The living room felt different when everyone was in it.
Not loud.
Not playful.
Marco stood near the long wooden table, sleeves rolled up, dark ink crawling up his forearms as he leaned over the spread of maps and printed layouts. Papers were scattered — property lines, camera placements, patrol rotations.
Alex rested his hands on the back of a chair across from him. Calm, but the kind of calm that only happened when he was thinking five moves ahead.
Max sat sideways on the couch arm beside me, one arm draped lazily across my shoulders like it belonged there. Cassian leaned against the wall behind us, silent as always, watching everyone instead of the papers.
Francesco and Enzo hovered closer to the table, listening but restless — like dogs waiting for a door to open.
The bodyguards
