The clock read 11:53 PM.
Rose stood outside Il Serpente, wrapped in a long black coat. The entrance was discreet, tucked between two buildings on the edge of Manhattan's old district. No bright sign, no windows — just a heavy carved wooden door and the faint scent of roasted garlic and leather.
She almost turned back.
But something — curiosity, maybe defiance — kept her still.
At midnight exactly, the door opened.
A man in a sleek black suit, not a waiter, not quite security, gave her a short nod. "Miss Rose. This way."
He led her through a quiet corridor lit by amber sconces. They passed a wine cellar behind glass, the air heavy with aged oak and whispered money. Then a velvet curtain parted, revealing a private dining room — small, dim, and decadently beautiful. A table for two. A single candle. No music. No distractions.
And him.
Silvio Mysterio, seated at the head of the table, wine already poured. Dark suit. Gold cufflinks. Watchful eyes.
"La Fiora," he greeted, rising slightly. "I wasn't sure you'd come."
"I shouldn't have," she replied, stepping forward. "But I hate unanswered questions."
Silvio gestured toward the seat opposite him. "Then let's answer a few."
She sat, carefully.
The waiter appeared — silent, practiced — and placed down two covered dishes. Rose hadn't ordered. Somehow, that didn't surprise her.
"Wine?" Silvio asked, lifting the bottle.
She nodded stiffly. "I assume you've already chosen it for me."
He smiled faintly, pouring. "1996 Amarone. Red, aged in truth and violence. Seemed fitting."
The words lingered.
They ate in silence for a while — handmade pasta, truffle oil, rosemary. Elegant. Rich. Dangerous.
Finally, Rose spoke. "Why me?"
Silvio set down his fork. "Because you interest me."
"That's not an answer."
He tilted his head, studying her. "You lost your parents in a crime no one talks about. Then you lost your aunt. Then your name appeared in the art world, sharp and sudden. People whispered your pain onto canvas. But pain that precise… it doesn't come from weakness."
She met his gaze. "You had me watched."
"Of course," he said simply.
She stared at him. "You expect me to be grateful for the attention?"
"No," he said, eyes darkening. "I expect you to be careful."
Rose set down her glass, hands cold around the stem. "You send me crystal. You call me by a name I didn't give you. You show up in my life uninvited. What do you want, Silvio?"
A beat passed.
Then he leaned forward, his voice dropping.
"I want to know what side you'll choose when the time comes."
"I'm not part of anything," she said sharply.
"Not yet," he agreed. "But you will be. The past always leaves a path."
She looked away, jaw tightening.
Silvio's tone softened, almost genuine. "You've survived too much to pretend you still belong in the innocent world, La Fiora. You can paint pain, or you can own it. Which do you prefer?"
Rose didn't answer.
But she didn't leave.
He stood then, rounding the table slowly. He didn't touch her. Didn't lean close. But the presence of him — calm, collected, coiled — filled the air like smoke.
"You are not a threat to me, Rose," he said quietly. "But you are… interesting. And in my world, that's both a compliment—" he paused, "—and a warning."
He reached into his coat, pulled out a small envelope, and placed it in front of her.
"What's this?" she asked.
"A name," he said. "Someone connected to your family's past. Someone who's still alive."
Her fingers hovered over the envelope.
"Why give me this?"
Silvio smiled. "Because I don't want to own you. I want to see what you do when the leash is in your hands."
She stood, staring at him.
"You think I'll be grateful," she said quietly.
"No," he replied, "but I think you'll come back."
She left without another word.
But she didn't leave the envelope behind.