Rico stood by the doorway, watching as Fabio drove Calla out of the mansion. His eyes stayed on the car until it disappeared down the road. Only then did he turn back inside and shut the door behind him, the sound echoing through the quiet house.
He took the stairs two at a time, his steps heavy, his jaw locked so tight it ached. Once inside his room, he didn’t bother turning on the lights. He went straight to the dresser, pulled out his phone, and stared at the screen for a moment longer than necessary. His face was calm, but the anger was there, sitting just beneath the surface, waiting.
He dialed the number and lifted the phone to his ear as it rang twice. Then someone picked up.
“Oh, how I’ve been waiting for your call, Rico—”
“Cut the bullshit,” he snapped, his voice low and flat.
