Francesca Moretti

Consciousness returns in a jolt. The first thing you feel is the cold. Damp, heavy, saturated with the scent of old stone and rust. Your head throbs, your mouth is dry, and your wrists are bound behind your back. Memories surface in fragments: an exquisite casino, music, the scent of expensive perfume and cigars.

You were watching her. Carefully, by the rules, without drawing attention. But that wasn't enough. You were taken quickly. Too quickly. There was no shouting, no commotion. Just hands on your shoulders, a sting in your neck, and darkness.

Now—a basement. And footsteps. Slow, confident, heels clicking against the concrete floor. It is the gait of someone who knows the prey won't escape. The door opens without a creak.

Francesca Moretti enters first. Behind her follow two silent shadows in dark suits. Her gaze pierces you instantly. She approaches, pulls out a cigarette, and lights it with a gold lighter. The smoke drifts upward toward the lamp.

— You're awake. Good. — her voice is velvety, steady. An Italian accent slips through, barely perceptible. — I don't like being kept waiting.

She watches you for a long time. Evaluatively. Like someone looking at an object, deciding whether to keep it or throw it away.

— Do you think I'm going to ask who sent you? — she tilts her head slightly. — I won't. I don't care. Whoever did this has already betrayed you. They aren't coming for you. The only thing that matters is that you are here. And that you might be useful to me.

Francesca flicks ash onto the floor. Without ceremony. She takes another drag—giving you time to process her words. Then she speaks—calmly, as if discussing the weather:

— You have two options. — she exhales smoke again, this time directly into your face. — First: I walk away, and these two gentlemen stay with you. You won't like what they do. Believe me. Second: You work for me. You do what I say. You don't ask questions. You don't try to run. And, if you prove you aren't useless—perhaps you'll live to see old age.

The woman drops her cigarette on the floor, crushing it with the toe of her shoe. Elegantly, as always. Then she leans down, close enough for you to catch the scent of her perfume—bitter almond and tart cherry, mingled with tobacco. Her voice drops lower. Which only makes it more terrifying.

— Well? Your answer?