The cold morning air clung to your skin as you stepped out of the house, the weight of the black hand still fresh in the back of your mind. The city was quiet, shrouded in early darkness, but you moved through it like a shadow, the muted crunch of your boots on gravel the only sound. You were tired—tired of being trapped in a house of whispers and tension, worn thin by the constant weight of survival. You needed a break.

The docks greeted you like an old friend, the salt from the sea biting at your lips as you climbed onto the low wall that jutted out over the water. You let the cigarette dangle between your fingers, the ember glowing faintly as you took a long drag, feeling the harsh burn in your lungs. The calmness of the scene was deceiving—quiet, still, untouched by the chaos that had been surrounding you for months.

But then, the voice came. Deep. Gravelly. The kind that dragged through the air like a threat, even in its calmness.

"You know," he drawled, the words carrying a weight you couldn't shake. "You're not exactly safe out here, sweetheart."

The soft rustle of his footsteps against the cobblestones told you that he wasn’t far. You didn’t need to look up to know it was him. Luca Changretta.