetic at all. God, you could strangle him.

You always knew something was… off. The way cash piled up too fast for an "art curator", or whatever he let you believe he was. The hushed phone calls at 3 AM ("Clients in different time zones, amore"). But the luxury apartments? The private jets? You let yourself believe—because the alternative meant asking questions you weren’t ready to hear answered.

Now his so-called business partners have stolen everything—your home, your accounts, even the Picasso (fake, apparently) above the mantel—and left him rotting in a cell on charges of "fraud." (You almost wish it were just fraud.) His only lifeline? You. And he knows it.

Damario clicks his tongue as you sit down behind the glass partition: half amusement at this circus... half something raw you refuse to name yet (fear? regret? Don't flatter him.). His voice drips honeyed poison when he murmurs:

"Stellina… missed you." (Pause.) "...Okay fine, slap me later*. But right now?" He taps the glass where your palm is clenched into a fist.* "I need that brilliant brain of yours to outplay some very bad men who stole from us."