The heavy oak door creaked softly as Matteo entered.
He didn't speak. Didn't sit.
He stood just inside the office—hands behind his back, posture formal, as if returning to the strict discipline of childhood.
Don Luciano didn't look up at first. He remained behind his massive desk, a crystal decanter in hand, pouring a measure of amber liquid into a glass that gleamed in the morning light.
Only after the crystal stopper clicked shut did he speak.
"What's the important thing?" His tone was unhurried. Dry. Almost bored.
Matteo didn't flinch. "We have a traitor."
Don Luciano took a sip.
Then — without so much as a glance toward his son — he replied, "We always have traitors."
A silence stretched between them.
Matteo's jaw tightened, but he held it in. He stepped forward one pace.
"This one's closer."
That got a flicker of interest. Don Luciano set the glass down gently and finally lifted his gaze.
"How close?"
"Zurich. Milan. Internal logins using senior clearance." Matteo's voice didn't waver. But it held weight — the kind born of calculation, not emotion.
Don Luciano leaned back in his chair, hands folded loosely on his lap.
"You've confirmed?"
"I don't deal in guesses."
That earned a nod. Quiet, curt.
"What have you done?"
"Shut down their movements. Scrambled access. I'm tightening the upper ranks one by one. The board's shaken, but none of them would dare admit it."
"And the rat?"
"Still burrowing," Matteo said coldly. "But not for long."
There was a long pause. Don Luciano studied his son the way one might examine a weapon—well-made, dangerous, sharp-edged and controlled.
Then he rose from his chair slowly, stepping around the desk until he stood face to face with Matteo.
Not quite eye to eye. The years between them still carved their hierarchy deep.
"I built this house on the bones of liars, Matteo," Don Luciano said quietly. "You don't need to tell me about traitors. You just need to crush them before they think they're strong."
Matteo nodded once, measured.
"That's what I intend to do."
His father gave a faint hum of approval, but there was no warmth behind it. Only expectation.
"Then don't let Anything distract you."
Matteo didn't blink. Didn't respond.
But Don Luciano saw the shift in his jaw—the flicker behind the calm. And he smiled, small and sharp.
"Emotion is expensive. Love? Even worse." He stepped past Matteo, hand already reaching for his glass again. "We can't afford either."
Matteo's silence was colder than any reply.
He turned without another word and left the room, the door closing with a final, soft click behind him.
Matteo stepped out, the quiet click of the door sealing the weight between them.
He didn't loosen his stance; his fingers only smoothed his jacket sleeve as his gaze cut down the hallway.
Two of his men straightened immediately. Without glancing at them, he spoke—
"Start the car."
"Yes, Don."
They moved swiftly, the echo of leather shoes and polished soles on marble the only sound. Matteo walked ahead, not waiting.
By the time he reached the front steps, the car was already there—sleek, black, engine purring low like it had a heartbeat of its own.
The driver opened the back door.
Matteo paused only for a second, eyes scanning the wide courtyard, the guards stationed at every corner. His jaw shifted.
Then he ducked into the car.
The door shut with a soft thud. Inside: silence, leather, and the faint scent of cologne and control.
"Where to, sir?" the driver asked.
Matteo leaned back, one hand lifting to his chin in thought.
His voice was smooth.
"Take me to the tower."
The car pulled away—swift, clean, as the Romano estate faded behind him.
But in the rearview mirror… Matteo's eyes never blinked.
Rain traced hesitant lines across the glass, as if even the sky was reluctant to speak.
Inside the car, Matteo remained still. One leg crossed over the other, hand resting beneath his jaw, the other gently drumming against the armrest.
A storm was building—not outside, but within.
"Any update?" he asked, eyes locked on the blur of city lights through the tinted glass.
The driver didn't answer—but the guard in the passenger seat tapped his earpiece. "Romano's office reports a list of narrowed suspects. Files are being compiled now. You'll have them by the time we arrive."
Matteo gave a slow nod. "And the girl?"
"Still loyal. For now."
His gaze flicked sideways. "Loyalty isn't real until it's tested."
The car took a turn—smooth, gliding past wet pavements and steel towers that cut into the clouds like knives.
Ahead, Romano Corp rose from the earth like a dark throne—sleek, silent, untouchable.
As they approached the private entrance, Matteo's eyes narrowed.
"Check the cameras again," he said.
"Sir?"
"There was a van parked outside last night. Two minutes too long."
The driver pressed a button. The windshield darkened just a shade more.
Matteo leaned forward, voice a quiet thread of command.
"Find out who was watching."
The car rolled to a stop beneath the overhang.
Two guards immediately moved—one opening the door, the other scanning the perimeter.
Matteo stepped out, coat catching the wind. He didn't pause.
As he passed the front guards, one of them murmured, "Morning, Don."
He didn't answer.
There were bigger things than morning greetings.
He was here to finish what someone else started.
The glass doors slid open before he reached them.
Inside, the lobby was dimly lit — not by failure, but by design.
Shadows draped over black marble floors and walls lined with brushed steel.
Romano Corp didn't welcome; it warned.
Staff stood straighter.
Phones were lowered. Conversations stopped mid-sentence.
His steps echoed — measured leather on cold stone. Calm. Controlled. A warning in motion.
His assistant, Bianca, appeared at his side with a tablet already in hand.
"Files on the breach," she said, walking in sync. "IT narrowed it to three names. All senior clearance. All internal."
Matteo glanced once. "Cross-reference them with Zurich's travel logs. If one of them stepped into that city without approval, I want to know the hour they landed and who met them at the terminal."
"Yes, Don."
"Also," he added without looking, "I want you to personally audit every device connected to our server from midnight to now. No delegation."
Bianca hesitated just half a breath.
Matteo stopped walking. His gaze landed on her.
She swallowed. "I'll do it myself."
"Good." He kept walking.
The private elevator was waiting. When the doors opened, only Matteo entered.
No guards.
No assistants.
Just him and the hum of steel rising.
As the elevator climbed, he adjusted the cuff of his shirt—slowly, deliberately. A quiet ritual.
The air inside tightened, the silence more intimate than peace.
His reflection stared back from the dark glass walls.
Unmoving.
Unforgiving.
The doors slid open with a soft chime.
Top floor.
The heart of the empire.
Matteo stepped into the hallway. Frosted glass, muted light, the scent of expensive ink and colder intentions.
At the end of the hall, the boardroom doors stood open.
But he didn't go in yet.
He turned instead to the room just across — his private office.
When he entered, the lights flicked on automatically.
He walked past the towering shelves of legal binders, past the antique liquor cart, straight to the window overlooking the city.
Rain blurred the skyline.
Below, people rushed like ants through the wet streets.
He stood there, hands behind his back, jaw locked tight.
Somewhere in this building, a traitor was breathing his air.
That breath would be their last.