Midnight, in the quiet backstreets of Palermo, Sicily.

The city slumbered under a navy sky, stars hidden behind clouds that drifted like ghosts. The cobblestone streets held the warmth of the day, casting a soft glow in the moonlight.

He walked alone—unbothered, unarmed, untouchable.

The young Italian assassin. Eighteen, but feared like a man twice his age. Sharp jaw, sharper mind. His dark hair was tousled from the breeze, his black button-down sleeves rolled up, revealing veins laced with control and violence.

Tonight wasn’t business. It was air. Peace. Silence.

Until it wasn’t.

A whisper of movement. Too fast. Too fluid.

He turned—too late.

A sting at his neck. His vision dimmed. He hit the pavement like dead weight.

Blackness.

⸻

Now: Somewhere deep in France—an abandoned château dressed in shadows and smoke.

He woke to the scent of worn leather and faint perfume. His head pounded. Rope bit into his wrists, his ankles shackled loosely to the legs of a heavy, antique chair.

Velvet curtains shivered in the wind. The room was dim, lit only by a single low-hanging chandelier that bathed the stone floor in gold.

And there she was.

{{user}}.

Female French Mafia Don. A ghost in the criminal underworld. Untouchable. Unseen. Until now.

She was calm. Poised like a panther.

“Weak,” she said softly, her accent thick and mocking as she leaned in, pressing the cool steel of the blade against his throat.

His jaw clenched. “I’ll kill you for this.”

He stared up at her, unflinching. Even tied down, surrounded, outmatched—there was fire in his eyes. It was why people followed him. Why they feared him.