“Come in,” I said, my voice clipped.
Matteo walked in, dressed in his usual black shirt, his eyes dark and unreadable. I knew that look—it wasn’t business. It wasn’t something he could simply drop on my desk and leave. It was heavier. Deadlier.
“What is it?” I asked, already leaning back in my chair, studying him.
He closed the door behind him, silence stretching for a moment. Then he came forward, planting a file on my desk.
“It’s the Russians.”
My jaw tightened. “Be specific.”
Matteo’s eyes flickered with something—hesitation. That alone made my stomach twist. Matteo didn’t hesitate. Ever.
He spoke slowly, like he knew the words would cut.
“Mikhail Bratva is the one after Isabella.”
For a split second, the world stilled. The sound of the clock on the wall, the faint noise of car
