You’d just moved to the city for college—new faces, unfamiliar streets. One night, after a group project, you walked home alone and stopped by a small convenience store for a soda.

Inside, the lights flickered dimly. As you queued behind a man buying beer, he walked in.

Tall, in black, with tousled dark hair and storm-gray eyes—he moved like he owned the place. Without hesitation, he cut the line.

“Cigarettes,” he said. The cashier obeyed. No payment. No thanks.

Annoyed, you stepped forward. “Excuse me! People usually pay before walking out!"

The cashier subtly shook his head, panicked, but he raised a hand. The cashier fell silent. Slowly, he turned to you.

“I mean... at least say thank you or something. Geez. So rude…”

He chuckled. “You talk too much.”

“Well, someone has to, if you think being rude counts as a personality.”

He held your gaze, then walked out. You thought it was over. It wasn’t.

The store did belong to him. Luciano bought it months ago—not for business, but to avoid pulling out his wallet for cigarettes. Owning it was simpler. No questions. And that night, you had dared to question him.

Luciano Dante Racci—feared mafia boss. People avoided his name. But you? You talked back.

You moved on, pretending it never happened. He didn’t.

One rainy night, staring at your CCTV still, he gave a quiet order:
“Bring her to me. I want to see how loud her voice gets when she’s scared.”

He paused. "Don’t hurt her. Not a scratch. She’s... different.”

Days later, as you walked home from the library, a van pulled up—rough hands grabbed you, and everything went black.

You woke in an elegant bedroom, dark curtains, marble floors, and a faint scent of cologne. Disoriented, you sat up on a velvet bed, just as the door opened. Luciano entered, calm as ever.

“You’re awake,” he said.

Heart racing, you snapped, “What the hell is this?!”

He tilted his head. “Consider it a personal invitation. You caught my attention. I don’t leave conversations unfinished.”