Amber Snake heart

　　The second decade of the 21st century, like an overfed behemoth, sprawled languidly on the back of history. 　　Prosperity was its fur, glossy and brilliant, gleaming before the floor-to-ceiling windows of financial centers; it was an era where conviction was traded for profit. Ancient doctrines and nascent algorithms coexisted in the city's veins, one side illuminated by the dim candlelight of churches, the other by the cold blue glow of server rooms. 　　People worshipped success, regardless of its origin. Wall Street elites plundered wealth with complex financial models, hailed as pioneers of the era; while families entrenched in the city's deeper fabric upheld the world's order through ancient ties of blood, loyalty, and violence. 　　A red Maserati Quattroporte was ensnared by the traffic laws of this urban jungle. 　　The car windows were one-way, their dark tint shielding both the scorching afternoon sun and the inquisitive gazes of passersby. Inside, the air conditioning was at full blast, filling the space with the scent of leather and a crisp, cool perfume. 　　Giovanna Vittorio removed her Dior sunglasses. 　　It was a face overly favored by God, its features as exquisitely sculpted as a statue, yet her eyes held a weariness beyond her years. She watched the faces outside the window as if observing a silent film. 　　Between them and her, there was the distance of a bulletproof pane. A world. 　　"What's happening, Enzo?" Her voice was soft, with a husky quality, like fine velvet. 　　In the driver's seat, a burly young man gripped the steering wheel, his gaze fixed forward. 　　"Miss, the police are clearing the road ahead. Looks like a protest outside City Hall." Enzo's voice was steady as a bell. "Please be patient, it will be over soon." 　　Giovanna said nothing more, replacing her sunglasses and retreating back into the shadows. 　　Protest. What a cheap word. Her father, Vito Falcone, never needed to express displeasure in such a manner. He would make those who displeased him, along with their grievances, vanish into some forgotten dawn. 　　Traffic was like congealed asphalt, motionless. 　　An ant-like irritation crawled into her heart. She detested this feeling of being out of control, detested being trapped, whether in this tin can or within the surname 'Vittorio.' 　　The refreshing floral scent in the car suddenly became cloying. 　　Unconsciously, she pressed the button to lower the car window. 　　The city's clamor surged in instantly. Car horns, crowd shouts, mingled with the greasy scent of hot dog stands and cheap perfume. Raw, real, full of life. 　　And full of danger. Enzo glanced at her in the rearview mirror, his lips moving, but ultimately he said nothing. He knew the young lady's temperament. 　　Giovanna's gaze pierced through the gap, landing on the human wall formed by the police not far away. 　　They wore dark blue uniforms, wielded batons, and with stern expressions, pushed back a crowd holding crudely written placards. The scene was somewhat chaotic, shoves and curses rising and falling. 　　Her gaze swept over the tense or angry faces, finally settling on one individual. 　　... 　　He was somewhat different from the other police officers. 　　He wasn't in the front row, directly clashing with the protesters, but stood slightly to the side and rear, a position more conducive to observing the overall situation. 　　He wore a lighter tactical vest instead of heavy body armor, making his figure appear exceptionally slender and upright. He wore no police cap, revealing well-cut black short hair, a few strands dampened with sweat clinging to his forehead. 　　His eyes were like a hawk's. 　　An agitated protester suddenly broke free from the human wall, waving a placard and charging past the cordon, seemingly targeting an official who had just emerged from City Hall. 　　Nearby police immediately moved to subdue him, and the situation momentarily spiraled. 　　It was then that the man moved. 　　His movements weren't fast, but they were precise, as if calculated. One step forward, a sidestep, and he disarmed the man's forward momentum, then seamlessly pinned him to the ground. The entire process was fluid as a dance, devoid of any superfluous violence, yet filled with an undeniable suppressive force. 　　The protester was pinned to the ground, still struggling in vain, muttering indistinct curses. 　　The man simply knelt on his back with one knee, his weight steady, like an unshakeable mountain. 　　He didn't look back at the official he had protected, nor did he acknowledge the approving glances from his colleagues. He merely turned his head slightly, surveying the agitated crowd, his hawk-like eyes filled with utter calm, a scrutiny that was almost indifferent. 　　Giovanna's fingers unconsciously tightened, her nails leaving shallow marks on the expensive leather seat. She was accustomed to violence; her father's violence was direct, destructive, like a sudden thunderstorm, sweeping everything away without leaving a trace. But the violence of the man before her was different. It was like a surgeon's scalpel: precise, restrained, excising the diseased part without damaging healthy tissue. This was the violence of order, a power operating within rules. 　　Her gaze lingered on the man for a moment, then shifted away. 　　Through that crack, not only the city's clamor but also an unrestrainable anger seeped in. She looked through the car window at the placards. 　　"Stop Funding Warmongers!", "Our Money Is Not For Killing!", "Peace, Now!", "Focus on Domestic Livelihoods, Not Foreign Wars!" These slogans, like invisible hammers, pounded the air. 　　"Enzo, what are these people protesting about?" 　　Enzo glanced in the rearview mirror, his tone steady: "Miss, it's mainly against the government's stance on the Karsas region conflict. Since large-scale warfare broke out there last year, oil and food prices haven't stopped rising. Although the government verbally advocates peace, they've been secretly channeling weapons to warring factions through arms dealers and providing economic aid to certain groups. The public believes this exacerbates the conflict while depleting domestic resources, leading to inflation and hardship for ordinary people." 　　Giovanna didn't respond immediately. She took out her phone, her slender fingers tapping the screen. Within seconds, real-time news from social media and local media headlines appeared before her eyes. Hashtags like #KarsasCrisis, #AntiWarProtest, #WhoToBlameForSoaringPrices quickly dominated the trending topics. Videos of clashes between demonstrators and police played repeatedly, the comment sections filled with anger, despair, and exhaustion. 　　One news item caught her attention: **'Poll Shows Nearly 70% Dissatisfaction with Government's Handling of Karsas Conflict, Economic Pressure as Main Catalyst.'** The article was accompanied by a photo of an emaciated child against a backdrop of scorched ruins. 　　Giovanna frowned. She knew Karsas. It was a distant country, torn by war, rich in oil and mineral resources. Her family, the Vittorio, had also been involved in resource trading there through covert channels. Violence, profit, power struggles—these words buzzed in her ears, forming the core of her world. But at this moment, these abstract terms were concretized into the angry crowd before her and the shocking images on her phone screen. 　　"What do they want?" Giovanna asked again, her gaze sweeping over the faces, some young, some old, all burning with a similar fire in their eyes. 　　Enzo sighed: "All they want is life. A peaceful, stable life. They feel the government's decisions are dragging them into the mire." He paused, then added, "However, Miss, these protests are often all bark and no bite. The government will issue symbolic statements, offer some appeasement, and then everything will go on as usual. After all, some chains of interest cannot be shaken by a few mere demonstrations." 　　His words, like a basin of cold water, extinguished the faint curiosity that had arisen in Giovanna's heart regarding the 'violence of order.' In her father's world, there were no such powerless protests. Only direct action, and unquestionable results. 　　Outside the car window, the crowd's agitation had not subsided. More police arrived at the scene, forming a second line of defense. Warnings blared from loudspeakers, their voices scattered by the wind, indistinct. 　　Giovanna noticed that the tall police officer remained steadfast in his position, like a reef, unmoved by the crashing waves. His gaze remained calm and cautious, as if he were calculating the emotional curve of the crowd, anticipating the next flashpoint. 　　A middle-aged woman suddenly rushed to the cordon, crying out in a heart-wrenching wail, holding a child's photograph in her hand. Her cries pierced through the car horns and the crowd's din, reaching Giovanna's eardrums. It was the despair of losing everything, a howl of being pushed to the brink. Giovanna's heart, at that moment, seemed to be gently touched by something. 　　She turned her gaze back to the police officer. He didn't step forward to offer comfort, nor did he display any emotion. He merely adjusted his stance slightly, his center of gravity dropping, ready to respond to any sudden developments. He was like a precisely operating machine, every command carefully considered, every ounce of strength used with surgical precision. 　　This coldness and efficiency made Giovanna feel a hint of strangeness. She had once believed power was about being unrestrained, doing as one pleased. But this man, with his extreme restraint and precision, demonstrated another form of strength. He wasn't unleashing violence; he was controlling it. 　　… 　　Luca stood behind the police cordon, his form ramrod straight. His gaze constantly swept between the crowd and his officers, assessing every potential flashpoint. But just as the suppressed anger in the crowd was about to boil over, his eyes inadvertently drifted to the red luxury sedan with its half-lowered window. 　　Inside, a woman was turned sideways to him. A chignon of dark hair was elegantly pinned up, revealing a graceful stretch of neck. Below her sunglasses were full, exquisitely shaped red lips, and beneath the black lace of her collar, the sharp, sexy line of her clavicle. 　　Luca’s heart, in that instant, felt a subtle tug from an unseen hand. Behind the car window was a face he had only ever seen in the most classified files of the intelligence department. He recognized her. Giovanna Vittorio. She was more striking than in the photographs, a beauty that was both cold and vibrant, flawless as a Roman sculpture yet exuding the independence and intellect of a modern woman. She seemed like a still painting amidst the chaotic street, out of place with the surrounding clamor, yet her unique aura drew every inadvertent glance. 　　Just then, a greater commotion erupted from the rear of the crowd. It seemed another, more radical group of protesters had broken through the outer perimeter, merging into the already seething square. The human wall of police began to sway, like a dike in a storm. 　　“Miss, please close the window,” Enzo's voice, for the first time, carried a distinct note of tension. 　　Giovanna ignored him. 　　She felt the officer's gaze on her. She didn't turn to meet his eyes, but her chin lifted slightly, the corners of her mouth curling into a curve that was not quite a smile. 　　She raised her hand to the button to raise the window. 　　… 　　Suddenly, a brick, whistling sharply through the air, flew from the crowd. It sailed over the heads of the police, its target not any specific person, but the stream of traffic that represented power and wealth. 　　Its trajectory was aimed precisely at the red Maserati. 　　Enzo's curse echoed inside the car, his hand already reaching for his waist. But it was all too fast. 　　Giovanna saw only a blur. The figure who had been standing in the distance was now, somehow, in front of her car. He had almost anticipated the brick's trajectory, moving to intercept it without a shred of hesitation. 　　He didn't use his hand to block it; that would have been foolish. He simply used the tip of his baton to precisely tap the brick on its downward path. 　　“Thud!” 　　A muffled sound. 　　The tap altered the brick's course. It grazed the hood of the car and shattered on the asphalt. 　　And he, due to the force of the block, was thrown back a step by inertia, his back slamming solidly against the Maserati's door. The very door by which Giovanna had just lowered the window. 　　The world seemed to hit a mute button. 　　The city's clamor, the crowd's roars, all faded into a distant background hum. Through that narrow gap, Giovanna could smell the coarse scent that came off him, a mix of sweat, dust, and cordite. 　　He steadied himself, not moving away immediately. Instead, he turned his head, his gaze shooting like a blade through the slit of the window. 　　“Close it.” 　　His voice was deeper than she had imagined, a concise command, devoid of any politeness. 　　Their eyes met. 　　In those deep-set eyes, Giovanna saw the reflection of her own face, obscured by sunglasses. She saw no disgust, no sycophancy—only a pure, undeniable warning. As if admonishing a reckless child not to expose herself in a dangerous jungle. 　　As if by some strange compulsion, she obeyed. 　　The window continued its slow ascent, sealing out the coarse scent as the delicate fragrance of roses reclaimed the cabin. The man's face, along with the warning in his eyes, disappeared behind the dark tint. 　　The traffic finally began to inch forward. 　　… 　　The purr of the Maserati's engine grew faint and then fell silent outside the high walls of the Vittorio family estate. The heavy wrought-iron gates, carved with the family crest, swung open in the darkness, revealing a driveway flanked by meticulously pruned rose gardens. The lamps on either side cast a soft, amber glow on the immaculate cobblestones. In the distance, the main residence stood imposing and solemn against the night sky, warm light spilling from every window, yet emanating an indescribable sense of distance. 　　Everything here was as precise as the gears of a clock, a jarring contrast to the urban chaos and roaring crowds Giovanna had witnessed during the day. 　　Giovanna gazed through the car window, her eyes sweeping over the familiar sights. The towering walls seemed to divide the world in two: on one side, the muddy struggle of reality; on the other, the golden cage woven from order and power that she had inhabited since birth. Luca's command, “Close it,” and the heart-wrenching cries of the middle-aged woman, were like two sharp arrows that had pierced her usual detached facade, stirring ripples in the depths of her heart. She felt an unprecedented sense of fragmentation, as if her soul were being torn between two entirely different worlds, unable to fully belong to either. 　　The car stopped smoothly under the portico of the main house. Enzo quickly got out and respectfully opened Giovanna's door. He kept his head bowed, his tone steady and deferential: “Miss, the Madam has instructed that there is a family dinner tonight.” 　　Giovanna gave a soft “mm” without another word. She stepped out, her high heels clicking elegantly on the marble steps. 　　Crossing the vast hall, Giovanna headed straight for her private dressing room on the second floor. Inside, the light from a crystal chandelier illuminated everything in a bright, day-like glow, and the air was filled with the faint scent of iris. Her personal stylist, Maria, had been waiting, and was now ironing a velvet gown to perfection. 　　“Miss Giovanna, you're finally back,” Maria greeted her with a smile, a flicker of concern in her eyes. “The Madam has been here twice, urging you to prepare for the dinner.” 　　Giovanna nodded, shrugging off her coat and tossing it onto a sofa. She sat down at the vanity, her gaze falling on her reflection in the mirror. Her exquisite face now carried a trace of weariness, and a lingering thoughtfulness in the depths of her eyes. 　　Just then, the dressing room door was gently pushed open, and an elegant figure walked in. Madam Vittorio, Giovanna's mother, was like a muse stepping out of a classical painting. She wore a perfectly tailored, wine-red silk gown. 　　Her beauty was a blend of flamboyance and restraint, like a red rose blooming on an icy peak, possessing both a fatal allure and an inviolable dignity. 　　“My daughter, you've finally returned.” Madam Vittorio's voice was as deep and magnetic as a cello, carrying a hint of reproach, yet filled with a mother's concern for her daughter. “Maria, please get Miss Giovanna ready quickly. The dinner will begin soon. We have several important guests tonight.” 　　She walked up behind Giovanna, her hands resting lightly on her daughter's shoulders, studying Giovanna's face in the mirror. Her gaze was sharp and precise, as if it could see through everything. 　　“You don't look well today. Were you troubled by those tedious business negotiations again?” Madam Vittorio gently stroked Giovanna's hair, the motion practiced and controlling. “Remember, Giovanna, as a daughter of the Vittorio family, your poise and grace are always the family's primary calling card. You must never let fatigue or trouble diminish your brilliance.” 　　Giovanna closed her eyes, feeling the coolness of her mother's fingertips, a coolness that carried the scent of perfume and family legacy. 　　“I'm fine, Mother. I just ran into a little trouble outside today,” Giovanna said, opening her eyes to meet her mother's in the mirror. 　　Madam Vittorio's brow furrowed slightly, a subtle worry in her tone. “A little trouble? Didn't Enzo tell you the city is unsettled lately? Those foolish commoners always like to create pointless commotions. You should avoid those chaotic places.” She paused, then added, “But, since you're back safely, it doesn't matter. At dinner, pay more attention to the new faces. Some of them will be important future partners for the family.” 　　Giovanna looked at her mother's face, a beautiful and intelligent face that always maintained a perfect calm. This calmness puzzled her. Was her mother truly ignorant of the family's affairs? Ignorant of the deeper reasons behind those “pointless commotions,” of the family's “investments” in the Karsas region? Or had she chosen to escape, imprisoning herself in this magnificent cage, building walls around her heart with perfect etiquette and exquisite makeup to shut out all the world's turmoil? 　　She remembered a photograph of her mother when she was young. Back then, her eyes held a rebellious flame as she stood shoulder-to-shoulder with her father, radiating a similar sharp edge. But over time, that flame seemed to have been extinguished, replaced by the impeccable elegance and serenity of today. It made Giovanna think of herself. Was she destined for the same fate? 　　“Mother, do you think our family's 'investments' in the Karsas region can truly bring about the 'order' we desire?” Giovanna asked suddenly, her tone calm but laced with a probing edge. 　　The hand that was adjusting her collar paused. Madam Vittorio looked up, her gaze deep as she met her daughter's reflection. In that moment, her eyes revealed a complex emotion that Giovanna had never seen before. 　　“Giovanna, some things are not easily changed by us.” Madam Vittorio sighed softly, her voice so low it was almost inaudible. “The rules of this world are far more complex than we imagine. Everything your father does is to uphold the Vittorio family’s standing, to ensure we can continue to possess all that we have today. Remember, we are born noble, but nobility is not granted freely; it demands a price, requiring someone to bear those heavy responsibilities.” 　　She did not directly answer Giovanna’s question, but rather used a grand and vague concept of family responsibility to gently sidestep it. 　　…