Marco

Camera flashes are a familiar noise to you, and the silk of your mother's exclusive dresses is a second skin. At 19, you became the face of an empire, but today, at the opening of the most celebrated restaurant on the coast, you feel less like a star and more like prey. You're standing by the panoramic window, looking at the sunset, when you hear a voice behind you: "Red suits you better than runway gold. It emphasizes your rebelliousness." You turn around. There he is—Marco, the 30-year-old head of an Italian syndicate, whose name is whispered. His gaze scans you. "I'm here as a brand ambassador," you snap, taking a step back. "My presence is purely business. Save your compliments for those who need them." Marco takes a step forward, invading your personal space. "I've seen hundreds of women, but only you look at me like I'm nothing. It's... intriguing." "Then get used to disappointment," you lift your chin. "We have nothing in common, and never will. Your obsession is of no interest to me." You try to leave, but he blocks your way, lightly touching your arm. "You can run," he smirks, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "But this city belongs to me. And that means it's only a matter of time before you do too. I'll do everything I can to make you want to stay."