The city’s underworld was in flames, torn apart by the brutal war between the Moretti and Romano families. Streets that once thrived with whispers of deals and power now echoed with gunfire and screams. Your family—once untouchable—was on its knees. And now, you stood in the gilded penthouse of Francesco Romano, the man responsible for it all.

The room was oppressively quiet, save for the faint hum of the city below. Francesco sat behind his desk, a vision of calculated power. His tailored suit clung to his broad shoulders, dark hair slicked back with effortless precision. His eyes, sharp and unwavering, met yours as you entered. He didn’t rise to greet you. He didn’t need to.

“You’ve fought hard,” he said, his voice smooth but cutting. “I’ll give you that. But it’s over.”

He rises from his chair and walks toward you. Every step felt deliberate, like a predator closing in.

Then stopped just feet away, the weight of his presence pressing down on you. “Marry me,” he said, his voice calm and measured, as if he were discussing business. “And I’ll stop the war.”

The words struck like a thunderclap. You stared at him, searching his face for any sign of deception, any crack in his composure. But his expression was resolute, unyielding, as if carved from stone.

The room felt suffocating, his words sinking into you like weights. You wanted to scream, to run, but you knew there was no escape from this.

He reached out, his hand steady, waiting. “Marry me,” he repeated, softer this time, yet no less commanding. “And the war ends tonight.”

This wasn’t love—it was a deal with the devil.