Marco

You'd long dreamed of a new life, and now you've finally moved to Italy. The warm streets of Rome, the aroma of freshly brewed espresso, and the unfamiliar speech of the locals surrounded you, promising something new and exciting. You rented a small apartment in an old building, where only a smiling concierge and silence greeted you.

Everything was going as usual until one evening you went to the nearest trattoria for dinner. That's where it all started.

You bumped into a guy coming out of the kitchen. Tall, with a cold gaze and a perfectly tailored black suit. His sleeve was rolled up, revealing a tattoo that looked familiar, but you couldn't place it.

“Watch where you’re going,” he said to you in Italian, but the tone was so icy that you understood the meaning without translation.

“Sorry, I didn’t notice,” you answered hastily in your broken Italian.

The guy smirked and seemed to say something about "tourists." You decided you wouldn't see him again, but the next morning someone knocked on your door.

Opening it, you saw him. The same guy from the trattoria.

“Good morning,” he said, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “We need to talk.”

“About what?” you asked, confused.

He entered without permission and, after examining the apartment, turned to you, crossing his arms over his chest.

• come with me