The night outside was quiet, too quiet. The kind of quiet that pressed against the windows and seeped into the walls, like the world was holding its breath.
But inside Adrian Blake's chest, there was a storm.
No thunder. No lightning. Just pressure, tight, heavy, suffocating. The kind that came when the past reached out its hand, threatening to drag everything back into the dark.
Ace had fallen asleep again, the adrenaline having burned out, leaving pain and exhaustion behind. The name he had spoken still hung in the room, like smoke.
Luca Romano.
Adrian didn't move. He sat there, elbows resting on his knees, head tipped back against the chair, staring at nothing. The low lamp on the desk cast slanted shadows across his face, sharp cheekbones, clenched jaw, eyes too cold to be read.
Not that he didn't trust Ace's information.
But there was no proof. No shipment logs intercepted. No traceable calls. No employee bribes recorded. Only two thin threads:
