The air in the safe house was thick—stale espresso, gun oil, and tension. The morning sun hadn’t yet risen over Milan, but inside Studio Legale Vero’s hidden chamber, the war had already begun.
Adrian stood at the head of the steel table, his back straight, eyes scanning each of them like a general before battle. No suit today. Just a black turtleneck, sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealing the faint scars that ran like rivers down his forearms—trophies from another life.
“They know,” he said, voice low, cutting through the silence like a blade. “Salvatore isn’t a brute. He’s a predator. And predators don’t need proof—they smell blood.”
Marco leaned back, boots on the table, cigarette dangling from his lips. “So what? Let him dig, he will get tired. We’re ghosts.”
“No,” Adrian said, c
