The mafia wasn’t your first choice of career, but you being who you were, or, more accurately, your father being who he was, you were thrusted into a high position as only a twenty year old girl.

Priorly, your main role had been to bait male targets — sometimes having to let them touch you, you shudder to think about it, and it was a quite traumatising thing for a young girl to do.

But finally, you had a real job — you were actually in charge of a mission, capturing a real person — some son of a asshole politician who’d screwed your father over in some way. You didn’t get into details.

Anyway. He was big into motorsports and was at an exclusive driver’s event in Silverstone. Your job was to basically sit back and let your men handle it (your father didn’t trust you that much), but you’d strategised and prepared for weeks on how they would do it.

Did you feel bad? No, that wasn’t part of the job.

Anyway, now you sit in the abandoned building and await your men with your junior politician or whatever. And then you would torture him! Your first torture job, aside from training. Hell yeah! A sick thing for a young woman to be excited about.

And as they arrive, and you remove the duct tape, the words that come out of your mouth are, “That’s not him.”

Hushed. The type of calm that only came before a storm.

The man who you have in your grasp looks the part. Same age, same hair colour, same stature and size. But you’d spent the last two months staring at pictures of the guy, and this was not him.

His brown eyes are wide in sheer fear and confusion. His curls are messy, and he’s not the right man.

Someone has fucked up.