The elevator hummed as it climbed—steady, mechanical, indifferent to the storm building in Luca's chest.
He stood with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the ascending numbers glowing softly in the dim light.
10... 15... 20...
His father's office was on the executive floor—the twenty-fifth.
A place Luca rarely visited unless summoned.
A place that always felt too formal, too distant, even though the man who occupied it was his own blood, the person who'd raised him through everything.
The elevator chimed softly.
25.
The doors slid open with a whisper.
Luca stepped out into the hallway polished marble floors that reflected the soft lighting, the kind of silence that came with power and money and late-night decisions.
Executive assistants had already left for the day.
The floor felt empty, save for the low glow of lights still on in a few corner offices where people worked past reasonable hours.
