The room was dimly lit, casting long shadows across the dark wooden desk where Isabella and Dominic sat. The air was thick with tension as they poured over maps, documents, and surveillance footage, trying to piece together a strategy that could finally put an end to Russo’s relentless pursuit.
Dominic leaned back in his chair, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the top buttons of his white dress shirt undone, revealing the strain of the past week in the tired lines around his eyes. He rubbed a hand over his face, his expression one of deep concentration.
“We’ve been cutting down his allies, weakening his support, but it’s like cutting heads off a Hydra,” Dominic said, his voice low and edged with frustration. “For every one we take out, two more seem to spring up. But it’s not the ot
