Lorenzo's car came to a smooth halt in front of the towering penthouse. The engine purred before dying out, and without sparing a glance at the driver, he stepped out, his leather shoes echoing sharply against the marble tiles leading into the building. His eyes were dark, cold, and unreadable, but the storm inside him was anything but calm.
He entered the elevator and tapped his floor. The lights glowed softly, but nothing could soften the fury that rippled beneath his skin. His mind was ticking, calculating. A kidnapping. A warning. And now, a face.
The elevator dinged, the doors slid open, and Riccardo stood by the entrance of their suite, sipping espresso like he had been waiting. His eyes narrowed as soon as he saw Lorenzo's expression.
"Well?" Riccardo asked, already sensing trouble.
"That scarred idiot," Lorenzo muttered, pulling off his blazer and tossing it onto the couch.
Riccardo's brows furrowed. "You mean... Scarface? I thought he went underground."
