The morning sun hadn’t yet touched the olive trees when the sharp ring of the kitchen bell split the silence.

Ruhi jolted upright from her thin mattress, heart hammering, breath shallow. For a moment, she didn’t know where she was—the cold walls, the smell of detergent, the shadows pressing close. Then it came rushing back. The basement. The Colombo estate. The place where silence was survival.

She swung her legs over the cot and reached automatically for her scarf, fingers fumbling with the frayed edges. The cotton was rough, still damp from last night’s wash, but it was her only comfort—her armor. She tied it around her hair, tucking the loose strands away as if hiding herself might somehow keep her safe.

Outside her small window, the sky was a bruised grey. The olive trees stood like sentinels in the distance, unmoving, their leaves whispering secrets to the wind. The air smelled faintly of ash and rain. She’d barely managed to steady her breathing when Madame Rosa’s words echoed in her mind—words whispered last night when the older woman had brushed past her in the kitchen corridor.

“You serve the Colombo table next morning. Not a word. Not a tremble. One mistake, and you’ll disappear like the last girl.”

Ruhi hadn’t dared ask what that meant. She didn’t need to. The fear that lingered in Rosa’s eyes had said enough. Now, that same fear coiled in her stomach, sharp and cold.

Her hands trembled as she folded her thin blanket, each motion slow and deliberate. She could hear the other maids stirring—the shuffle of feet, the metallic clatter of pots, and the muttered curses in Italian. But beneath it all, there was tension, a heaviness that made the air itself feel watchful. Serving the Colombo table wasn’t an honor. It was a test—and sometimes, a sentence.

She splashed cold water on her face at the washbasin, the chill biting her skin awake. Her reflection in the cracked mirror startled her—pale eyes rimmed with exhaustion, a small bruise on her neck from where a crate had slipped the day before. She looked like someone she barely recognized.

Ruhi straightened her faded uniform, smoothed the creases, and whispered a quiet prayer under her breath—not for luck, but for invisibility. As she stepped into the hallway, the light from the kitchen spilled out in fractured gold. The smell of roasted coffee and burnt toast hung heavy in the air, but beneath it, she caught another scent—gun oil.

Her pulse quickened. This was the world she served now—where breakfast and blood could share the same table. And today, for the first time, she would be standing close enough to see the men who ruled it.

The Colombo breakfast wasn’t breakfast. It was theater—a carefully staged ritual of power, discipline, and quiet violence. At exactly eight, the doors to the grand dining hall swung open, pulled apart by two men in black suits and earpieces. The hinges didn’t creak—even the metal here seemed too afraid to make a sound.

Ruhi stepped in with the other servants, her breath catching in her throat. The sheer weight of the room pressed against her chest, suffocating in its silence.

A long mahogany table stretched across the center like a battlefield—polished to a mirror’s sheen, wide enough to seat twenty-five people. Golden chargers gleamed beneath porcelain plates, crystal pitchers refracted light into shards that danced across the walls, and the chandeliers above glittered like captured constellations.

But what glittered most weren’t the lights—it was the people. Men in tailored Italian suits with expensive watches and colder eyes. Women draped in silk robes, diamonds glinting at their throats, laughter as light and sharp as glass. The air itself smelled decadent—roasted coffee, cigar smoke, leather, and money.

Ruhi’s fingers clenched tighter around her tray. Her palms were slick with sweat despite the chill. She moved with deliberate care—small steps, eyes down, her breaths shallow enough to stay invisible.

Every sound echoed too loud: the scrape of a chair leg, the metallic clink of cutlery, and the distant ticking of a clock she couldn’t see. And beneath it all, a hum—the faint but unmistakable tension of people used to danger.

Because here, every man at that table carried a gun. She could see the hard outlines of metal beneath their jackets, the casual way their fingers brushed near holsters, and the kind of ease that only came from living on the edge of death.

The butlers moved first, serving espresso and champagne. Ruhi followed, carrying her tray of warm plates—poached eggs, soft bread rolls brushed with butter, tomato confit that glistened like jewels, and grilled meats still steaming. Each item is arranged with military precision.

Every dish had been inspected by Madame Rosa herself. Every portion was weighed and plated according to unspoken rules. And yet, Ruhi knew—even one wrong gesture could end her life. She approached the table’s far end, careful to stay behind the butler’s shoulder. The laughter rose again—sharp, ugly, too loud—and she froze for half a second before forcing herself to move.

Her tray trembled slightly as she lowered a plate onto the table before a man whose expression was carved from marble. He didn’t look up. None of them did. She was invisible. A shadow with hands that served and eyes that never met theirs.

But that invisibility—it was safety. She could feel the pulse of hierarchy in the room. Power moved here like a current—silent, lethal, and always centered around one empty chair at the head of the table.

The men spoke in low Italian, their laughter occasionally breaking the rhythm, and though Ruhi couldn’t understand the words, she felt the edge in their tone—the kind of mirth that could turn violent without warning.

And every few seconds, her eyes flickered toward that chair. The one no one dared occupy. The one waiting for the man she hadn’t yet seen but had already learned to fear.

Don Gabriele Colombo.

The air shifted before he even entered—the way the guards straightened, the laughter dulled, and even the clinking of silverware ceased. Ruhi’s heart stuttered once. She didn’t need to look to know—the storm had arrived.

The air changed before she even saw him. A hush spread across the hall—sudden, sharp, like a string pulled too tight. Conversations faltered, chairs stilled, and the faint laughter that had floated moments ago dissolved into silence. Even the chandeliers seemed to dim, their golden light bowing to something unseen.

Then he appeared…Gabriele Colombo.

He entered without a word, and yet, the world seemed to rearrange itself around him. The guards straightened, the butlers froze mid-step, and the women at the far end of the table adjusted their postures—instinctively, reverently.

He was tall—impossibly composed—dressed in black from throat to wrist, the crisp edges of his suit cutting through the morning light like a blade. His hair was dark and neatly swept back, but a single strand fell across his forehead as if defying the perfection he embodied.

He moved with the unhurried certainty of a man who had never once been denied anything. Every motion was controlled, quiet, and deliberate—as though even time itself waited for him to pass. Ruhi didn’t breathe.

She’d seen men who were handsome—on television, in magazines left on airport benches—but this was something else entirely. His beauty wasn’t delicate. It was dangerous. The kind that warned you not to look too long, because if you did, you’d never look away.

There was something in the air around him—an aura of power that didn’t shout but whispered, low and deadly. You could feel it before you even understood it, the way you can sense lightning before it strikes. He reached the head of the table. A chair was pulled out for him. He sat with the effortless authority of someone born into command.

No one spoke. No one dared. The clink of a coffee spoon in his cup was the loudest sound in the room. Even that seemed rehearsed—as though the entire house moved in rhythm with him. Ruhi’s hands trembled as she poured a guest’s coffee. She didn’t look up, didn’t even risk a glance toward the man at the table’s end. But she felt him—the pull of his presence—a silent gravity that seemed to draw every heartbeat closer.

And in that moment, she understood why Divya had warned her. This wasn’t just a man. He was a storm wearing a suit. And somewhere deep down, she already knew—storms like him didn’t pass. They destroyed.