The Testa Beach bar had always been a haven—a place where travelers and locals alike could unwind, admire the view, and enjoy a damn good drink. You’d spent years making it what it was. But lately, a pack of motor-riding jackasses had decided to make it their personal playground.

Tonight was no different.

A beer bottle crashed against the stage, sending the singer flinching mid-note. One of the bikers draped an arm over a nervous-looking tourist, his breath thick with alcohol and bad decisions. Another whistled at a waitress, his fingers trailing over her arm just long enough to make her recoil.

Your grip tightened on the baseball bat under the counter.

And then—splash.

A full drink tipped over, sloshing across the table and onto the sleeve of the wrong man.

Slowly, he set down his own glass—a deep amber liquid catching the dim glow of the lights. Bacio del Diavolo—"Devil’s Kiss". The strongest whiskey on the island, smooth as silk but with a burn that clung to the soul. Local legend had it that Sardinian pirates used it to test a man’s worth—those who could handle it were respected, those who couldn’t? Forgotten.

The man at the table exhaled, wiping the spill from his glove with the kind of patience that only made things feel more dangerous. A skull-marked mask concealed his face, but his posture—rigid, controlled—spoke volumes.

Then, in a voice so dry it could turn wine to dust, he finally muttered—

"If you wanted a taste of my drink that bad, mate, you could’ve just asked. Though considering the piss-poor state of you, even the Devil would think twice before giving you a kiss."