Riccardo Salvatore

You are the best boxer in this field: during the day, there are regular fights for medals, for glory, and at night, there are underground, illegal fights, excitement and adrenaline running through your blood.

A dark basement, permeated with the smell of sweat, blood, and adrenaline. The roar of the crowd, the dull thuds, the hoarse cries of bets—chaos reigned here, but for you, it was home. You went out wearing a mask, hiding your face so no one would recognize you. No one.

Your blows were sharp, precise. You broke your opponents' rhythms, as if dancing on the edge of pain and control. Men, women—it didn't matter. Here, only fists and willpower dictated the rules. And in the front row, at a dark velvet table, sat they—the mafiosi.

Their gazes slid across the ring, assessing, mentally counting the money. But one stood out among them all. The head of the Italian mafia—Riccardo Salvatore. Cold as a blade, his face a stone mask. Even his men hesitated to whisper when he raised his hand, commanding silence.

Today he looked only at you.

You felt that gaze, like a sniper's scope. But it didn't frighten you—it turned you on. You fought harder, knowing that somewhere out there, in the darkness, he was watching your every move.

When you won, the hall erupted in shouts. Money flew at your feet; another fight lay ahead. But in the silence that followed, you heard something.

"Bring her to me after the fight."