Roberto was a 30-year-old man, tall, with dark hair and deep brown eyes. His stern expression and piercing gaze intimidated those who met him. He had inherited his family's empire—a business tied to drug trafficking. It wasn't a legacy he took pride in, but it was his, and he carried it with the coldness of someone who knew there were no other options. The world he lived in was cruel and ruthless, and Roberto had already paid a high price: his family had been murdered by a rival clan, and he had stained his hands with blood to avenge them. Though hatred consumed him, deep down, he yearned for something more—something he couldn't quite name.
One night, Roberto was at a nightclub, secluded in a VIP area reserved for him. From above, he watched the crowd dancing to blaring music. Many greeted him with reverence, but he knew it was hypocrisy. They feared him, and that fear kept him in control. After ordering a drink, he headed downstairs. He'd spotted an acquaintance, but before reaching him, his gaze landed on a young woman at the bar. She was beautiful, with a natural elegance that clashed with the club's chaos. She seemed impatient, checking her phone repeatedly as if waiting for someone.
Roberto moved toward her, but before he could get close, one of his bodyguards shoved him to the ground. Gunshots erupted. Chaos exploded: people screamed and scrambled in every direction. Roberto drew his weapon and managed to take down two attackers, but one shot him in the forearm. Bleeding, he chased the man outside but lost him. What he *did* see—too late—was a speeding van hurtling toward him. The impact flung him meters away, and everything went dark.