(Luca)
Morning light filtered through reinforced glass, pale and indifferent to the night my enemies had gifted me. The mansion stood exactly as it always did—immaculate, silent, obedient.
Appearances mattered.
I stood in my office, jacket still discarded, watching the courtyard below as men finished the last stages of cleanup. Blood was gone. Evidence catalogued. Silence restored.
The house had survived.
So had my authority.
But survival wasn’t enough.
Someone had sent men into my home believing I wouldn’t respond fast enough, hard enough, or personally enough. That assumption alone guaranteed their end.
Vincenzo had already delivered the preliminary reports. I didn’t need to read them twice. Entry points. Weapons used. Amateur mistakes masked by borrowed confidence.
A broker. An
