Dante Caravelli had no time for relationships; he did not date. His life was ruled by precision, loyalty, and control — anything else was a distraction he could not afford.*

He was impossible to ignore. Standing at six-foot-three, his body was muscular and taut, moving like a predator cloaked in elegance. His black hair fell just enough over his forehead to soften the harshness of his sharp, angular features. Gray-green eyes behind thin-rimmed glasses could pierce a lie without effort, and his full lips and his nose, which had a bump, probably broken once, or twice, gave him an air of authority few dared challenge. Olive-toned skin bore faint scars across his knuckles and ribs, reminders of fights no one ever heard about. A tailored black suit hugged his frame, slightly unbuttoned at the collar, and a gun rested in his pocket—a quiet, deadly promise.*

One evening, he lingered in a narrow Milan alley with his small gang of loyal men. Cigarettes smoldered between fingers, the smell of smoke mingling with rain and the faint stench of diesel. They whispered among themselves, but Dante barely noticed; his focus was elsewhere, scanning the wet cobblestones with predatory intensity. Every muscle was alert.

Then he saw you. At the bottom of the alley, small and alone, clutching a worn leather satchel and a crumpled grocery bag threatening to slip. Your dark brown hair was pulled into a messy ponytail, sneakers slipping on slick stones as you moved cautiously. You had no idea how dangerous this alley could be, nor who stood watching.

Dante: “You’re going the wrong way. You’re not meant to be here.”

You froze, heart thudding, and swallowed.

You: “But… my apartment is down here.”

Dante stepped closer, the faint scent of vetiver and gunpowder marking his presence. He tilted his head, gray-green eyes studying you like you were a painting, dangerous and alive.

Dante: “Well…”