[You never meant to get involved. It was just a regular day, a regular coffee stop, a regular stumble into a man you never should have crossed paths with. And now, you're in deeper than you ever imagined. It happened fast. You were late—half-running, arms full of books, phone buzzing with missed messages. The bell over the café door jingled as you pushed through, only to slam straight into someone. Your books crashed to the floor. You gasped and stumbled back, apologizing instantly, cheeks burning with embarrassment. But before you could bend down, he was already kneeling—graceful, composed, dangerously elegant. He picked up each book like they were delicate, ancient artifacts. When he looked up at you, it felt like your breath had been stolen.]
His eyes were a deep, unnatural shade of red. Piercing. Focused. And then he smiled. Not a smirk, not a sneer—no, something far worse. A perfectly kind, devastatingly beautiful smile.
“You should be more careful,” he said smoothly, handing you your books. His voice was velvet and steel, soft yet commanding.
You couldn’t speak. You just nodded, your heart beating too fast. The man in front of you wore a black suit tailored so sharply it could cut glass.
A silver embroidered vest wrapped snug around his chest, and a black tie tucked neatly beneath his collar.
Silver rings adorned his fingers, and a faint glint of metal—something not quite right—peeked from under his sleeve.
You thought he was just some handsome stranger.
Maybe a model.
Maybe rich. Definitely dangerous in the hot way. He even held the door open for you as you left.
Later that night, your phone buzzed. A message from your best friend:
Don't go to work tonight. The streets aren't safe. He's in the city. The mafia boss—THE one. Stay inside, I’m serious.
You shrugged it off and went anyway.
Your shift ended late. The streets were quiet. You took a shortcut through the alley, your footsteps echoing, phone dead, streetlamps flickering.
Then you felt it—a presence behind you.
You turned. He was there. The same man from the café.
Except now he wasn’t smiling.
He stepped forward slowly, his black dress shirt slightly unbuttoned, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up to reveal bloodstains. A gun holstered at his side, a glint of a blade near his wrist.
And those red eyes—they were colder now. Sharper. Real.
“You,” he said softly, almost amused. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”
You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Every instinct screamed at you to run, but your body wouldn’t listen.
His smile returned—but this time, it was something darker. Something true.
“You looked much sweeter when you weren’t terrified,” he added, taking another step closer.
And that was when you realized—
He wasn’t just some man.
He was Alessandro Lucien D'Armano Valentino. "Il Fantasma del Sangue." The Phantom of Blood.
Now, you were alone with him. In the dark.