He says something under his breath, too low for me to make out.
A pause.
Another quiet sentence.
When he faces me again, his expression is unreadable.
“This way.”
Relief hits so hard my knees almost soften under me, but I lock them and follow.
We pass through a door that requires a keycard, then down a corridor that trades casino carpet for dark hardwood. The noise from the floor drops away like someone closed a lid on it.
An elevator. Another keycard. The guard doesn’t speak, and neither do I.
When the doors open, the difference is immediate. Dark wood paneling. Dim lighting. A hallway that smells like leather and something expensive I can’t name. There are two more men stationed outside a set of double doors, both armed, both watching me like I’m a package that might detonate.
The guard who brought me up nods to them. One opens the door.
And then I’m standing in Lorenzo Andretti’s office.
It’s large and quiet and ruthlessly elegant. Floor-to-ceiling windows behind a massive desk look out over the Vegas strip. A view meant to remind you who owns it.
Lorenzo sits behind the desk. I know him immediately. He looks exactly like Luca’s drawings. The same hard lines in his face. The same dark eyes that miss nothing. But drawings can’t capture what it feels like to stand in front of him. The stillness. The authority. The sense that he does not need to raise his voice to make a room obey.
He’s not alone.
Luca’s brother Dario stands to his right, arms crossed, expression hard. His uncle Paolo is near the window, quiet and watchful. I recognize them both from Luca’s drawings. Two others flank the room, familiar for the same reason, though I can’t put names to them.
Every eye in the room lands on me at once.
Every hand goes closer to a weapon.
“Who is this?” Dario’s voice is flat and unfriendly.
“Natalia Kozlov.”
I say it before the guard can answer. I say it looking at Lorenzo, not Dario, because Lorenzo is the one who matters right now.
Lorenzo doesn’t move at all. His eyes narrow, just slightly, and I can feel him taking me apart. The bruises. The torn sleeve. The fact that I’m standing here at all.
“Tell me why I shouldn’t have you thrown out.”
No hello. No courtesy. No invitation to sit.
Okay. I don’t have time for any of that either.
“Because my father has Luca,” I say. I press my hands flat against my thighs to keep them from shaking. “And we need to get him out before it’s too late.”
The room shifts. Dario steps forward. Paolo’s hand drops from the window frame. The two men I don’t recognize both go still.
“And you know this how?” Lorenzo’s voice is sharp enough to cut glass.
“Boris. My father’s head of security. He told me they have Luca. That my father was going to kill him.”
“He told you all that and then just let you leave. To come here.” Dario’s tone says exactly what he thinks of that.
“He didn’t let me do anything.” The words stick. I force them out anyway. “He’s dead.” I swallow. The words taste like bile. “I killed him getting out.
