The lobby was marble and glass, voices echoing off high ceilings as people moved through in expensive suits and clicking heels.
Matteo walked beside his father, Victor a few steps behind, still looking dazed.
Felix kept pace with Matteo, silent but present.
They were almost to the exit when Matteo saw him.
Frankie.
He stood just outside the revolving doors, leaning against a black car with his arms crossed.
The tattoos on his neck seemed darker in the afternoon light, his expression unreadable behind designer sunglasses.
Two of his men flanked him—not the giants from the warehouse, but newer muscle. Younger. Hungrier.
Matteo's hand shot out, stopping his father mid-stride. "He's Still here."
Luciano's gaze snapped to the entrance, his jaw tightening. "Of course he is."
Victor pushed forward, craning to see.
When he spotted his father, something complicated crossed his face—relief mixed with apprehension. "Papa—"
"Stay close," Luciano said sharply, the command clear.
