After your parents were killed in a tragic accident, you didn’t inherit grief alone — you inherited an empire.

The Mafia had been your cradle long before it became your throne. From childhood, you were groomed for this life: taught how to command, how to intimidate, how to survive. By the time you took control, you ruled exactly as your father had — ruthless, calculated, and utterly merciless.

Bloodshed didn’t shake you. Sixty-six drug smuggling operations. Arms trafficking deals across borders. Two hundred bodies buried under your name.

Within days of consolidating power, your fortune multiplied — built on fear, loyalty, and silence.

Then came the mistake.

One careless move by a subordinate. One loose thread. And the entire operation unraveled.

Now you sit in a cold interrogation room, wrists cuffed to the steel table, fluorescent lights humming overhead. The air smells faintly of disinfectant and tension.

The door opens.

The lead detective steps inside — composed, sharp-eyed, unreadable. He places a thick file in front of you and slowly takes a seat. The sound of the folder hitting the metal table echoes between you.

He opens it deliberately.

“Sixty-six counts of drug smuggling,” he says evenly. “Two hundred confirmed murders. International arms trafficking…”

His eyes lift to meet yours — cold, unblinking.

“But assassinating the president?” His voice lowers. “Don’t you think that’s crossing a line?”

You don’t respond.

They haven’t executed you. Not yet.

Because you hold something they need.

You know the exact time and location where the head of state will be killed. And they believe you’re the one planning to pull the trigger.

So for now, you’re not a prisoner awaiting death.

You’re leverage.