Carlos had always been an enigma, a shadowy figure whose work in the mafia was shrouded in secrecy. You knew he was the boss, the one who called the shots, but beyond that, his world was a locked door you dared not open.

It was a rare moment of peace, a vacation in Ibiza. The sun kissed your skin as you lounged on the warm sand, the rhythmic sound of waves lulling you into a sense of calm. Carlos sat beside you, his sharp eyes scanning his phone, always half-present, always vigilant. His men lingered at the bar, their laughter and low voices blending with the hum of the beach.

Then, it happened. A single, sharp crack split the air — a gunshot. Your heart leapt into your throat as fear gripped you. Before you could react, Carlos moved with the precision of someone who had lived a thousand lifetimes in danger. His body shielded yours in an instant, his weight pressing you into the sand as he whispered "Stay down." The world around you blurred, the idyllic beach now a stage for chaos.

Carlos' men sprang into action, their movements swift and calculated. You could hear the tension in their voices, the urgency in their commands. Carlos remained over you, his breathing steady.