1886, Bologna, Italy.

The alley is narrow, almost suffocating. It vibrates with voices and footsteps. The cries of vendors blend with murmurs, and passersby gather like a human tide.

The façades of the buildings seem to lean forward, as if trying to watch more closely.

Eyes cling to me—curious, unhealthy, unsettling. They stare at me like some rare and foreign thing.

Yet I know this path by heart.

My feet have walked it a thousand times, more than my own heart knows it.

A woman stops and stares at me without shame, then whispers to her friend.

Fabrics rustle as they brush past one another, and jewelry clinks softly.

— Look… it must be the first time I’ve ever seen a black man. His skin is like chocolate… and his eyes… so dark… it’s almost frightening.

She brings a hand to her mouth, pretending to be afraid, with that cruel smile I know far too well.

— Marguerite, don’t stare at him too long. He might cast a spell on you. And look at his clothes… he looks like he walked straight out of the dust.

I keep walking, holding myself back from answering them.

Ah yes, I’m truly dangerous. Beware for your fragile little princess lives…

But what would be the point? Those idiots do not even deserve a spit.

— Dirty negro, one of them murmurs behind me.

I smile inwardly. Charming, I think—a compliment from your kind? If only I had the time to teach them real fear, not the one they imagine when they look at my skin.

It’s routine. For my mother and me, humiliation has become a habit—almost a second skin.

What an ingenious invention of life: to be looked at like a rare, exotic animal, and on top of that be expected to smile, because of course, that is “polite.” What an honor.

I no longer have the strength to rebel. Why bother? People seem to enjoy reminding us every day of our place. The only thing that truly matters is money.

Money to keep my mother alive. Her herbal remedies haven’t worked for months. Every night I hear her struggling to breathe, and every day I must stand tall before people who think their curiosity and contempt are a form of entertainment. Wonderful.

So I work. I stay silent. I disappear. Until exhaustion. For her.

That is how I serve Paolo Giovanni, that shining example of kindness and human greatness.

Respected—and above all feared—by those he crushes with his benevolent merchant’s smile.

I sweep. I scrub. I polish… and I hope the floor I clean does not judge my existence too quickly.

My body screams to stop, but apparently it doesn’t pay rent in this world.

When I arrive in front of his house, it stands there like a monument to privilege and arrogance. Immense. White. Almost mocking. The walls catch the sunlight, dazzling, as if reminding me that I do not belong here.

The red-tiled roof seems to challenge the sky. And those pink and violet flowers at the entrance… I don’t know their names, but their beauty feels almost insulting, as if reminding me that some people are born already adorned for the light.

I open the gate. It creaks for a long time, like the old house sighing, tired of watching insignificant lives like mine pass by.

In the courtyard, the smell of damp earth catches me. The horses shift impatiently. I head toward the stalls, leaving my thoughts behind… because thinking in this place would be a ridiculous luxury.

I sweep. I clean. I scrub. Dust rises and clings to my skin. The horses neigh and strike the ground. My movements are slow and precise.

I am not allowed to make mistakes. Paolo forgives nothing—and why should he? After all, the perfection of a servant is his only value here.

I allow myself a moment and run my hand along the chestnut mane of a horse. The silent contact soothes me.

— Azel… are you alright? You’re up early.

That voice. As always, impossible to confuse with anyone else’s.

I turn around.

Angelo is there. His smile lights up his face, his chestnut hair shines under the sun, and his green eyes look at me as if the rest of the world does not exist. Honestly, who could resist a gaze like that?

— How are you, Angelo?

He walks closer and takes my hand. His palm is warm.

He holds it a little longer than necessary. And just like that, this simple gesture is enough to awaken chaos in my chest.

It was with him that I understood

that my heart obeys no rules.

That I love men.

That I love him.

— I’m well… he murmurs. I missed you.

He moves closer. Too close. Dangerously close. As always.

— No…

I step back. My refusal is weak, almost a plea.

He stops… then moves forward again, slowly, as if he wants to give me a choice—or make me believe I have one.

— Don’t worry…

His breath brushes my skin. My heart beats so loudly I feel it might betray everything I try to hide.

— AZEL!

I flinch. I push him away. Our bodies separate abruptly.

— Yes, signorina bella?

The woman approaches, furious, her gaze burning with possessiveness.

— I asked you to come to my room last night. Why weren’t you there?! she shouts, her voice sharp as a whip.

I lower my head. Shame tightens my throat, almost cutting off my breath.

Angelo steps in immediately, like a shield.

— It’s my fault, he says firmly. I asked him for a favor. Forgive us.

— Forgive you? she repeats, venom dripping from her voice. You think it’s that simple? You ridicule me under my own roof!

Her hands tremble, but anger dominates her. She steps back, her heels striking the dirt with a sharp sound that echoes through the courtyard.

I barely raise my eyes. Angelo squeezes my shoulder. His smile returns—fragile—but his eyes betray worry.

The sky seems heavier. Noon approaches, and Paolo is preparing to leave.

— Azel! his voice thunders.

He mounts his horse and stares at me.

— I’m leaving and will return in a few hours. A man will come; tell Flora to prepare dinner before I return.

He spurs the horse. The animal leaps forward, kicking up dust, and Paolo leaves the courtyard without a glance back.

Silence falls immediately.

A heavy, almost hostile silence.

Without him, the house feels empty, unstable. Even cruel, Paolo imposes order. His absence leaves room for something even more dangerous.

In the kitchen, Flora stares at me with cold, open disgust.

— I understand…

— You could say thank you.

She tightens her lips as if the word burns her mouth.

— Get out of here, you dirty negro!

I leave without answering.

Answering is useless.

Always the same words.

Always the same humiliation.

Suddenly, a firm hand closes around my waist and pulls me sharply aside toward the stables.

Angelo.

— What are you doing? Stop!

He holds me against him, too tightly, almost violently, as if letting go would mean losing me.

— Don’t go to that madwoman’s room. Never. Promise me.

I lift my head, my gaze hard and defiant.

— I am not weak.

He smiles faintly, but his eyes remain serious, dark with worry.

— I know… that’s why I’m afraid for you, amore mio.

His words pass straight through me. If my skin were lighter, it would betray how shaken I am.

— I am a man. She can’t do anything to me.

He looks at me for a long time. Too long.

In that burning silence, everything we are not allowed to say hangs between us—heavy, forbidden, dangerous.

— Tonight…

Before I can respond, he leans down and places a kiss on my forehead.

Slow. Restrained. Filled with everything he keeps locked away.

Evening falls—not too early, not too late—wrapping the courtyard in a deceptively peaceful orange light. Paolo has already returned hours earlier.

He stands motionless before the gate, straight as a statue, calm in appearance.

Around him, the employees form a rigid line, silent, almost frozen. No one dares move.

I am there too, in the middle of the line, beside Angelo. A dull tension knots my stomach.

The roar of an engine suddenly tears through the air.

Then another. And another.

Several black cars stop in front of the wide-open gate.

Doors slam almost in unison. Men in black step out—precise, silent, disciplined.

They do not speak. They do not need to.

Their mere presence freezes the air.

The door of the central car opens slowly, with a sharp click that echoes like a warning.

Immediately, the space changes.

He walks forward with that distinctly Italian confidence.

Back straight, chin slightly raised, movements fluid yet firm. The black suit is not merely impeccable—it is perfectly tailored, fitted to his body like a second skin.

His dark hair is combed back with precision, revealing a clean forehead. His pale skin contrasts with it, and his gray gaze is direct, unwavering.

He holds eye contact. Calmly. For a long moment.

His hands stay close to his body, sometimes with his thumb hooked in the pocket of his trousers. Simple gestures. Measured.

No agitation.

— Paolo.

He does not raise his voice.

Because he does not need to.

— Boss… Paolo replies, stepping forward. How are you? It has been a long time. I am happy to see you again.

He extends his hand with a mixture of nervousness and respect. In a calculated gesture, he kisses the back of the man’s hand. Visible submission.

The man shows nothing.

Nothing crosses his face.

He pulls out a handkerchief and slowly wipes his hand, methodically, as if erasing an unwanted contact.

Then he turns away.

He and his men, all dressed in black, walk toward the salon. Each step echoes with precision, like a metronome. They need no guidance—their presence alone commands silence.

The employees scatter immediately, returning to their tasks as if the scene had never happened.

Two hours pass.

I finish my work and head toward the exit when my name stops me at the entrance.

— Azel.

I turn around.

Flora approaches. Every gesture calculated. Every step measured. Her face remains closed and hard.

— I need you to do me a favor, she says. You will serve the guests in our place. Two servants will accompany you.

I stare at her, stunned.

That is not my role. I have never done that.

— Why me? I ask. The maids are supposed to do that.

She looks at the women behind her. Some avoid my eyes. Others stand rigid.

— Some of them are afraid of those men, she explains. They lose their composure. I’m afraid they might give Paolo a bad image.

She hesitates a moment.

Her thumbs rub nervously against each other.

I know she has already decided.

I can feel it.

She does not like me. I do not know whether it is my skin—too dark in this bright house—or simply because I should not be here.

And yet, it is me they burden with this responsibility.

— But this service is reserved for women, I say. If I’m seen there—a man serving—it will look bad.

She looks at me for a moment, intrigued, then answers coldly:

— Better that than a maid spilling tea on those men.

I nod.

She leads me to the kitchen.

The maids wait in silence to hand me the dishes.

The salon is dark, heavy, suffocating. Thick curtains swallow the remaining light. The air smells of cold tobacco, leather, and burnt wax. Every breath feels watched.

The men in black are already there.

Scattered across the room. Motionless. Alert.

Their presence crushes the space.

At the center, the man who commands sits in a large armchair.

Back straight. Hands on the armrests.

No unnecessary movement.

No words.

The silence obeys him alone.

I enter with the servants.

All eyes fall on me.

Curiosity. Contempt. Icy indifference.

The last one is the worst.

I lower my head slightly—not out of submission, but out of survival instinct.

I serve the leader first. Every step makes my heart pound.

I extend the tray slowly. Carefully. Controlled.

He raises his eyes.

Studies me.

Not a man—but a thing.

A tool.

A commodity.

Then he takes his glass.

Without a word.

Behind me, the maids tremble. Their hands hesitate. Their movements threaten to break.

A dry laugh cuts through the air.

— So this is who serves us now, one murmurs.

— A black man, another adds coldly.

I do not answer.

I learned very early that silence costs less than words.

— Enjoy your meal, gentlemen.

The words leave me empty. Mechanical.

We leave the salon.

The door closes with a dull sound.

Outside, the air is cooler, but it washes away nothing. The smell of meat, wine, and power clings to the skin.

We breathe as one survives.

Slowly.

Without looking at each other.

Inside, the voice resumes.

Calm.

Implacable.

— Paolo, your merchandise has always been impeccable.

— Serious men are recognized by what they deliver.

A pause. The scraping of a knife against a plate.

— I buy a great deal. And yet… some are missing.

The sentence falls coldly.

As one speaks of cattle.

— Times are becoming restrictive. Laws are changing. States want to cleanse their conscience. Ports are closing. Inspections multiply.

An irritated breath.

— Officially, none of this exists anymore. Slavery is condemned. But you and I both know the world does not run on declarations.

He pauses.

Not to hesitate.

To be understood.

— I need slaves. Many. In silence.

It is neither a request nor a threat.

It is certainty.

— Do not worry, sir.

Paolo’s voice glides through the air.

Soft.

Controlled.

A caress along a razor’s edge.

— I will send you as many as you desire…

not by force, but by peaceful means.

— Trust me.

The words fall.

Cold.

Final.

The man smiles slowly.

Not out of kindness.

But out of satisfaction.

Rinaldi.

Lorenzo Rinaldi.

They call him Il Lupo Nero.

The Black Wolf.a