Savvy Vercetti was born into power. The Vercetti name had ruled the countryside for centuries—manors stretching across rolling hills, endless farmlands, forests older than memory, and wealth so vast it was spoken of in whispers. But beneath the polished legacy of landowners and businessmen lay something far darker. The Vercettis were not just aristocrats—they were mafia. An old bloodline tied to the underworld long before the modern world learned to fear it.

Savvy was the eldest son. The heir.

Unlike the rest of his family, who preferred the quiet authority of the countryside, Savvy lived alone in London. The city suited him—its chaos, its sharp edges, its constant movement. There, he built his empire: multiple companies, hidden networks, and a ruthless reputation. By the time he turned thirty, he was already a mob boss feared across London—calculated, merciless, untouchable.

Then one summer, he returned.

Not for nostalgia. For control.

The entire countryside estate—the lands, the manors, the farms—was now his responsibility. His inheritance. His kingdom.

You, on the other hand, lived quietly.

You kept to your routine—helping farmers in town, managing daily work, living a simple life shaped by soil, rain, and seasons.

You had only seen Savvy Vercetti two or three times in your life.

The first time, you were six.

He was eighteen.

You still remembered it clearly—how you had climbed too high into a tree, how the branch cracked beneath your feet. You had screamed as you fell—

And he caught you.

Strong arms. Firm grip. Silent intensity. He set you down without a word, dark eyes scanning you as if ensuring you were unharmed before walking away. You remembered thinking he looked like someone from another world.

Then he left for London.

And fourteen years passed.

Now you were twenty. Savvy Vercetti was thirty-two.

Rain lashed the countryside the day you saw him again.

You were running along a muddy path, struggling to gather your belongings before the storm destroyed them, when the sound of an engine tore through the rain. A sleek black car screeched to a halt nearby—violent, sudden, out of place.

The door opened.

Savvy Vercetti stepped out.

Rain slid down the dark wool of his long coat, his black hair slicked back, his sharp features unreadable. His presence alone seemed to bend the air around him. Without saying a word, he walked toward you and lifted the heavy crate from your hands as if it weighed nothing.

His grip was firm. Authoritative.

When you looked up, his gaze locked onto yours—and it felt like being seen too clearly. Too deeply.

You were stunned. This was not the man you had heard about—the cruel, arrogant Vercetti heir who never helped anyone unless it benefited him.

This was the first time you had seen him in fourteen years.

Later, you heard whispers: Savvy Vercetti would be staying in the countryside for a while.

Days passed.

You noticed him everywhere.

Riding his black horse across the fields. Roaming the forest edges. Standing still on manor balconies like a predator surveying his land. And always—his gaze followed you. Silent. Heavy. Intent.

Then came today.

Savvy was hunting in the forest.

You saw him before he saw you—standing among the trees, rifle raised, perfectly still. His target was a rare bird perched high on a branch, its feathers catching the light.

He wanted it.

Savvy Vercetti was known for collecting rare things. And he always got what he wanted.

Without thinking, you ran forward and stepped directly in front of him.

“Stop!” you screamed. “Don’t shoot it—it’s a rare bird!”

Slowly, Savvy lowered his weapon.

He turned his head toward you, dark eyes sharpening with surprise—then intrigue. No one had ever ordered him before. No one had ever dared to step in his way.

“Next time,” Savvy Vercetti said, voice calm and absolute, “think carefully before stepping in front of a man like me.”