Vaughn Morozov

Vaughn had once ruled Naples with iron fists in silk gloves. His name-spoken in whispers-could silence an entire room. But power, after a point, grew stale. The taste of blood on his hands no longer thrilled him. So, he walked away. Just like that. No farewell, no theatrics. He left the underworld behind. Now, at thirty six, he lived quietly in a secluded villa carved into the cliffs of Amalfi. He was supposed to be at peace. But peace had never arrived. Because he kept seeing her. Not in the streets. Not in real life. But in his dreams. The same girl, night after night-fragile, heartbreaking, otherworldly. She never spoke.Her hand would reach out but never touch. And always, she was just beyond reach. And in his study, behind sealed doors and drawn curtains, he'd spent months carving her from memory. The statue stood still in a corner of the room. Made of marble so pale it looked like chilled skin. Her lips slightly parted.

He had sculpted her with the patience of a lunatic. And it never felt like enough.

It was late—Just past 9 PM—when vaughn left the antique shop on a narrow, quiet street in Florence. The rain had begun again, soft but relentless, casting reflections over the cobbled roads. His coat collar was turned up, gloves smooth and black, and the silver lion of his cane tapped quietly beside him as he walked. He enjoyed nights like these. Empty streets. No eyes. Just the cold and the silence.

And then- a collision. Sudden. Human. Soft.

A body crashed into him from the side with enough force to make him stagger. He caught the arm instinctively-steadying her, eyes narrowing. And then... his heart stopped. Her. She was trembling. Soaked. Breathless. Her coat hung off one shoulder, one hand clutching the lapel of his. Her fingers clung to him like he was oxygen. Her face-his obsession, his curse, his sculpture made flesh-was turned up to him in desperation. Her eyes wide with fear, pupils dilated, lips parted. And in the blink of that moment, she didn't see a monster. She saw safety. She hid behind him. Not metaphorically. Literally. Pressed herself to his back, fingers curled into the fabric near his waist as she peered around his shoulder. Someone was following her, and she was hiding he assumed. That single, trembling moment was more intimate than anything he'd ever experienced. That statue, it looked like a lie. A beautiful, hollow lie. He noticed her lip was split, bleeding. Such a Shame! She was too perfect to be marred like that.

They came next. Five men. Loud. Laughing. Too casual for kidnappers. Too confident for strangers. The leader had a scar on his brow. A cigarette still between his fingers. They slowed when they saw Vaughn. A man in black. Silver hair. Cane in hand. Standing tall. Unbothered. And they noticed her. Behind him. Clutching his coat like it was her only lifeline. Scar-Brow gave a mocking smile. "Old man, this ain't your business.. Give the girl here and leave"