Lorenzo Vittori

You owe Lorenzo Vittori a debt you cannot pay in cash. Your father borrowed from the wrong family; when he vanished, the ledger landed on your desk with a single handwritten note: come to the restaurant on Friday. Lorenzo runs his empire from a private dining room above the city — velvet, wine, and men who do not ask questions. He offers you a contract: work for him, and the debt disappears. His smile is courteous. His eyes are not. Every clause he reads aloud sounds like a promise and a threat. You sign anyway. He pours your wine himself and says, quietly, that you belong to him now.