STRINGS II
457 Words
The Lamborghini cut through the city like a blade, its engine’s growl turning heads that neither of them noticed. Streetlights streaked across the windshield in flashes of gold, breaking up the darkness like camera shutters.
She kept her gaze on the passing blur of the city, pretending not to watch him from the corner of her eye. His hands on the wheel were steady, controlled. Even in motion, Adrian didn’t rush — he commanded.
“Matteo doesn’t like surprises,” he said suddenly.
“Then I’ll make sure I’m not one.”
A faint smile touched his lips. “I doubt that.”
They left the main streets behind, trading neon and noise for narrow roads lined with wrought-iron gates and stone walls draped in ivy. This was old money territory — the kind of place where secrets were carved into the foundations.
Finally, Adrian slowed before a gate that stood twice the height of his car. Black steel. Intricate patterns twisted into its frame. A discreet camera swiveled toward them.
A voice crackled through the intercom. “Name.”
“Adrian.”
The gate opened without another word.
They glided up a long, winding driveway lit by small ground lamps, their light catching on polished marble statues that lined the path — all of them faceless, like ghosts.
At the top sat Matteo Vescari’s mansion. It was all glass and shadows — tall windows reflecting the night, their interiors dark enough to hide whatever moved behind them. The house looked less like a home and more like a well-fed predator watching them approach.
When Adrian parked, the front door opened before they could knock. A man in a black suit stepped out, his face unreadable.
“Mr. Vescari is waiting,” he said.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of tobacco and something darker — a scent that whispered of things better left unnamed. The marble floors were cold under her heels.
They followed the silent man through a hallway lined with oil paintings. Every figure in them had their eyes obscured, either turned away or swallowed by shadow.
Then they entered a wide study.
Matteo Vescari sat behind a mahogany desk, the warm glow of a single lamp falling across his features. He was younger than she expected, maybe mid-thirties, but there was nothing young in his eyes. They were the color of burnished steel, sharp enough to cut without moving.
“Adrian,” Matteo said, his voice smooth but carrying an undercurrent of command. “And you must be…” He let the sentence hang, waiting.
She smiled faintly. “Someone you’ll want to remember.”
Adrian’s lips curved — not in amusement, but in something that hinted at a private game only he understood.
- Writer
