The penthouse door slammed against the wall as Din stormed in, moving like the wind.
He tore off his tuxedo jacket with both hands, eyes shimmering red, flung it across the room, it landed half on the couch, half on the floor.
His hands grazed aggressively against his tie, yanked it loose and flung like it was after his life. Veins visible on both hands, his jaw tightened. His feet moved hastily towards the minibar.
Elena Moretti entered behind him, calm as ever, bubble gum snapping. She had heard him come in; no one else could have slammed the door that way.
She didn’t flinch at the slam. She crossed to the couch, took up a magazine, and relaxed into the soft couch, back straight, the air tensed enough from Din’s boiling blood.
Din spun on her, eyes blazing, half-filled glass in han
