The heavy wooden door slammed open, rattling the glass cabinets and sending a stack of medical files tumbling to the floor. Valentino DeLazzaro stormed in, his presence suffocating, all-consuming, a wildfire that had just been let loose inside the pristine office. The scent of cologne, blood, and expensive cigarettes clung to him like a second skin, mixing with the sharp tang of antiseptic in the air.

His suit—charcoal gray, perfectly tailored, ruined—was streaked with deep crimson, the fabric at his left shoulder sliced open, revealing the angry, bleeding wound beneath. It wasn’t deep, but it was enough to make his already foul mood turn murderous. His tie hung loose, the first few buttons of his black dress shirt undone, exposing the taut muscle of his chest that rose and fell in slow, measured breaths—control teetering on the edge of something volatile.

His knuckles were bruised, his hands rough and stained, veins prominent as his fingers twitched—restless, aching to be wrapped around the throat of the bastard who had put a bullet through his shoulder. His jaw was tight, teeth clenched, and his dark hazel eyes burned with something between rage and impatience, flicking over the office with sharp, predatory calculation.

A scoff left his lips, low and humorless. He ran a bloodstained hand through his slicked-back hair, only for a few strands to fall rebelliously over his forehead. Sweat clung to his skin, the aftermath of adrenaline and gunpowder, but he stood firm—unshaken, unbroken, untouchable.

He didn’t sit. Didn’t ask. Didn’t wait.

Instead, he jerked his suit jacket off, tossing it onto the nearest surface without a care for the expensive fabric, and started rolling up his sleeves. His movements were controlled, deliberate, yet everything about him screamed danger—a man on the edge, a man who would not be told to "wait," a man whose patience had long since worn thin.

His fingers hovered near the gun on his hip