I head for my office.
When I push through my office door, I’m already prepared to see him.
Antonio is never late. Ever.
He’s always here—always waiting for me to step into the room to make sure I made it here all right. Usually, I walk in, and there’s that immediate, grounding shift in my chest. The sense that whatever else is coming, I’m not facing it alone.
But the office is empty.
My smile falls off my face before I canstop it.
I stand there for a beat, hand still on the door, my eyes sweeping the space like he might be hiding behind furniture for some reason. The chair by the window is untouched. My desk is pristine. No shadow in the corner. No low voice, no “dolcezza,” no heated presence taking over my office.
Nothing.
My stomach tightens.
He’s never been late.
A cold thought crawls up my spine:He got caught.
Security. Cameras. A guard who finally caught on. A badge scan that didn’t match. A door that didn’t open.
I don’t even know how he gets in here.
Maybe he’s being arrested right now.
The image hits so vividly it makes my breath snag—Antonio Conti, hands behind his back, jaw clenched, looking at a guard like he’s deciding whether to talk his way out or break the man’s wrist and leave.
My pulse jumps hard enough to sting.
I step farther in, turning in a slow circle. “Antonio?” My voice comes out too quiet, too thin.
I glance at the wall clock. David gave me two minutes. My phone is in my hand before I realize it, thumb alreadyhovering.
A flicker of motion outside my glass wall catches my attention.
My head snaps up—
Antonio appears in the corridor like he materialized out of thin air, moving fast enough that the suit blurs. His expression is not “morning.” Not “fine.”
It’s all hard and focused.
He’s through my door in a stride.
And before I can even open my mouth, his hand closes around my forearm.
“Let’s go,” he says, low. “Now.”
My heart slams. “Antonio— What’s going on?”
He doesn’t answer. He pulls.
I stumble, barely catching my balance as he drags me into the hall—not toward the elevators, not toward the lobby, not toward the exit.
The wrong direction.
Panic crackles through me. “Antonio—”
