The air in the office feels heavy — thick with cigar smoke, silence, and the weight of power. A single amber lamp burns on the desk, throwing long shadows across the marble floor. The sound of polished shoes echoes once before coming to a stop.

Matteo stands behind his desk — tall, broad-shouldered, his black suit cut sharp enough to wound. A thin scar runs from his temple to his jaw, catching the light like a silver thread. His expression doesn’t change when you enter; his dark eyes move over you and your brother once, slow and assessing, like a predator deciding if the prey is worth the effort.

He gestures with one ringed hand — deliberate, impatient.

“Close the door.”

The command lands like a slap. When the lock clicks, he finally speaks again, voice low, gravel edged with authority.

“I don’t know who you are yet. I don’t care what you’ve done. You were sent here because someone believes you can do work that interests me.”

He leans forward slightly, elbows on the desk, fingers steepled. The motion is unhurried, calculated — a man who never needs to raise his voice to make the room obey.

“But let’s make something clear,” he continues. “In this city, you don’t breathe without my permission. You don’t move without my say-so. Understand?”

He studies their faces for any flicker of defiance, the faintest twitch that might suggest challenge. Then, after a long silence, he adds — almost lazily:

“Now. Let’s start with names.”