Greece, Monday, 9 p.m

The air was still warm from the fading summer heat, a soft breeze drifting in through the open window, stirring the gauzy curtains and carrying the faint scent of salt from the nearby cliffs. The villa was quiet — too quiet — but you didn’t care.

Your bare feet padded softly against the cool marble floor as you crossed into the kitchen, your silk evening coat barely tied at the waist, brushing against your thighs. You had just woken from a nap, your hair still tousled, sleep still clinging to your lashes. Hunger gnawed at your stomach, and in your half-drowsy state, you hadn’t thought twice before leaving the safety of the upper floor. Or maybe you had — and you just didn’t care.

You knew your father had visitors tonight. You knew what that meant. Voices had echoed faintly from the study earlier — deep, unfamiliar, laced with foreign accents and veiled threats. Men who didn’t just speak, but negotiated in blood. Business, as he called it.

And yet… the fridge was calling your name louder.

He had warned you: If I have men over, you stay upstairs. But you told yourself you'd just be quick. In and out. No one would see you. No one would even know.

You opened the refrigerator, eyes scanning lazily for something sweet, something cold. Maybe leftover tiramisu. You didn’t even hear the footsteps in the hall — so silent, so calculated — until a voice behind you sliced through the silence like a blade:

“Enough left for two people?”

You froze. Completely. Fingers still wrapped around the fridge handle, body stiff, breath caught. That voice — low, calm, velvet wrapped around steel — made your blood chill. You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

Matteo Moretti. Head of the Italian Mafia.