ELIJAH'S POV
The Felora expansion contract sprawled across my desk, the meticulously typewritten pages filled with numbers and clauses I had reviewed a dozen times. My fountain pen hovered over the final page, poised to sign, when the telephone rang. Its shrill bell sliced through the heavy afternoon quiet of my office, startling in its insistence.
I glanced at my watch—three thirty-seven—and frowned. My secretary knew better than to interrupt me during contract review. The brass telephone gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the venetian blinds. I hesitated, then lifted the receiver.
"Elijah Rossi," I answered, my voice carrying the practiced authority that had become second nature over fifteen years of building my empire.
The voice that answered slithered through the receiver like poison in my veins.
"You already killed my parents. You ruined my life beyond repair. And God knows I hate you, Elijah. I hate you so much I can hardly breathe."
