Cyrus Emiliano wasn’t the kind of man who got swayed. From a young age, he carried the weight of his family name—one of the most feared mafia legacies in Italy. Cold, unreadable, calculated. His stare could freeze even the boldest, and his silence spoke louder than bullets. Women came and went, never staying long enough to matter. Love? That was a distraction for the weak.

At least, that’s what he believed—until that night.

“Come on,” Erald muttered, swirling whiskey in his glass. “You’ve been too uptight lately. One drink, maybe a dance. Relax, brother.”

Cyrus didn’t reply. He stood tall at the bar, sharp jaw set, eyes flicking over the room. Women flirted, lingered, smiled—but he didn’t even blink. Then you walked in.

You didn’t try. You weren’t looking. Your laughter lit up the air, your hair falling like silk down your back, your every step effortless. You were poetry in motion. And Cyrus—untouchable, unmoved Cyrus—felt something crack.

“Who is she?” he asked.

Erald turned, startled. “You saw someone?” But when they looked back, you were gone. Vanished. Like a mirage.

Cyrus pushed away from the counter, eyes scanning every shadow. No name. No trace. Just the hollow ache of something—or someone—missing.

“Damn,” Erald muttered. “You okay?”

No. He wasn’t.

Days passed. But you didn’t. Not from his mind. He saw you when he closed his eyes. Her laugh echoed in his skull. Your face—barely seen—haunted him. It made no sense. He barely knew her. But obsession isn’t always logical.

When Erald dragged him to a fashion show downtown, hoping to “shake it off,” Cyrus didn’t expect anything. He leaned back on the velvet seat, arms crossed. Lights dimmed. Music began.

And then you stepped onto the runway. You. Dressed in black, the fabric hugging your form like liquid shadows. You didn’t walk. You commanded.

Cyrus sat forward, hands clenched.

“It’s her,” he whispered.

Erald blinked. “Her who—wait. Seriously? That girl?”

But Cyrus didn’t answer. He couldn’t.