Milan – Financial District – Torre Nera – Late Morning

Alessandra smoothed the front of her blazer with clammy hands, trying to mask the tremor in her fingers.

One breath. Two.

Just an interview. A chance. Nothing more. She stood before the towering obsidian glass of Torre Nera, the sleek headquarters of Volkov Consolidated—an empire known for its ruthless elegance.

The lobby beyond shimmered with chrome and shadows, echoing faintly with quiet footsteps and the rustle of tailored suits.

She’d navigated the chaotic morning commute like a seasoned native: the packed water taxi across the Navigli, the rush through Piazza Mercurio, the narrow sprint past tourists in front of the Gucci flagship.

She was here. She was ready. Almost.

Her heels tapped lightly against the polished stone floor as she approached the onyx-colored reception desk. The woman behind it was impossibly sleek—dark red lipstick, hair in a faultless chignon, eyes cool and professional.

“Alessandra Rossi,” she said, offering a polite smile. “Interview at 11 a.m. for the Executive Liaison Pool.”

The receptionist glanced at her tablet and gave a small nod. “One moment, Ms. Rossi, I’ll just—” Her voice halted mid-sentence.

Her eyes snapped up—not at Alessandra, but at something behind her. Something that shifted the entire atmosphere of the lobby. Her posture straightened, hands folded at military precision.

Alessandra turned, confused. A cluster of black-suited men had entered the vaulted lobby. They didn’t walk. They moved—fluid, precise, deliberate. Every head turned as the small procession carved a silent path through the space.

At the center: a man who didn’t just enter the room—he owned it. Tall, broad-shouldered, all clean lines and expensive power. His dark hair was swept back from a face made of sharp angles and silence.

He moved like a force of nature in a tailored Brioni suit. The receptionist’s voice dropped to something breathless. “L’Alfa…”

Alessandra blinked. Alpha? Some internal company nickname? She didn’t have time to analyze it. The man’s glacial gaze skimmed the lobby, sweeping past her—then snapped back. It hit her like an electric shock, pinning her in place. His stride never slowed, but the flicker in his eyes shifted—from indifference to… something else. Recognition? No. That was impossible. She didn’t know him.

He turned and moved toward the bank of private elevators at the far end. As the doors opened, another man—shaved head, granite features, a walking threat—trailed behind. His eyes caught hers too. A flash of shock, gone in an instant. Replaced by a hard scowl.

The doors closed. Silence fell back into place. Alessandra’s heart thundered, but she forced herself to exhale. It meant nothing. Probably some executive moment. A passing glance.

Maybe she’d stood in the wrong place at the wrong time. The interview went poorly.

She could feel it. The panel was polite but disinterested, their smiles tight. No questions about her experience, only vague formalities. She’d prepared for weeks, studied every corporate hierarchy branch, but none of it mattered.

By the end of the hour, they thanked her and ushered her out with the kind of efficiency used to discard wet umbrellas. She never found out why she was rejected.

--- Colle Argento – Felicity Vance’s Townhouse –

Evening The sun had long slipped beneath the Milanese skyline by the time she reached Colle Argento, a private gated district tucked into the hills above the city.

Chic and sterile, the townhouse row glowed under discreet lamp posts and imported security lanterns.

Alessandra punched in the gate code Felicity had sent her. Felicity was a school friend. A school she didn't finish.

The iron gate opened in complete silence. Inside, the sleek, modern foyer glittered with cool, calculated taste.

Marble floors, a suspended glass staircase, and a chandelier made of hand-blown Venetian crystal.

Everything smelled faintly of leather and ozone. But the air felt… off.

“Felicity?” she called softly. No answer. She stepped further in, setting her bag silently beside the door. The house swallowed her voice like it had no intention of giving it back.

She moved toward the archway that opened into the living room, every nerve drawn tight.

Something was wrong. She felt it the way you feel a coming storm.

Her phone buzzed sharply in her pocket. She flinched, heart stuttering, and fumbled for the device. Felicity Vance – Incoming Call.

She answered instantly. “Felicity? I’m inside. Where are you—?”

“Alessandra!” Felicity’s voice was a frantic whisper, raw with panic. “Front door. NOW!”

The call cut out. Alessandra’s blood ran ice-cold. She turned, her breath catching as she faced the silent, yawning entryway.

Her pulse pounded in her ears. She didn’t know what was waiting on the other side of that door—but every part of her already understood: it was the kind of moment that split your life into before and after.