"Were you able to gather evidence for the case with Nume ?" he asks bluntly, coldly.

Eustasio shoots to his feet, turning with wide eyes, like a child caught red-handed.

"Y-Yeah, yeah, I've got everything in the car. I'll be right back."

With quick steps, he rushes off to retrieve what, more than just mere documents, represents the thread upon which his life hangs.

"It's all here," he announces, placing the papers on the coffee table. "To sum it up for you, these envelopes contain the various investigations tied to the mafia that might interest us. They all have evidence that hasn't been fully exploited."

"Why ?" I ask, skimming through the pages.

"Because the mafia was heavily suspected, no one acted normally. Those who weren't corrupt were paralyzed by fear. Fear drove them to neglect the evidence, its handling, and understanding. Those truly under the mafia's influence did everything they could to dismantle what their colleagues had established, rushing their work, compromising evidence to make it unusable—anything to prevent the investigation from moving forward."

"Alright, and in all this mess, do we have any lead worth pursuing ?" I ask.

"We actually have two. Both are distinct tire tracks collected from the scene of the victims' disappearances. For these pieces of evidence, the investigation was conducted properly. Of all the tire brands, these two were selected because they didn't belong to the victims' cars, nor to any friends, relatives, or guests. But after that, everything stopped. The photos were shelved and never analyzed."

"Fine. We'll start there then. With any luck, it'll help us move forward."

Eustasio nods in agreement and tidies up the files.

"Thank you for continuing to trust me."

"Honestly, we don't have a choice. If you screw this up, your body will take Emilia's place when we find her," I say, fixing my gaze on him.

He presses his lips into a thin line before swiftly leaving.

"I still say we're making a mistake by keeping him around," Andrea mutters.

"Andrea, we're not going over this again. We know why we're doing this. The sooner this is all behind us, the sooner we can get rid of him. Follow him closely if you want, but we stick to our decision."

"That's exactly what I'm going to do. Andy, you coming ?"

"Yeah, just a sec, I need to say something to May first."

Andrea walks ahead, leaving us alone.

"What's up ?" I ask.

"While you were in custody, a record label I submitted your demo to called."

"Is it a legit one this time ?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

Andy rolls her eyes and sighs. "Yes, I checked. They want to see you tomorrow."

"Seriously ? Now ? With everything going on ? The trial, Nume, revenge !"

"May, there's something you're not getting, I think. This record label is your only shot. Most of the responses I got yesterday were negative because of the scandal you're wrapped up in. I'm still waiting on a few, but if I were you, I wouldn't miss tomorrow's interview," she warns before leaving.

Her words play on a loop in my mind like a broken record since yesterday, as I reluctantly head to the record label, shrouded in an oppressive fog.

On my motorcycle, I drive at high speed, reveling in the rush of adrenaline. So, it's no surprise that I arrive at my destination in record time. I park and walk toward the building.

A few steps later, I find myself in front of a stunning old Baroque-style building, standing at the center of a fork in the road, bordered by two pedestrian streets.

I climb the steps leading to the double glass doors framed in gilded accents, which open into an impressive hall with a dizzyingly high ceiling. A magnificent crystal chandelier floats above, giving the space an air of weightlessness.

The calm, warm voice of the receptionist pulls me from my awe.

"Hello, Miss. How can I help you ?"

Smiling, I approach her desk, a small iceberg in the sea of black and white tiles.

"Hello, I have an appointment for an interview."

"Miss Torre ?"

"That's me," I confirm with a smile.

"I'll be right back."

Without waiting for a reply, she quickly ascends the grand staircase in the center of the hall. Barely a few minutes later, her high heels clicking against the tiles, the receptionist returns, her most dazzling smile stretching her red lips.

"Please go up and take a seat in the lounge to your right. Mr. Dottrece will see you as soon as possible," she explains, gesturing for me to head upstairs.

"Thank you very much."

As instructed, I reach the landing and find a cozy little lounge where I sit without hesitation, my veins pulsing with adrenaline. Though I've been in this business for a long time, selling myself has never been one of my strengths—especially not under these circumstances. Having Andy as my agent has always spared me from this part, but today I have no choice. I have to be as convincing as I was with Ezio's men.

I don't have to wait long before I hear the door open, and a deep, warm voice calls my name.

"Miss Torre."

With my back to him, I rise from my seat and turn to face him.

The moment our eyes meet, I feel drawn into their depth and darkness. Losing all sense of time and space, I'm left speechless in front of this stranger.

Unexpectedly, he awakens the long-dormant butterflies within me, which I had forgotten even existed. They emerge from their chrysalises in chaotic flight, clashing and colliding against the walls my heart had so carefully built. Without reaching it, they still manage to weaken its defenses.

Though imposing in height and athletic build, it's his charisma that strikes me the most. I can't tell if it's the white streak in his tousled black hair, his perfectly trimmed stubble, or the rolled-up sleeves revealing the scars of his life inked into his skin that charms me the most. But without a doubt, his mysterious aura draws me in, like light irresistibly drawn to shadow.

The resonating timbre of his voice breaks the spell.

"Enoro Dottrece. A pleasure," he says calmly, smiling as he extends his hand.

In a blink, I silence the fluttering butterflies. I quickly gather myself so he won't glimpse my thoughts. Returning his smile, I grasp his hand, ignoring the stubborn creatures stirring again in my stomach.

"May Torre. The pleasure's mine," I reply confidently, stepping into his office.

As I pass by him, a breeze carries the scent of his woodsy, amber cologne to my nose. I try to ignore it as I make my way toward his desk. While I take in the surroundings, I hear the door close and Enoro's footsteps echo across the room.

"Welcome to my humble office. Please, have a seat," he says, sitting in the leather chair behind his desk.

"Humble is not exactly the word I'd use," I quip sarcastically, glancing around.

A brief silence follows as I fix my gaze on him, catching him staring at me with his fingers steepled before his mouth, his elbow resting on the chair's arm. Suddenly, he stands, walks toward the door, and breaks the silence.

"If you came here to disrespect me, it would be best if you leave now," he says, opening the door to illustrate his point.

Without a word, I turn my back to him and sit in one of the chairs across from his desk. No matter my situation, I refuse to kneel before him.

I suppress a smile when I hear the door close again, and tension mounts as his scent washes over me once more when he passes by. Before he can notice, I refocus and ignore the heat pooling in my abdomen. As he resumes his seat, our gazes lock, and my pulse quickens. The air between us becomes charged with electricity as I conceal my unease under his unreadable expression.

"Why should I produce you ?" he asks firmly.

A genuine laugh escapes my lips, causing him to furrow his brow.

"You're the one who accepted my application. You tell me why I should choose you."

"I'd bet I'm the only one who did accept it, Mrs. Madini," he taunts.

I raise an eyebrow, irked by his challenge and by the mention of my married name. I built my reputation without anyone's help, carving out my own space. Yet, after one marriage, all my efforts seem in vain. That simple, seemingly innocuous mention is nothing more than a cruel reminder that I'm reduced to being a wife or widow "of." Reduced to being tied to his shady dealings, perceived as an outlaw.

Despite my seething anger, I keep my composure and respond with restrained intensity.

"My comeback is highly anticipated. You'd make a triumph by producing me."

"That's your opinion. Allow me to doubt your judgment. I agreed to meet with you, but that doesn't mean I agree to collaborate."

"So you just wanted to get a closer look at the freak show? To see if I'm capable of the worst and, most importantly, guilty of the rumors hanging over me?"

A smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

"I couldn't care less if you're guilty. I like my artists to stand out, to be difficult, because that makes them better singers. Better singers mean better sales, and better sales mean more profit for me. That being said, you need me more than I need you. My business is thriving. Your name might not be dead yet, but that's only a matter of time. With the tragedy you've gone through and the scandal you're embroiled in, I'm not sure your return will be celebrated for the right reasons."

I narrow my eyes at his arrogance, his determination to label me as nothing more than a widowed outlaw.

"My private life and my talent are completely separate. The public will come for my voice, not my past or out of morbid curiosity. Just because some of my songs are inspired by my traumas doesn't mean they won't resonate with the audience, that they won't see themselves in them, or that I can't make them dance. Don't confuse things, Mr. Dottrece."

At the sound of his last name, I see him swallow slowly, inhaling as he crosses his hands in front of his mouth. His dark eyes grow more intense, consuming my light and shrouding it in their darkness. Under his burning gaze, my skin tingles, and my heart races, sending warmth through my entire body.

"Why my label ?" he finally asks.

"Don't flatter yourself. As you said, you're not the only one I sent my application to. If another label had contacted me first, I wouldn't be here today."

My response doesn't seem to sit well with him, as a fleeting look of disappointment crosses his eyes so briefly I wonder if I imagined it.

"Fine. I'll consider your request and get back to you. Leave your contact information with my secretary on your way out," he concludes, standing to open the door.

I rise and join him. Before leaving, emboldened by my audacity, I lean toward him and whisper sensually in his ear:

"Come see me sing at the Black Dahlia tomorrow night. You might just leave convinced."

Holding his gaze, I pull back slowly, flashing him a smile. Without looking back, I say goodbye, but just before disappearing down the stairs, I turn to add:

"And it's May Torre to you. Madini is my married name, not my stage name. It has no place in your mouth."

I leave him speechless, his expression confused, as I disappear down the staircase, the echo of my high heels trailing behind me. I give my information to the secretary, signing as May Torre, and exit the label.

Once outside, I walk away, glancing back only to see Enoro standing at his office window, watching me from above, hands in his pockets, his expression serious. I turn away, smiling as I continue on my way.

See you soon, I hope.