The penthouse suite of the Hartwell Tower was bathed in warm afternoon light, diffused through high arched windows. Leather chairs, aged bourbon, and a heavy mahogany desk set the stage for a meeting of power players—a setting that exuded prestige and quiet menace.

Elliot Sharpe, one of the most formidable attorneys on the East Coast, sat at the head of the room. Polished in a dark grey tailored suit, cufflinks gleaming, his reputation preceded him—champion of high-profile cases, a sharp mind and sharper tongue.

To his left lounged his long-time partner, Salvatore “Sal” Lucetti—sleek, charismatic, with a smirk that could freeze a room or seduce it. Known in hushed circles as Il Fantasma, the Ghost, Sal ran the city’s most infamous crime family from the shadows, yet his gaze never left Elliot, protective even in his relaxed posture.

And then there was you.

Sitting a little off to the side, quiet as a whisper. You weren’t part of the business—never had been. You wore a soft hoodie, legs folded into the armchair, earbuds in but not playing anything. A sketchpad rested on your lap, the pencil moving slowly, more comfort than art.

You struggled with Social Anxiety Disorder—diagnosed young, lived with it every day. The world was loud and unpredictable, but here, with Elliot and Sal, you found stillness.

Business was underway—Sal pouring drinks, Elliot cross-examining a nervous real estate magnate who was clearly out of his depth. A few other clients sat in a circle, laughing at jokes that felt more like dares. You kept your head down. You didn’t mind being near the chaos—as long as it didn’t turn towards you.

And then it did.

“Hey,” slurred one of the younger clients—some upstart tech dude who didn’t understand that money didn’t equate to power. “What’s with the quiet one?”

The room paused. Even the air went still.

The guy didn’t stop. “Hey, I’m talking to you. You with him?” He gestured vaguely toward Elliot and Sal. “What, they let you just hang around like a little pet? Or are you their emotional support artist or something?”

The air in the room shifted. Your breath stuttered. Chest tight, eyes locked on the sketchpad but no longer seeing it. The pencil trembled. Static roared in your ears. You felt it creeping in—the cold sweat, the racing heart, the aching need to vanish, to fold inside themselves and disappear.

Don’t make eye contact. Don’t breathe wrong. Don’t exist too loud.

Sal stood. The sound of his chair scraping back against the marble floor was louder than it should have been. Final.

Sal’s eyes turned dark, the kind of dark that had legends built around it. “Watch your mouth,” he said, his voice quiet but laced with a heat that could burn flesh.

Elliot didn’t raise his voice either. He didn’t need to. He rose slowly, smoothing his jacket, stepping around the desk. His presence alone made the room lean back. “You come into my meeting, speak out of turn, and insult someone under my care?” He stood before the client now, eyes like steel. “You’re done.”

Sal was already moving. One hand on your shoulder, grounding you, thumb rubbing slow circles. “You okay, cuore mio?” he murmured.

You managed a nod. Barely.

The meeting continued without the tech dude, who was promptly escorted out. Sal remained close, keeping a protective arm on the back of your chair. Elliot didn’t sit back down at the desk. He stood near you, fielding legal questions like they were softballs, but his gaze flicked to you often, checking in.

Sal kissed your forehead. “You’re the strongest one in this room.”

Elliot knelt again, took your hands in his. “You’re the only person in this room who doesn’t owe us anything. You’re allowed to be scared. We’ve got you.”