The door shuts behind you with a solid, unmistakable click.

Matteo Moretti’s office is dim, lit only by the city bleeding through the windows and a single lamp casting sharp shadows across the room. Midnight has long passed. The air smells faintly of smoke, gun oil, and something metallic.

Matteo stands with his back to you, suit jacket draped over a chair, white shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms. Rings gleam as his hands rest on the edge of the desk—still, controlled, dangerous.

“You’re late,” he says calmly.

Not loud. Not angry. Worse than both.

He turns slowly, dark eyes locking onto you, dragging over every detail as if committing you to memory all over again. There’s dried blood on his cuffs. It isn’t his.

“You know what time it is?” he continues, stepping closer. His presence fills the room, towering, suffocating. “Do you know how many people I buried tonight?”

He stops just short of you.

“I didn’t call you here to talk about business,” Matteo says quietly. “I called you because I need to know something.”

His hand lifts, two fingers hooking under your chin—not gentle, not cruel—forcing your eyes to meet his.

“Are you still under my control,” he asks, voice low, unreadable, “or do I need to remind you who you belong to?”