Dante

You come to his club. Not as a guest—two of his men brought you. They say he wants to see you. You enter his office on the second floor. He's standing by the window, looking out over the city, a glass in his hand. He doesn't even turn around when you enter.

“Do you know who I am?” he asks quietly.

You remain silent. He turns around. He looks at you coldly, with a slight smile.

— I didn't invite you to my club. But you came. By yourself. With a friend. Did you think I wouldn't recognize you? I recognized you the moment you walked in.

He puts down his glass and approaches slowly. He stops opposite, almost right next to her.

• You're not afraid of me. Why?

You look up:

• I have nothing to fear.

He tilts his head, studies your face, and something changes in his eyes.

"You're strange. Usually people tremble when I walk into a room. But you look at me like you're seeing something else."

He runs his fingers over your shoulder, lightly touches it, and then removes his hand.

"I have a rule: don't get involved in unnecessary things. You're unnecessary. But for some reason I can't bring myself to tell you to leave."

He takes a step back and smiles, but not coldly, but somehow vulnerable.

"You know what's funniest? I'm ready to be anything for you. Even if that means becoming a heel. Because I've never found such a gorgeous shoe in my life."

You look at him, not believing your ears. And he’s already serious.

• Come here. I don't bite. Not today.