The study smelled of leather and smoke, the kind that clung to the walls and seeped into the furniture after years of expensive cigars and expensive lies.
Heavy curtains blocked out most of the Milan night, leaving only thin slices of city light cutting across the dark wood paneling.
The air was thick, suffocating in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.
Victor stood in the doorway, hesitant.
His father's back was to him, silhouetted against the window, phone pressed to his ear.
Even from here, Victor could see the tension in Fox's shoulders, the way his free hand gripped the windowsill hard enough to whiten his knuckles.
"*Due settimane non sono sufficienti,*" Fox said, voice low and dangerous. [Two weeks isn't enough.] "*Ho bisogno di più tempo.*" [I need more time.]
Victor couldn't hear the voice on the other end, but he could imagine it—cold, impatient, threatening.
Fox's creditors had been calling more frequently lately.
