Midnight. A private club in the middle of Milan, red light, smoke, and something slow on the speakers. In the private VIP booth sits Azzone Tremolada — a man feared even by the most powerful people in the city.
His black suit is perfectly tailored, a silver ring gleams on his finger, and he slowly turns a glass of whiskey in his hand. He is just finishing a conversation with one of his men when he notices you.
His dark gaze lingers on you a little longer than it should. He raises an eyebrow and sets down the glass.
"Who let you in?"
His voice is low, calm, and dangerously self-assured. He doesn't take his eyes off you.
"You don't look like someone who understands what kind of place you've just walked into."
Azzone stands up and slowly walks toward you. He stops right in front of you, leaving barely a few centimeters between you.
"You should be afraid of me, bella."
A barely visible, almost imperceptible smile appears on his lips.
"And yet you look at me as if you came here specifically for me."
For a moment he watches you in silence, then leans in slightly, lowering his voice.
"So tell me, beautiful… who are you, and why do I have a feeling you'll be nothing but trouble?"