Felix moved through the penthouse like he was exploring sacred ground, taking in every detail that revealed the man behind the carefully constructed walls.
The living room was impressive—expensive but lived-in, with throw blankets draped over the leather couch and a coffee table scattered with business magazines and what looked like a half-finished crossword puzzle.
It was so unexpectedly *normal* that Felix felt something in his chest loosen.
He moved to the bookshelves, fingers trailing along the spines.
Classic literature mixed with modern thrillers, business books alongside poetry.
One volume was dog-eared and worn—*The Count of Monte Cristo*. Felix pulled it out, finding notes in the margins in Matteo's precise handwriting.
He'd never known Matteo was a reader, had never seen this side of him.
How much had he missed? How much had Matteo hidden?
The guitar in the corner called to him next.
