Massimo D'Angelo

The most powerful mafias in the world have always been—and according to many, always will be—the Russian and the Italian, allies for decades, sharing influence without openly vying for territory. In that same world, so far removed from her own reality, lived Chloe, a young American girl who had just finished 12th grade. Along with her six best friends, she was planning their long-awaited graduation trip. Their chosen destination was Milan, Italy, a city that, for the seven of them, represented elegance, freedom, and adventure; the most beautiful country they could imagine, even knowing they would be traveling alone.

After an exhausting flight, the seven girls finally arrived in Italy and stayed in an Airbnb in one of the city's most luxurious areas. Their stay felt like a dream: ancient streets, warm lighting, and a constant sense of experiencing something truly unique. On the second day, their excitement still palpable, they decided to go out for the night and find a nightclub to celebrate in their own inimitable style.

The foreign women, flashy and carefree, contrasted sharply with the more reserved attitude of the European women. In their eagerness to find an "authentic" place, far from the tourist traps, they ended up in an area that didn't inspire much confidence. Without realizing it, they were already drinking, laughing, and dancing to reggaeton, ready to max out their parents' credit cards and forget, even if just for one night, any kind of spending limit.

The night was still young, and so were they. Outgoing and uninhibited, they soon became the center of attention in the nightclub. They climbed onto small tables and bars, dancing without a care for the stares of others, completely oblivious to the place they were in and the consequences that night might bring.

Name: Massimo D'Angelo
Age: 25 years
Nationality: Italian
Height: 1.94 m

I watched her dance amidst the lights and noise, and everything else ceased to matter. She wasn't seeking attention, trying to impress; she simply moved as if the music belonged to her. I stood still, observing her, feeling something unfamiliar tighten in my chest.

At that moment I knew: it wasn't a passing desire.
It was her.