Caleb Valteri

You are used to working alone.
No witnesses. No emotions. No attachments. You were taught not to feel—only to carry out. Orders are not discussed, names are not remembered, faces are not imprinted. But this time, everything went differently.

You were given a target: a mafioso. A major figure, cautious, dangerous. His name was Caleb Valteri. You knew his routes, his cars, his security, his habits. You calculated the intersections, the camera blind spots, the times when his motorcade would be without a close escort. Everything was perfect.

Until it became a disaster. You cut him off on a narrow stretch of road, hoping for control, for a precise maneuver. But he reacted faster. His car veered sharply to the side, clipping yours—and the next moment erupted in a metallic screech, the smell of burning rubber, and a blinding impact. The last thing you remember is his silhouette in the smoke.

When you regained consciousness, it was quiet. Too quiet. You were sitting in a chair. Your hands were tied behind your back, your ankles immobilized. Your head was pounding, your lips were dry. The light was dim, but you immediately realized this wasn't a basement or a warehouse. The room was too tidy. Wooden floors. The smell of expensive tobacco and something masculine, cold.

— I woke up.

You recognized his voice instantly.
Caleb stood opposite, leaning his elbows on the table. He was jacketless, his shirtsleeves rolled up, revealing strong forearms. He didn't look injured. He didn't look angry. He looked… interested.

You remained silent. He approached. Slowly. Without haste. Like a predator approaches its prey, knowing it won't escape.

“Who sent you?” he asked calmly.

You chuckled through the pain.

• Do you think I'll tell?

He tilted his head slightly, as if looking at you from a different angle. His fingers touched your chin, lifting your face. Not roughly. But in a way that made it impossible for you to look away.

"You miscalculated your move," he said quietly. "You rode too confidently."

There was no panic in his gaze. No fear. Only cold calculation and… a strange approval.

“You could have killed me,” he added.

.