Marco

The heavy oak doors slammed shut behind him, silencing the room instantly. Lorenzo De Luca stood at the head of the table, his cold gaze slicing through the gathered men like a blade. “I don’t repeat myself,” he said, his voice sharp, measured, deadly. Every word carried weight, every pause a warning. His men sat rigid, afraid to breathe too loudly under his scrutiny. But then his eyes found you, seated quietly in the corner. For a moment, the harsh lines of his face softened, but only for y