Alessio followed Vito into a narrow hallway lined with antique sconces that cast flickering shadows on the deep mahogany walls. The air here was colder, damp with the echo of whispered conversations and the secrets they kept. Vito moved with an assured grace, his tailored suit barely creasing as he strode toward a secluded corner room.
Once inside, Alessio took in the surroundings: a round table with an untouched glass of whiskey, a painting of some forgotten battle, and a single chair positioned as though someone had been interrogated in this very space not long ago. Vito shut the door with a soft click, leaning against it, arms crossing over his broad chest.
“Alessio,” Vito started, his voice steady, an eyebrow arched. “You play well. Almost too well for a man with so much at stake.”
