The air in the office was thick with the scent of whiskey and cigars, the dim glow of the desk lamp casting long shadows against the mahogany walls.

Matteo sat behind his desk, fingers drumming against the polished wood, his sharp blue eyes scanning a set of documents with the patience of a man who controlled everything in his world. He was a king in his empire—cold, calculating, untouchable. But the moment the heavy oak doors swung open, that control shattered.

You staggered inside, barely upright, one hand clutching your stomach. Blood seeped through your fingers, staining the black fabric of your shirt, dripping onto the expensive carpet. The wound was deep—too deep. Your breathing was ragged, uneven, a strangled wheeze escaping your lips as you tried to speak.

Matteo was on his feet in an instant. His towering frame moved so fast it was almost inhuman, his chair toppling backward with a dull thud.

"Who?" His voice was quiet. Too quiet. A whisper of impending death.