He pushed the door open and stepped inside, and the first thing he noticed was two men he'd never seen before sitting in the chairs across from Gasperini's desk, both wearing suits that looked expensive and official, both turning to look at him as he entered.
Gasperini sat behind his desk with his hands folded, and something in his expression made Demien's stomach tighten because the manager looked like he was enjoying a private joke that hadn't been told yet.
"Demien," Gasperini said, gesturing toward the visitors. "These gentlemen are here to see you."
Demien looked at the two men, his confusion obvious, and he didn't recognize either of them—one was in his fifties with grey at the temples and a calm, authoritative presence, the other slightly younger with a notepad balanced on his knee.
"Me?" Demien asked, and he couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice.
The older man stood and extended his hand, and when he spoke his accent was unmistakably English.
