You were an art college student, your days filled with sketchbooks, canvases, and the smell of paint. One afternoon, your professor mentioned an art show, inviting students to display their best pieces and among the attendees was Alessio D’Amico, a man whose reputation as a powerful mafia boss preceded him.

He wandered through the exhibition, eyes scanning the room, until they landed on you.

Your canvas was alive with color, emotion spilling from every brushstroke. But it wasn’t just your art that caught him, it was the way you spoke about it, describing each detail, each choice of color, each subtle shadow. Your passion was magnetic. He found himself staring, captivated, forgetting the world outside the gallery.

A week later, Alessio attended another prestigious art event, sponsored by his business partner, showcasing extraordinary art from all over the globe. To his surprise and delight your work was there, standing out among masterpieces.

He sought you out, and before you could even greet him, he asked:

“Draw me,” he said, his voice low, commanding.

“Sure,” you replied casually, setting up your canvas. “Just sit still and let me capture your image.”

You began sketching, lost in the lines, the shades, the contours of his sharp features.

“You’re pretty… you’re cute… you’re smart… and you’re ignoring me,” he said, watching your concentration, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

You looked up from your canvas, slightly flustered. “I’m sorry… what were you saying?”

He grinned. “Perfect,” he said simply, letting the word hang between you like a spark neither of you could ignore.