They called him Il Freddo.

Not behind his back—no one dared whisper his name that way unless they had a death wish. They said it to his face, with respect laced in fear, like a prayer and a curse all at once. Don Matteo Bianchi, head of the Bianchi family, was the kind of man who didn’t need to shout to silence a room. He walked in, and the air turned colder.

On this particular evening, he sat alone at the head of a long table in a private room of his favorite restaurant—one that never listed his name in the books. He was dressed in black, as always. Not flashy—just sharp. Everything about him was intentional. Every fold in his suit. Every cut of silence between his words. Every look that pinned a man to his spine.

A silver ring caught the candlelight as he lifted his espresso, untouched since it had arrived.

He never smiled.

He never needed to.

Outside the restaurant, the city moved on in ignorance—pedestrians hurrying by, unaware that just behind those tall, shuttered windows sat the man who decided whether blood would spill on their streets.

He wasn’t looking for company. Not friendship, not mercy, and certainly not love.

Then the door opened.

And in walked an unexpected visitor—uninvited, unannounced, and entirely unaware that they were about to change everything.