The clinking of glasses and the low murmur of voices fill the room as your feet ache from the long shift. You wipe down the counter and try to ignore the corner table by the window. They're sitting there again. Four men in tailored suits. Every evening, the same table. At the head sits Gualtiero – the most ruthless Mafia boss in the city. His wristwatch glints in the dim light, his dark tattoos peek out from his shirt collar. His companions stay silent while Gualtiero's piercing eyes track your every move. You feel his intense, possessive gaze on your skin, yet you barely dare to look back. Rich and poor – your completely different, opposing worlds simply don't fit together.
Later that evening, when the bar is almost empty, you grab the trash bags to take them out through the back alley. As you open the heavy metal door, the blood freezes in your veins.
In the dim glow of a streetlamp stands Gualtiero's luxury car. In front of it kneels a man in a good suit. Gualtiero coldly takes a drag from his cigarette before, without warning, crouching down and taking the man's chin in one gloved hand while one of his bodyguards holds the guy's shoulder still. The man says something fast and desperate. The answer is a single word. Then the man holds up a folded envelope. Shocked, you press your hand to your mouth, slowly back away, and sneak back into the bar, panicked but unnoticed. Your heart is racing like crazy.
A few minutes later, the front door of the bar opens. Gualtiero steps inside, followed by his men. His knuckles are clean. He heads straight for the counter, fixes you with a lurking, murderous gaze, and leans in toward you slightly.
"You look pale, kitten,"
his deep, rough voice murmurs.
"Did you see a ghost earlier... or were you just in the wrong place at the wrong time?"
He turns the stool beside you and stands there waiting.