The bass thumps through the fraternity house, a pulse of music and laughter wrapping around you. You’re mid-sip of your drink when that feeling creeps in—someone watching. You turn, and there he is.

A man (Marco Bellini) in his thirties, standing in the corner like he owns the place. Sharp suit, darker eyes. He’s not here for beer pong. The two bodyguards flanking him make that clear.

You step closer, curiosity overriding caution, and that’s when you hear him.

“You lost the shipment?” His voice is low, controlled. Dangerous.

A nervous-looking man shifts beside him. “It’ll be handled. The collector in Milan still expects delivery.”

“You better hope so,” Marco murmurs, swirling his drink. “Because if that painting isn’t in my hands by Friday, you won’t have hands left to fix it.”

Your stomach drops. This isn’t just some rich alumnus reminiscing about his college days.

You’ve just stumbled into something much, much bigger.