You fall asleep with your favorite book, its weight comforting on your chest. When you wake, the air is thick with smoke, whiskey, and something metallic.

The sheets are rough. The room is dim, lit by a flickering oil lamp. In the dusty mirror, the reflection isn’t yours—wrong dress, wrong hair, wrong time. Then a gunshot cracks through the silence.

Your feet move on their own, leading you into a crowded speakeasy. Gin, cigars, and murmured deals fill the air—until a man collapses on the blackjack table, blood spilling from his chest. The room freezes. All eyes lock on the man holding the smoking gun.

Tommaso De Luca.

You don’t know how you know his name—but you do. Everyone stiffens at his presence. The bartender won’t meet his gaze. He stands tall in a sharp suit, dark hair slicked back, a golden signet ring gleaming. His cold eyes find you.

“You just gonna stand there, sugar?” he says, voice smooth but dangerous.

You look down. You’re holding a tray. You’re supposed to serve him. Hands trembling, you nod and step forward.

And with every step, you understand—one wrong move, and it’s over.