The black car cut through the darkened streets of Rome like a phantom, its sleek body reflecting the golden glow of the streetlights. The city, alive with whispers and hidden sins, sprawled out like a maze of secrets waiting to be uncovered. Inside the vehicle, the man sat in comfortable silence, his fingers lazily tapping against his knee as the driver navigated through the winding roads.
"How was the night, sir?" the driver finally asked, his tone careful.
The man exhaled, rolling his shoulders back. "A lesson was taught."
The driver smirked. "I assume they learned it the hard way."
A soft chuckle escaped the man's lips. "The only way they understand."
The conversation ended there. The city blurred past them, and soon, the towering façade of D'Angelo Exclusive came into view.
At first glance, it looked nothing more than a luxury boutique—a high-end clothing and makeup store, catering to the rich and elite. Mannequins dressed in the latest designs adorned the massive glass windows. Inside, expensive perfumes scented the air, and well-dressed staff greeted customers with perfect smiles.
But for those who knew the truth—those who had earned the right to step beyond the surface illusion—D'Angelo Exclusive was something else entirely.
A mask.
A cover.
Because beneath the shimmering chandeliers and delicate fabric of the boutique, a different kind of business thrived—one far more lucrative, far more dangerous.
The car stopped.
A valet in a crisp black uniform opened the door, bowing his head slightly.
"Sir."
Without acknowledging him, the man stepped out, adjusting his cuffs. His sharp eyes swept the surroundings. Everything was in place, as always.
He strode through the boutique entrance, the scent of expensive colognes and freshly brewed espresso greeting him. A few customers lingered inside, browsing the racks of designer clothing. A young woman testing a deep red lipstick glanced up at him, eyes widening slightly before quickly looking away.
The employees knew better than to speak when he entered.
Instead, a tall man in a navy-blue suit approached him immediately, his movements precise.
"Mr. D'Angelo is waiting for you in the lower levels," the man murmured.
With a slight nod, he followed.
They moved past the luxurious displays, past the private dressing rooms, until they reached a plain wooden door at the back of the store. To an outsider, it looked like nothing more than a storage room. But as the suited man pressed his hand against a hidden scanner on the wall, a soft beep echoed in the silence, and the door clicked open.
They stepped inside.
The room was dimly lit, lined with black walls and polished marble floors. The air was cold, sterile—far different from the warmth of the boutique above. As the door sealed shut behind them, a steel elevator awaited at the far end of the hallway.
No buttons. No keypads.
Only a retinal scanner.
The suited man turned to him. "Sir, if you would."
Without hesitation, he leaned forward, allowing the scanner to capture his gaze. A mechanical voice rang out:
"Access granted."
The elevator doors slid open.
They stepped inside.
As the elevator descended, the soft hum of machinery filled the space. The deeper they went, the colder it became. The air carried a metallic scent—one that spoke of sterilized tools, blood, and something far worse.
A ding echoed through the silence as the doors slid open once more.
And the real business of D'Angelo Exclusive revealed itself.
The underground facility stretched before them—a massive, multi-leveled space where men in white coats worked tirelessly, their gloved hands mixing chemicals, testing solutions, preparing shipments. Lab equipment hummed softly, and large glass containers held substances that were far from legal.
This was no ordinary pharmacy.
This was where drugs were born.
Powerful, undetectable, and worth millions.
Every vial, every pill, every liquid sold to the highest bidder—cartels, underground doctors, those looking to erase their pain in the most illegal of ways.
And yet, that was only the first level.
Because deeper within these walls, past the humming machinery and the scent of chemicals, lay the second business.
The one that was far more profitable.
Organ trafficking.
The corridor twisted, leading to another section of the facility. Here, the air was even colder, reeking of antiseptic and steel. Rows of stainless steel tables stretched across the room, each one occupied. Some by the living, some by the dead.
Some men—stripped of their identities, their pasts erased—lay unconscious, hooked up to IVs, their bodies prepped for extraction. Their kidneys, livers, hearts—all neatly cataloged and priced before being packaged and shipped to those who could afford the cost of stolen life.
The highest quality organs for the wealthiest buyers.
The unfortunate ones—those who weren't of use—were discarded like waste.
Burned.
Buried.
Forgotten.
A scream echoed from one of the distant rooms. A plea for help that would never be answered.
Unbothered, the man walked forward, his steps deliberate, his expression unreadable.
At the far end of the room, a large, glass-walled office overlooked the entire operation. Inside, a man sat behind a black marble desk, sipping wine as he watched the workers below.
Metteo D'Angelo.
He looked up, a sharp grin curling across his lips as the door opened.
"Ah," Metteo purred, setting his glass down. "You finally made it."
The man stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
Metteo gestured toward the leather chair across from him. "Sit, my friend. We have much to discuss."
He did not sit.
Instead, he pulled a cigar from the case inside his jacket, lighting it with a flick of his wrist.
"What news?" he asked, exhaling smoke.
Metteo chuckled. "Impatient as always."
He leaned back in his chair, drumming his fingers against the desk.
"I have something... very interesting for you."
A slow pause.
Then, Metteo's grin widened.
"How do you feel about a new shipment?"
The man took another drag of his cigar. His gaze was sharp, unwavering.
"Of what?"
Metteo's eyes gleamed.
"Something far more valuable than organs," he murmured. "Something that will make every man in this city desperate to pay any price."
A slow exhale. The ember of the cigar glowed in the dim light.
"Tell me," the man said, his voice dangerously low.
Metteo leaned in, his smile never fading.
"Women."
Silence.
The air thickened.
"Young. Beautiful. Fresh," Metteo continued, his voice almost mockingly casual. "An exclusive shipment, hand-picked. Pure perfection."
The man remained still. Unreadable.
Metteo studied him, his grin widening slightly.
"I know how much you enjoy dealing with filth," he murmured. "Wouldn't you like to see them suffer?"
A long pause.
Then—
A slow smirk.
The man crushed his cigar into the ashtray.
"Show me."
And just like that—
The night turned even darker.