The old warehouse smelled like rust and memory.
Matteo stepped through the heavy steel door first, his father a half-step behind.
The space opened up before them—high ceilings crossed with exposed beams, dim fluorescent lights casting long shadows across cracked concrete.
It had been years since either of them had set foot here, but the place hadn't changed. Still cold. Still unforgiving.
Fox stood in the center of the room, hands clasped behind his back like a man surveying his kingdom.
He looked older than Matteo but his eyes were sharp as ever. Calculating. Cruel.
Flanking him were two men built like mountains.
Thick necks, broad shoulders, hands that looked like they could crush bone without effort.
Both held guns at their sides, not aimed yet, but ready.
A warning written in muscle and steel.
"Benvenuti," Fox said smoothly, his voice echoing off the walls. [Welcome.] "Sono contento che siate venuti." [I'm glad you came.]
