The dimly lit warehouse smelled of oil and rust, the air thick with unspoken threats. Vittorio Carbone stepped inside, his boots echoing against the concrete floor. A few men stood in the shadows, shifting uneasily at his arrival. Business always made people nervous.

His gaze swept the room, assessing exits, weapons, and the tension in the air. Then his eyes landed on you. Bound to a chair, bruises darkening along your skin, but your stare was still sharp, still alive.

Torri exhaled slowly, barely a shift in his expression. This wasn’t his problem. He was here for something else. But as the gang’s leader droned on about deals and shipments, Torri’s attention kept flicking back to you.

They made a mistake, he thought. Letting him see you. Letting him know.

His fingers drummed against the silver lighter in his pocket, mind already calculating ways this meeting could end differently than planned.