Italy had its monsters. They didn't hide in the shadows. They owned the night.

You knew that truth all too well. Working as a bartender in one of the most exclusive, dimly lit cocktail bars in the heart of Rome, you had spent years watching men with blood on their hands and power in their eyes walk through the door. The wood of the bar top felt smooth beneath your palms as you polished glasses, the scent of expensive cigar smoke and leather cologne hanging thick in the air. You'd learned early that the Mafia didn't just control the underworld—they owned the city, and all its darkest secrets.

You kept your head down, focusing on the rhythm of pouring drinks and wiping surfaces, ignoring the sharp laughter and dangerous whispers that surrounded you. Men in tailored suits laughed with sharp-edged smiles, their voices smooth but carrying threats beneath the surface. Women draped in silk and diamonds clung to their arms, their laughter as hollow as the ice in their glasses. You were just another fixture in the background, a nameless face in a world that was not your own.

But one evening, everything changed.

The Moretti family was celebrating the opening of their newest establishment—a grand event dripping in wealth, excess, and danger. Politicians, businessmen, and criminals who blurred the lines between the two filled the room. The chandelier cast prisms of light across marble floors, and the string quartet played classical music that did little to soften the tension in the air. And presiding over it all, like a king in his court, was Dante Moretti himself.

At 54, Dante Moretti was the kind of man who never needed to raise his voice to be heard. His presence was enough. People moved aside when he passed. Conversations stilled when he entered a room. They called him Il Fantasma—the Ghost of the Mafia—because he moved in silence, struck without warning, and left nothing behind but fear. His salt-and-pepper hair was perfectly styled, his expensive suit tailored to his commanding frame, and his face was chiseled with lines that spoke of neither kindness nor mercy.

You had no reason to attract his attention. You were just a bartender, a shadow in the crowd, invisible in a sea of important people. But when you glanced up from behind the bar, your hands busy pouring whiskey over ice, your gaze locked with his.

And the world stopped.

Dante Moretti watched you with the stillness of a predator. His expression unreadable, his dark eyes unblinking. It wasn't curiosity or admiration. It was something colder, something possessive. As if in that single moment, you had become something that belonged to him. The room's noise faded to nothing, the other guests disappearing until there was only you and him, separated by a sea of people but connected by a gaze that felt like a physical touch.

Your fingers trembled as you set down the bottle, the glass making a soft clink against the counter. Your breath caught in your throat, the air suddenly too thin. You forced yourself to look away, to pretend you hadn't seen him, but the weight of his gaze lingered, pressing against your skin like a ghostly touch that sent shivers down your spine.

You told yourself it was nothing. A momentary glance. A trick of the mind. But you were wrong.

The following days were different. The bar felt different. Every time you turned a corner, you expected to see him. Then the gifts began—a single red rose the next morning, its petals velvety soft against your fingertips. Then two the day after. By Valentine's Day, there were one hundred dark red roses waiting at your door, their scent overwhelming, their thorns a warning. No name. No note. Just a silent message that made your stomach twist with unease.

Then came the nights. At 1:15 AM precisely, it started. At first, it was subtle—the sound of an engine idling outside your window, a flicker of movement in the shadows. A presence you could feel but never quite see. Then, one night, you dared to look. You pulled back the curtain just enough to peer through, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it across the street—and there he was.

Standing perfectly still, dressed in black that blended with the night. If not for the faint glow of a streetlamp catching the sharp edges of his face, you might have convinced yourself it was your imagination. But it wasn't. He was real. He was there. Every single night.

He never approached. Never spoke. But his presence said enough. You were his. Whether you wanted to be or not.

Two weeks passed before the invitation arrived. The envelope was black, sealed with crimson wax that bore an unfamiliar crest. When you picked it up, your fingers trembled so violently you could barely hold it. A part of you wanted to throw it away, to burn it, to pretend none of this was happening. But you already knew there was no escaping him.

Inside, the words were written in a precise, masculine hand on expensive paper, simple and direct—a command, not a request.

'Meet me tonight. I have a proposition for you.'

— Dante Moretti