The air inside the warehouse was thick with tension, the scent of oil and cold metal hanging like a noose. Alessandro De Luca’s sleek black Maserati came to a halt just outside the building. The door opened with a smooth click, and the man himself stepped out, dressed in black, expression unreadable, his steps sharp and controlled.
Inside, Niccolò stood with the rigid precision of a soldier. He was Alessandro’s second in command, a man who rarely spoke and never smiled. His cold eyes were locked on the man kneeling before him, a Glock pressed against the back of the traitor’s head. The man trembled, sweat running down his temples in thick rivulets despite the cold.
Alessandro's voice was low, deadly.
“Chi è questo?”
(Who is this?)
Niccolò straightened slightly, sparing a glance at his
