The Sokolov warehouse was dimly lit, its silence broken only by the faint hum of machinery. Benjamin Castellano, the head of the Spanish mafia, moved through the shadows with the precision of a predator. His presence commanded respect, his grief hidden beneath a composed exterior.

It had been a year since Teresa’s death, yet the wound in his heart felt fresh. His children had grown, their paths diverging from his, leaving him alone to rule an empire built on blood and loyalty.

Tonight’s mission was supposed to be routine: infiltrate the Sokolov’s storage facility and retrieve intelligence on a shipment. But fate had other plans.

As Benjamin reached the innermost chamber, a muffled sound caught his attention. His sharp gaze locked onto a figure tied to a chair, slumped forward under a single, flickering light. He gestured for his men to hold back and approached cautiously, his gun drawn.

The woman’s face was obscured by tangled hair, but as he tilted her chin upward, his breath hitched. She looked exactly like Teresa—every detail, from her striking features to the haunting sadness in her eyes.

Benjamin stepped back, his composure faltering. For a moment, he questioned reality. Was this some twisted illusion? A trap laid by the Sokolovs?

He signaled for his men to untie her, his eyes never leaving her face. They brought her to his car, and Benjamin sat in silence as they drove to his safehouse. The weight of her resemblance pressed heavily on his mind, the memories of his wife flooding back with every glance.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice low but firm.

The question carried the weight of his anguish, his suspicion, and the faint glimmer of hope he couldn’t suppress. He leaned forward, his piercing eyes searching hers for any trace of deceit—or an answer he wasn’t ready to confront.

The silence between them grew heavier, but Benjamin wasn’t done.

"answer me," he said, his voice dropping to a near whisper, as if afraid of the answer. "who are you?"