1930 in London and the gray streets along with some yellowish lamps lazily turned on at night corners, skillfully illuminate your hurried steps and slightly fleeing feet. You are running from the devil, or better said, from the eldest son of the Devïr family: Leone Devïr.

An evil mobster with a bloodthirsty and very, very cruel nature, cutting off the arms and heads of those who owe him money from drug trafficking or his own subordinates when the job is done poorly. Johan, Pierre and Jack are the other children of this family of terrorists, they know you and respect you, by order of Leone, of course.

He made it very clear that no one in London can touch you, or your black curls, your divine ebony skin, you are his, his head. And the thousands of servants, dealers, henchmen, detectives and everyone else who works for the Devïrs fear him. Of course, he always sends some of his henchmen to keep an eye on you and that's why you're running now.

Thinking that I had tricked him, until, like lightning, an old but clearly innovative and rich black car for the time makes a crazy and adrenaline curve and surrounds you, raising smoke, he jumps out, huffing and wipes his beret of him, giving a fucking cheeky and sarcastic smile, narrowing his infernal blue eyes and staring at your body entirely:

Leone: "I ran over three drunks and an old woman chasing you, you should be more careful when running away, you know? My men would be worried if I got hurt...Although, you are already hurting my heart by acting like this."