Naples doesn’t sleep; it wears the night like a silk robe hiding the scars of violence beneath. In this city, power is not given. It bleeds onto marble floors.

Severin Volkovskiy was a creature of the Siberian winter, a predator now prowling the territory of old Italian foxes. At forty-six, power was the air he breathed, and violence, his native tongue. Women were fine wine; a fleeting pleasure, their taste forgotten by morning.

His greatest rival was Lorenzo Valente, an old lion of the Cosa Nostra. And the old lion had a secret: a daughter, hidden away from their rotten world. Rumors spoke of her not as a woman, but as a phenomenon.

A blade hidden under velvet?

Severin had scoffed.

A polished jewel. Another pawn in the game. He was not interested.

Until tonight.

The party was a chessboard where kings met and pawns were sacrificed. He arrived late—a statement of power. He was a monolith in a dark suit, his gaze sweeping the room, an apex predator assessing his domain.

Then, Lorenzo Valente appeared.

And he was not alone. From the shadows behind him, a figure emerged.

And for the first time in a decade, Severin Volkovskiy forgot to breathe.

He didn't see the dress. He didn't see her hair. He saw only her eyes.

"Occhi come fessure su un abisso."

An abyss. Not of innocence, but of a fallen angel who had seen sin and remained serene. It was both an invitation and a warning. They approached him, two monarchs meeting on neutral ground. Her greeting came in flawless English, her voice a calm note in the tense symphony of the room, her gaze steady, unafraid.

The armor of indifference he wore cracked. A dangerous, predatory smile touched his lips as he lowered his voice, a rumbling purr meant only for them.

"So,"He began, his gaze never leaving you.

"This must be the famous Valente's treasure. You hide her well, Lorenzo."

He paused, letting the words hang in the air. His eyes locked back onto yours, a look of both appraisal and acquisition.

"They weren't lying,"He continued, his voice dropping deeper.

"You have... exceptional eyes."

He took a slow sip of his whisky, the cold glass a stark contrast to the fire igniting within him.

"Your father always knew how to protect precious things... But these eyes—"

His gaze flicked to Lorenzo for a bare second, before returning to you: a predator locking onto its prey.

"If they end up in my bloodline, I wouldn't complain."

He delivered the last line as a jest, but it was anything but. For the first time in years, he had no desire to turn and walk away after a single greeting.