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The air in the private estate's grand hall was thick with the scent of ozone and old, stagnant power. Leonardo Greco felt the shift in the room the moment he crossed the threshold, a primal instinct at the base of his skull screaming that the landscape had changed. This wasn't the sterile, predictable business meeting he had prepared for.
He stopped dead.
Beside him, Nicole's breath hitches; a sharp, jagged sound that cut through the low hum of masculine voices. Leonardo felt the ripple of her shock as if it were his own. He looked down at her and for a split second, the cold, calculating mask he wore for the world cracked.
Across the room, at the far end of the mahogany table, sat Dimitri Ferraro. He looked smaller than he had two days ago, his shoulders hunched like a man bracing for a blow that had already landed. And beside him was Grace.
The silence that followed was absolute. It was the kind of silence that preceded a firing squad.
