Enzo Bernadi crouched in the shadows of an abandoned corridor, his breathing controlled, his every movement calculated. His hand clutched the tablet he had lifted from the security room earlier, the glowing screen showing live feeds from the mansion's cameras. With the tap of a finger, he cycled through the footage, carefully tracking Donovan Giambelli and his men as they swept the premises.
Enzo's lips curled into a sneer as he listened in on their communications, their voices carrying through the tablet's audio feed. They were confident, too confident. Even now, barking orders and reorganizing after their so-called victory, they had no idea how close he was.
"Idiots," he muttered under his breath, his sharp eyes glinting with malice.
He had been underestimated—grossly so. Even now, as
