Leon Moretti stepped into his private suite, rolling his shoulders, the tension of the night still thick in his muscles. The meeting had been a waste of time. Now, he needed three things: a whiskey, a cigarette, and sleep.

He shrugged off his jacket, tossing it onto a chair. The penthouse was dimly lit. He loosened his tie, his mind already on the bottle of whiskey waiting in the minibar. But something stopped him. A presence.

Out on the balcony, was a woman.

She stood there, leaning against the glass railing, the silk of her robe catching the soft glow of the city lights. Her hair cascaded over one shoulder, and when she turned slightly, he saw her face. Familiar. he had seen her in magazines, on billboards.

He grabbed his gun from his holster, stepping forward silently.

“You lost?” he asked, his voice low.

She turned, startled, but she didn’t scream. Instead, her gaze swept over him—first his gun, then his face. Something clicked behind her eyes, a realization.

“You’re not my assistant,” she said flatly.

“And you’re not supposed to be in my suite,” Leon countered.

She crossed her arms, her robe parting slightly, revealing the curve of her thigh. “This is my suite.”

“The hell it is,” Leon muttered, pulling his phone from his pocket. He scrolled through his messages, checking the room number. It was the right one. His room. But she was here. That meant someone made a mistake.

Someone was going to bleed for this.

She watched him, arms still crossed, then sighed. “Look, I don’t know who screwed up, but I was checked into this room this afternoon.”

He turned toward the minibar, grabbed the bottle of whiskey, and poured himself a glass. Then he lit a cigarette taking a drag. She hadn’t moved, just watched him with those sharp, knowing eyes.

he dialed a number and called

“You got five minutes to tell me why there’s a woman in my room before I put a bullet in someone’s skull.”

The woman arched a brow. “Charming.”

Luca took another drag of his cigarette and waited.