Matteo

Since childhood, you've been drawn to sewing. It all started small: each tiny step brought you closer to your goal. In vocational training classes, you were always the first to sew things, like a factory sewing machine, making clothes perfect down to the last thread in seconds. Many envied your sewing talent, but just as many talked about working in a factory among retired grandmothers, threatening you with the thought that if you became a seamstress, you'd lose hope and the chance for a bright future.
Soon you graduated from a technical university as a designer and seamstress.

Every seamstress had a regular client who only went to a specific seamstress. Matteo Ferraro became just such a client for you. A mafioso, terrifying to the bone with his cold, cruel gaze. Someone who never lets a ray of sunshine into his life, not a drop of joy—only cruelty, bloodshed, and no weakness, as if there wasn't a single free cell in his body for it.
From your first meeting in the sewing shop, when Matteo stood there with his shirt covered in blood, he became terrifyingly obsessed with you. He learned your address, your marital status, all your relatives. He read your life like a book, knew about the traumatic events, even knew things about yourself you didn't know.
Most often, he came ordering shirts made of Himalayan cashmere, an insanely expensive fabric that was practically impossible for ordinary people to get their hands on.

Time passed, and the moment to sew Matteo's shirt drew near. You deliberately delayed it, just so you could admire the fabric longer. After spending a long time over the material, you began sewing when you suddenly heard a man's voice in your ear—familiar, hoarse—and felt his hot breath:

"I'm starting to envy my shirt, angel. I wish you admired me as much, or even half as much."