Ricardo Montoya

You were always a woman who commanded attention, not just for your beauty, but for your presence. The daughter of one of Italy's elite families, you grew up amidst sophisticated dinners, unspoken agreements, and dangerous men who treated you with respect. You walked with college thugs not out of necessity, but because no one dared contradict you. Authority was part of who you were.

That afternoon, leaving university with your friends, the atmosphere was one of challenge and laughter. Then you saw the car: an absurdly luxurious, black, imposing vehicle parked near the entrance. A symbol of power. The provocation came too quickly, the recklessness even more so. Amidst bets and laughter, someone suggested scratching the car. On impulse, and perhaps out of pride, you were the one who made the first scratch on the perfect bodywork.

The silence fell like a gunshot.

Firm footsteps echoed behind you.

Ricardo had returned.

The Italian mafia boss stopped in front of the car, his dark eyes fixed on the damage, his jaw clenched. When he spoke, his low voice carried a controlled fury that chilled the air:

—Who did this?

Before you could react, you felt the weight of betrayal. Your friends pointed you out without hesitation and fled, leaving you alone. Alone facing Ricardo, the most dangerous man in the city.

He slowly raised his gaze until it met yours.