One of them, older and broader, is pushed toward the chair.
“Simon,” Alessandro says calmly, “have a seat.”
The man swallows hard and lowers himself slowly into the chair. My pulse quickens, but not from fear of the violence I know is coming. Violence doesn’t surprise me. I grew up around it.
What affects me is watching Alessandro—
steady, controlled, commanding in a way that makes the room feel smaller, as though his presence alone bends the walls at his will.
He stands in front of the man, arms crossed, jaw sharp. “Walk me through it,” he says. “The crates. Start from the top.”
Simon answers quickly, almost gratefully.
He talks about shipping delays, personnel changes, paperwork issues—everything he can think of.
Alessandro listens without interrupting, but I can tell he’s cataloging every detail, every twitch, every inconsistency.
“And who processed the cargo at the port this time?” he asks.
“Uh—same crew as usual,” Simon stammers.
“And they charged more?”
“N-no.”
The room goes silent.
Alessandro tilts his head. “No?”
Simon shakes his head. “They didn’t charge more, sir.”
A slow, cold smile touches Alessandro’s mouth. Not a kind smile. A smile that says he already knows the answer.
“So…” his voice drops, “you’re telling me the port didn’t charge more.”
“No, sir.”
“And the shipping papers didn’t show an increase.”
“No, sir.”
“Which means the only explanation…”
He steps forward, shadows cutting hard across his face.
“…is that someone here reported a higher fee.”
“No,” he whispers. “No, sir. I—I would never—”
Alessandro’s eyes narrow. “So my wife is a liar?”
The words slice straight through the room. Simon’s gaze snaps to mine— a split second, barely a flicker. But it’s enough.
Alessandro moves instantly, stepping in front of me like a shield snapping into place.
His voice explodes through the room, low, lethal, vibrating with something primal.
“Don’t fucking look at her.”
