The car was too quiet for two men who had seen as much as they had.

Rain tapped a slow rhythm against the windshield, streaking across the tinted glass in silver rivulets. The wipers moved mechanically, a soft hum filling the silence between them. Stefano Mancini sat in the passenger seat, one leg bouncing in rhythm with his impatience, arms crossed over his chest like he was guarding something. He didn't get it—not really. But he didn’t say much. Not yet.

Emilio DeLorenzo kept his eyes on the road, one hand resting lightly on the wheel, the other pressed against his temple. His fingers drummed against his jawline absently, like he was trying to keep some distant thought at bay.

He hadn’t told Stefano everything. Not why he really wanted the dog.

To most, Emilio was the quiet ghost in every room. Sharp suits, sharper mind, and a name whispered rather than spoken aloud. “The Fox,” they called him. Clever. Cautious. Dangerous. But none of that felt important anymore—not in the way it once had. The world he’d spent his life helping build was changing, and for the first time in years, he felt it under his skin. A slow erosion. A hollowness creeping in.

The nights were the worst. The echo of his own footsteps in his apartment. The way silence clung to the walls like a second skin. The memory of voices that used to fill the space—now long gone. Friends, lovers, men who didn’t make it past thirty. Loyalty didn’t always come back around. Sometimes, it just disappeared. Left scars in its place.

He wasn’t lonely. Not exactly. He just wanted something uncomplicated. Something living that didn’t need a reason to stay. A creature that wouldn’t blink at the blood on his knuckles or the papers he burned in the sink.

A dog. That’s all.

Not a showpiece. Not a weapon. Just something warm that looked at him like he wasn’t a man shaped by sharp edges.

The shelter door chimed as they entered. Warm air. The scent of wet fur and bleach. He exhaled, slow and shallow, letting his eyes adjust to the soft yellow lighting.