Giovanni Moretti
I paced my office like a caged lion, the plush carpet doing little to muffle my heavy footsteps. The scent of expensive leather and aged whiskey hung in the air, a stark contrast to the acrid taste of frustration on my tongue. Marco Mancini sat before me, a pathetic figure slumped in an armchair worth more than his entire wardrobe. His eyes darted around the room, never meeting mine, as if searching for an escape that didn't exist.
"Why?" I demanded, my voice low and dangerous. "Why did you sell her out, Mancini?"
He flinched at my words, his hands fidgeting with the frayed cuffs of his once-fine suit. "To save her," he stammered, desperation dripping from every syllable. "They told me she was in danger. I thought... I thought I was protecting her."
A bitter laugh esca
