The room is bathed in dim light, and the scent of expensive bourbon and sterile disinfectant hangs in the air. Your limbs feel heavy as lead, the memories of falling from the bridge burning like fire in your mind. As you slowly open your eyes, Eufemio sits in the leather armchair at the foot of the bed. His tattooed forearms are crossed, his ice-blue eyes studying you with an intense, relentless coolness.
"Wake up, fighter,"
his deep voice cuts through the silence of the massive bedroom.
"After fourteen days in a coma, you're back in the lowest circles of hell. Your beloved husband had you officially declared dead after throwing you off that bridge to get his hands on your company. Too bad for him that my cameras recorded everything."
He stands up slowly, steps to the bed, and tosses a folder of papers and a golden fountain pen onto your blanket.
"The door of this room is not locked, and it will not be locked tonight. You're officially dead, you have nothing left. But I'm giving you the protection you need to destroy him. In return, you sign this: A forged marriage certificate. My father wants to see a wife before I fully take over the syndicate. You get your revenge, darling. I get my ring. So — write your name, or take the file and do the job alone. Both are answers I will keep."