The air in Emilia’s penthouse had changed.
It wasn’t the rain- the storm had passed. The glass walls no longer trembled with thunder, and the city outside had resumed its usual rhythm of noise, crime, and ambition.
No. This was a storm of a different kind.
The kind that wore cologne and entered without knocking.
Cesare Rossi stood in her doorway, immaculately dressed, a silk pocket square tucked into his jacket like he had nowhere to be but everywhere to conquer. His eyes moved over the space with the ease of someone accustomed to dominance.
And yet, beneath the charm, Emilia saw it- that flicker of uncertainty in his jaw, the tightness in his smile.
He was worried.
Good.
“Emilia,” he said, stepping further in. “You’ve been hard to reach.”
She didn’t rise from the sofa. She simply
