Kyle sat alone in the vast conference room with Marcello Vescari, the silence between them heavy as lead. The other family heads had departed, their footsteps echoing down distant hallways until even those sounds faded to nothing. No guards stood at the doors. No witnesses remained. Just the two of them, separated by polished wood and years of carefully constructed lies.
Marcello's question hung in the air, deceptively simple: "Tell me, Kyle. How much do you know about my daughter?"
Kyle felt his strategy crumbling before it had even begun. He'd walked in here prepared to defend himself against accusations of being Nakamura's plant, ready to spin lies about Viktor and frame jobs and business partnerships gone wrong. But this? This was something else entirely.
