Was that why his phone calls kept coming, one after another?
Let him call.
Let him keep calling until his thumb bleeds.
I wasn’t going to answer.
Not now. Not ever.
Renzo paused at the heavy glass doors, one hand resting against the frame, and glanced back at me.
“Elena, this isn’t the time to play with your fucking phone,” he barked. “This is serious business. I don’t want to see you touching that thing until the meeting is over. That’s an order.”
I met his glare, a slow, sarcastic smile curving my lips.
“Yes, boss,” I replied sweetly, the word dripping with mock obedience.
The soldiers had already spread out.
Half swept the perimeter in silent, calculated arcs—checking blind spots, watching reflections in the glass, tracking movement that didn’t exist yet.
The other half formed a loose wedge behind us, creating a clear path to the entrance while still maintaining coverage.
Their rifle muzzles tracked every shadow.
Every flicker of light.
Every possible threat.
Renzo and I stepped through the heavy glass doors, our boots echoing sharply against the polished marble floor.
Inside, the building exuded brutal elegance — sleek lines, dark marble, and cold steel that made the entire space feel deliberately intimidating.
Twenty-foot ceilings stretched above us.
Black marble floors, veined with silver, reflected our movements in fractured shards.
Everything here was designed to impress.
And intimidate.
We moved through a wide corridor lined with abstract steel sculptures—twisted, sharp, and deliberately unsettling.
Some looked like they could be weapons themselves, angled and forged in a way that made my fingers itch.
Two escalators rose to a mezzanine above us.
At the top, Sicilian guards were already in position, their presence quiet but unmistakable.
Grey suits.
Earpieces.
Hands resting on slung MP5s.
They watched us pass without expression.
Without reaction.
