The air in the apartment didn't just feel cold.
It felt heavy. Stagnant.
The moment Damon crossed the threshold, his internal alarms—honed by years of surviving in the shadows—screamed at him to stop.
He didn't. Instead, he allowed the door to click shut behind him, the sound echoing through the unnervingly silent foyer. His gaze swept the room with practiced, lethal precision.
And then, he saw him.
A figure was draped across the designer leather sofa. One leg was crossed over the other, fingers resting lightly against the mahogany armrest. He looked less like a guest and more like a predator that had already claimed the territory.
Damon's jaw tightened, a microscopic shift that only a few would ever notice.
"Dad..."
De Luca didn't move. He didn't need to. Power radiated from him in silent, suffocating waves. He was the kind of man who didn't need to raise his voice to make a room go quiet; the room simply went quiet out of fear.
"You took your time," the man said finally.
