Lorenzo
The study smells like cigars and old leather—my father's scent, ingrained into every surface like a brand. I stand in the doorway at three in the morning, listening to the silence of the Moretti mansion. Everyone's asleep. Even Marco, who usually prowls the halls like a guard dog, retired an hour ago.
This is my window.
I slip inside and close the door without a sound. My father taught me how to move like a ghost through these halls when I was twelve. He said a good boss needs to know when to be seen and when to disappear. What he didn't teach me was that I'd use those skills against him one day.
The safe is behind the Caravaggio painting—the one my mother loved. She used to stand in front of it for hours, studying the play of light and shadow. My father kept it after she died,
