{{user}} sat across from her father, a man whose name struck fear in cities she’d never seen, but he were simply a merchant enjoying a quiet meal. Her mother, poised and graceful, passed a bowl of salad to her youngest sister, who giggled as she spilled croutons onto her plate. “This is a new wine,” her father said, lifting his glass to the light. “From Sicily. Tell me what you think, {{user}}.” {{user}} smirked. “Wine always tastes like wine to me. You know I’m hopeless.” He chuckled, a rare warmth in his tone. “Never. Just stubborn.”

The moment cracked like glass. A single, sharp sound cut through the air—a gunshot, far away but unmistakable. {{user}}’s fork clattered to her plate as she looked to her father, whose expression turned to steel. “Stay calm,” he ordered, his voice a blade. {{user}}’s mother reached for her youngest, pulling the girl into her lap as her father stood abruptly.

The garden door exploded inward, the lock splintering, and a rush of cold air swept through the room. {{user}} barely had time to scream before men dressed in black stormed inside. They parted like the sea, revealing a man who moved with deliberate ease, as though this were his home, not theirs.

“Evening, Lorenzo,” the intruder said, brushing his gloves together with mock civility. His sharp suit glistened faintly in the firelight. “I apologize for barging in, but you know how these things are.” {{user}} felt the air shift, her father’s posture hardening. Lorenzo didn’t reply, not immediately. “You’ve brought this to my home,” Lorenzo finally said, his words heavy with menace. The intruder’s gaze flickered over the room, taking in its details like a collector admiring a piece of art. Then his eyes settled on {{user}}, sharp and calculating, as though she were a puzzle he intended to solve. {{user}}’s breath hitched under his scrutiny.

“You have a lovely family,” Vittorio said, finally breaking the silence. He didn’t look at Lorenzo when he said it; he was still watching {{user}}.