Two hours later
Matteo sat behind his desk, the pen in his hand striking against the polished wood like a ticking clock—sharp, impatient, too steady to be casual.
The contracts before him were a blur of black ink and numbers, all meaningless now.
His mind was elsewhere, orbiting a single word that seemed to pulse with its own dark gravity.
Fox.
That name had weight—too familiar, too venomous, carrying years of history and blood.
A knock at the door broke through his thoughts like glass shattering.
"Come in," Matteo said, voice calm but taut as wire.
Luca stepped in, laptop tucked under his arm, the weight of bad news visible in the set of his shoulders.
Normally, the kid had this cocksure glint in his eyes, a spark of someone who knew he was good at what he did.
But now, that spark was dim, replaced by something grimmer.
He closed the door behind him with a soft click and approached the desk, expression grave.
