Vincenzo Dante Volkov:
The warm glow of the setting sun painted my office in shades of gold and orange, but I barely noticed it. My focus was on the reports in front of me—progress updates on the empire I had worked so hard to build.
The door opened suddenly, and Christopher walked in. He didn’t knock, didn’t ask for permission, which meant only one thing: something important. He dropped a folder on my desk, his face pale but tight with anger.
“You need to see this,” he said, his voice clipped.
I glanced at him, then at the folder. Slowly, I leaned forward, flipping it open.
The first few pages caught my attention immediately—photos of me. Taken from a distance, entering and leaving meetings, driving through familiar streets. Maps followed, my regular routes marked in thick red lines
