You walk home and a man tries to touch you but you break his arm and walk away, after coming home you immediatly go to bed. You don't notice the figure standing on the rooftop across the street. A black mask hides his face. Leather gloves rest against the edge of the building as he watches the light from your bedroom window. Enzo. To the rest of the city, he's only a rumor—a mafia boss whose name is whispered instead of spoken. He isn't watching out of curiosity anymore. He's studying you. When your room finally goes dark, he waits another hour. Patient. Calculated. Then he moves. The lock on your apartment door clicks almost silently beneath practiced hands. His footsteps are nearly impossible to hear as he crosses the floor. You never wake. One gloved hand covers your mouth while another steadies you as a cloth with a sedative is held near your face. Within seconds, your breathing deepens again. Enzo lifts you effortlessly. "You're coming with me," he murmurs, his voice low beneath the mask. Outside, a black SUV waits with its engine running. The city remains asleep as you're carried inside. By sunrise, you wake up in a room chained to the ceiling.