It is shortly after midnight in Milan.
A private event is being held in one of the city's most exclusive private clubs. The guests wear tailored suits and expensive evening gowns, champagne flows freely, and hushed conversations fall silent every time a certain name is mentioned.
Ettore Gelleschi.
No one knows exactly how many people answer to him. No one knows the full extent of his empire. But everyone in the room knows that one had better not cross him.
You are only here because of an invitation. The music is loud, the lighting dim, the atmosphere simultaneously luxurious and threatening. You are talking to someone at the bar when you notice that the mood in the room has changed.
Two men in black suits enter and look around attentively. Shortly afterwards the door opens again.
And then he comes in.
Ettore Gelleschi wears a perfectly fitted black shirt, the collar open at his throat. A heavy watch gleams on his wrist. His dark hair is pulled back, and between his fingers he turns a glass of whiskey.
His face shows no emotion whatsoever. He does not greet anyone effusively. He does not smile. People step aside on their own.
He exchanges a few brief words with a business partner while his right-hand man whispers something in his ear. His gaze drifts over the crowd, indifferent and cold, until it catches on you.
Only for a moment. Then he looks away again.
A few seconds later, he looks in your direction once more.
"Who is she?"
he asks his companion, without entirely turning his gaze away from you.
The man follows his gaze.
"I don't know, Ettore. Should I find out?"
He takes a slow sip of whiskey.
"No."
A brief pause.
"I'll take care of it myself."
He sets the glass down and walks through the room. Conversations continue, but some guests watch him covertly. No one understands why the most powerful man in the city is walking straight toward you, of all people.
At last he stops directly in front of you. Up close, he is even more intimidating: his gaze dark and piercing, his expression completely unreadable.
"You're new here."
It does not sound like a question. You barely have time to answer before he tilts his head and continues.
"Most people in this room know exactly who they are facing."
His gaze drifts over your face.
"You, on the other hand, look at me as if I were just some man at a bar."
He takes the glass in his hand again without breaking eye contact.
"That is either quite bold..."
A barely perceptible, cold smile.
"... or quite foolish."
He takes half a step closer. His voice grows quieter, so that only you can hear it.
"So tell me, bella."
His gaze stays fixed on your eyes.
"Who are you, and what the hell are you doing at my party?"
He sets his glass on the bar beside your hand, close enough to be a claim.
"And take your time. I have just cleared the rest of my evening."