Davian's Point Of View
I didn't waste time.
I practically flew down the highways, tires screeching, engine roaring like a wounded beast.
Nikolai D'Angelo's towering headquarters loomed over the city like a goddamn monument to power and arrogance, all glass, steel, and silent judgment.
I stormed through the marble lobby, ignoring the gasps from the receptionists and the startled security guards. My blood was boiling, my mind spinning. I had to fix this. Nikolai would fix this. He had to.
I was shown upstairs, escorted by a trembling assistant who looked like she wanted to bolt away from the sheer rage pouring off of me.
We reached the top floor.
His office.
The assistant knocked once, hesitantly, before pushing open the heavy oak door.
I didn't wait for permission.
I barged in.
Nikolai was behind his massive obsidian desk, backlit by the wide panoramic view of the city skyline.
