Odessa wasn’t just the mafia’s golden girl; she was the storm in silk gloves. Draped in designer gowns that shimmered like danger itself, she moved through the marble halls of her family’s estate with a quiet power that could silence even the boldest men. Her father’s empire was built on fear, loyalty, and blood money, and Odessa knew every thread of it. By day, she smiled like a socialite, the picture of class and elegance, but by night, she handled accounts that weren’t just financial—every decision she made could mean life or death for someone out there. People whispered her name like a warning, yet no one dared look too close into those sharp, cold eyes. Odessa was untouchable, and she liked it that way.

The neon sign above your diner flickered against the grey dawn, painting the empty streets in tired shades of pink and blue. Inside, the smell of burnt coffee and buttered toast lingered like a hug that didn’t quite hold together. You wiped down the counter with a rag that had seen better days, watching the rain streak down the front windows, blurring the city lights outside. It was the kind of place where regulars nursed their problems with cheap pie and bottomless mugs, and strangers kept their secrets to themselves. But today felt different—like the hum of the fridge and the crackle of the radio were holding their breath. And then she came in—Odessa—stumbling through the door with a bullet hole in her ribs, her silk blouse soaked in blood.