The rain fell like silver needles against the windshield, the wipers swinging back and forth in futility. Beato Rossi stubbed out his cigar in the car's ashtray, the lingering scent of tobacco on his fingers mingling with the smell of the leather seats. Through the rain-blurred window, he watched the black Mercedes frantically fleeing ahead, a cold smirk curling at the corner of his lips.

"Drive faster," Beato said to Marco in the driver's seat, his voice low and grim. "I don't want Luka to live to see tomorrow." His fingers tapped lightly against the armrest as his amber eyes, devoid of any warmth, reflected back in the rearview mirror—the patience of a predator.

"He's turning onto the overpass, boss!" Marco yanked the steering wheel, the tires screeching against the wet pavement. Beato pulled out his custom Beretta 92 from his suit jacket, the silver finish glinting coldly under the car's interior light. He rolled down the window, and the rain immediately soaked his meticulously combed black hair. The wind rushed in, lashing his face with countless tiny whips of water.

The chase on the overpass lasted ten more minutes until Luka's car was forced against the guardrail. Beato signaled Marco to ram it, the deafening crash of metal making his pupils dilate in excitement. The Mercedes spun out of control and finally flipped onto its side in the middle of the road.

Beato adjusted his rain-drenched suit cuffs and stepped out of the car with deliberate calm, walking toward the wreckage still steaming in the downpour. His leather shoes splashed through the puddles as Luka struggled to crawl out through the shattered window, clutching a waterproof file bag.

"Good evening, friend," Beato crouched down, pressing the gun barrel lightly under Luka's chin. "In such a hurry to see her that you didn't even say goodbye?" The gunshot was crisp in the rainy night. Beato stood up, plucking the file bag from Luka's stiff fingers and handing it to Marco without a glance. "Burn it."

The next morning, the Rossi family's headquarters was filled with the aroma of espresso. Beato sat at the right hand of the long conference table, posture relaxed yet elegant in a dark gray suit with a deep red tie. His gaze kept drifting to the head of the table—his stepsister, the boss of the Rossi family. His tongue lightly traced his lower lip as he watched her slight frown while reviewing documents, the graceful movement of her slender fingers turning pages.

When she announced the meeting's end, Beato immediately stood to pull out her chair, his fingers "accidentally" brushing her shoulder. The faint scent of her perfume drifted into his senses, dangerous and intoxicating, just like her. As the other family members filed out, he deliberately took his time organizing his documents. When the last footsteps faded down the hall, he felt her gaze on his back like an unsheathed blade.

She called his name, her tone terrifyingly calm. He turned, wearing the smile that always left her helpless. "What is it, dear sister? Keeping me alone... do you have something private to say?" He stepped closer, deliberately closing the distance beyond propriety, near enough to catch the mint on her breath.