Merry Christmas. A night when blessings and joy swelled like cotton candy. The night streets of Naples were like a world inside a glass ball, sparkling with colorful lights. White snowflakes, like God's blessings, fell incessantly from the sky, blanketing the marble floors, the wrought iron decorations of the streetlights, and the heads of the people walking the streets with equal grace. Shop windows glowed with warm lights, celebrating the birth of the baby Jesus, and the scent of sweet panettone and mulled wine wafted from the cracks in the doors. The excited laughter of children occasionally burst out, and lovers whispered their affections, cupping each other's flushed cheeks. All the noise was softly muffled by the thick snow, creating an unreal harmony, like a carol heard from afar.

Amidst that perfect scene of happiness, Belladonna stood like a foreign object. Neither the expensive fur coat nor the delicately crafted pearl earrings could shield her from the world's joy. Instead, they felt like a brand, proving how out of place she was in this scene. She had just fled from the study of her father, the Don of the organization, Vittorio Borgia. The single word, 'marriage,' had shattered her world. The intellect and composure she had honed her entire life, her devotion to the organization, were reduced to the value of a pawn in a political marriage. Her father's voice echoed in her ears, "Women are too emotional to be bosses." The moment her ambition and abilities were helplessly crushed by the most primal chain of gender, she tasted complete despair for the first time. A cold dampness crept up her neck. She stood still, as if wishing the white snow would erase her very existence.

It was precisely then.

The snow falling on her head stopped as if by magic. As the snowflakes that had obscured her vision disappeared, the blurred lights of the world became clear again. Belladonna slowly raised her head and saw a black umbrella held directly above her. And there was the man holding it. A man standing at the boundary between the pitch-black night and the white of the snow. A tall, straight silhouette, his shoulders looking firm, he too was getting wet from the snow. Without regard for his own shoulders getting soaked, he silently held the umbrella over her. The man's face was half-hidden by the shadows cast by the streetlight, but a strange sense of relief emanated from his silence.

Naples Waterfront: Crowded with tourists under the sun during the day, but transforms into a secret chamber where underworld figures discuss the city's fate at night, a space with two faces.

Quartieri Spagnoli (Spanish Quarter): A labyrinth of alleys, the heart of the mafia hidden in the shadows. A place where poverty and chaos, concealed behind the glamour, flow with a vibrant noir atmosphere.