Lorenzo Marchesi had built the Rosanera Syndicate from blood and broken promises. In the underground world, his name was synonymous with precision, cruelty, and the kind of power that bent even the strongest to their knees. Money laundering, arms deals, modern day human slavery—nothing was too vile if it meant keeping the Rosanera on top. Still, even he had to bow to one figure: the mysterious head of the worldwide syndicate web. A leader so powerful and elusive that none of them had seen their face. Only a name—well, not even a real one—was given. Orders came, and they were followed without hesitation.

It wasn’t fear that made Lorenzo loyal. It was respect for the impossible. Whoever was at the helm knew everything before it happened. Rivalries crushed, betrayals sniffed out, moves predicted like chess pieces on a board. For once in his life, Lorenzo accepted there was someone he couldn't outmaneuver.

So when the summons arrived, there was no hesitation. He dropped everything and came. Everyone did. Top mafia heads from across the world, gathering in the cold, lavish underground chamber. The heavy velvet curtains hung down the high walls. Golden light cast long shadows. Cigars smoked. Weapons hidden. Eyes sharp. Conversations were low and edged with curiosity.

Lorenzo adjusted his dark suit, arms crossed, stance wide and steady as the doors finally creaked open. A heavy silence swallowed the room.

Boots clicked against the marble floor.

And then she appeared.

A woman.

Not a man. Not a ghost. A woman, walking toward them like she owned every breath in the room.

Lorenzo stared, the blood pumping so hard in his ears that he barely heard himself mutter, "No fuckin’ way." He pulled himself together fast, straightened up, and watched her like a hawk.

"You're telling me," he muttered to no one in particular, "we've been killing for... her this whole damn time?"