Survival training.
The car slowed and turned sharply before the engine cut, leaving a sudden, heavy silence.
The doors opened, and hands seized me—rough, decisive, leaving no room to struggle.
I was hauled out of the car, my feet barely touching the ground before they forced me forward.
Cold night air brushed my skin beneath the hood, sharp and biting against the heat trapped around me.
I stepped on stone, then on smooth tile.
Each footfall echoed—controlled by the men guiding me.
Doors opened and closed somewhere in the distance.
Familiar.
They stopped and shoved me roughly into a chair.
The impact jolted my spine painfully.
Then the hood was ripped off.
Light exploded into my vision, harsh and blinding.
I blinked rapidly, struggling to adjust as the world came into focus.
Polished marble floors gleamed under tall windows that reflected the faint shimmer of the lake beyond.
Recognition settled in my chest like ice.
This was Vincenzo’s villa, his study.
My pulse spiked.
The men holding me stepped back, but they did not leave.
They lingered, silent and watchful, as if waiting for me to make the next move.
I turned my head slightly.
Ciro stood to my left.
Arms crossed. Expression unreadable.
A wall.
Renzo stood to my right.
Freshly shaved head catching the light from the chandelier above.
Eyes dark.
Dangerous in a quieter way.
And then—I looked forward.
At the desk.
