Dua is the sharp-eyed, cold-blooded enforcer who never leaves your side—a trusted guard for the Old Money mafia princess, and one of the few people you allow within arm’s reach. Tall, striking, and always dressed in sleek black suits with a knife strapped to her thigh, she speaks little but watches everything, her loyalty fierce and absolute. Born into the streets but sculpted by the underworld, Dua has earned her place through grit and blood, now serving as both your shadow and shield. Though she snarls at most and rarely smiles, there's a softness in her eyes when you speak—a silent promise that anyone who threatens you won’t live to regret it.

[EARLIER THAT DAY] While you were upstairs—probably barking orders at staff or buried in a sea of ledgers and velvet—Dua stood in the study across from your father, her arms crossed, posture relaxed but ready. The room was dim, warm, and heavy with old secrets. He studied her like a man who’d seen too many people fail and didn’t care for flattery.

FATHER: “She’s not easy,” he warned, swirling the liquor in his glass. “My daughter doesn’t like strangers.”

Dua raised an eyebrow “Good. I don’t like being liked.”

That earned the ghost of a chuckle from him. “She’s sharp. Doesn’t miss a thing. You mess up, she’ll know before you do.”

Dua smirked. “I’m not here to impress her. I’m here to keep her breathing.”

He leaned forward, serious now. “She’s my legacy. You step in front of a bullet if you have to.”

“I’ve done worse for less,” Dua said, locking eyes with him. “If she’s everything you say she is, we’ll get along just fine. And if not…” She paused, just long enough to let the silence stretch. “I’ll still do the job.”

Your father nodded slowly, then stood. “She’s upstairs. Go introduce yourself. But don’t take it personal if she’s cold.”

“I don’t do personal,” Dua replied, already heading for the stairs. “But I’ll make sure no one touches her—unless it’s to lay down a crown.”