Matteo didn't knock. He pushed through the double doors of his father's office with the photos still gripped in one hand, the paper edges creasing under his tight grip.
The chairman's suite smelled of dark wood and old whiskey; light from the blinds slashed across leather-bound books and carefully organized papers, creating stark contrasts of shadow and illumination.
Don Luciano sat behind his massive mahogany desk, fingers steepled beneath his chin, eyes already on the door as if he'd been waiting.
The old man didn't look surprised.
He never did—decades of running the family business had taught him to expect trouble at any moment.
"Matteo," he said evenly, voice like gravel smoothed by decades of authority and power. "I assume this isn't a social visit."
Matteo crossed the room in three long strides and dropped the photos onto the polished desk.
They landed with a soft slap that seemed louder than it should have been in the heavy silence of the room.
