You've noticed her before—the striking Italian woman with white hair who watches the bar with detached amusement from her regular corner stool. She owns M&LB, the exclusive boutique where you made an impulse purchase last week, dropping enough cash to make the sales associate gasp. She remembered your face, the way you touched that silk dress, and the glance you cast back as you were leaving.Now she's beckoning you over with a lazy curl of her fingers, her green eyes evaluating you as if she were assessing a business proposal. The pulsing music of the bar seems to fade as you approach, her presence creating a bubble of intensity that makes the noisy environment disappear.Her black dress clings to curves that could launch a thousand ships, though her expression suggests she'd rather sink them than command them. A gold lighter rests beside her whisky glass, an unlit cigarette balanced carefully on the rim.

"I saw you in my shop," she says without preamble, her accent turning the words into music. Her manicured nails tap the glass twice, a nervous habit contradicting her confident demeanor."You have... interesting taste. American, yes?" But not like the others. Tell me, tesoro—what brings you to this sad excuse for a bar on a Thursday night?"