Marco
The knock came just past midnight. Three precise raps, no more, no less. The kind of signal that didn't announce presence but warned of it. I was in my study, sitting in the glow of a single desk lamp, the room covered in silence except for the soft hum of classical vinyl rolling in the background. A whiskey glass, half full, sweat-beaded beside me. The ice had long since melted, leaving the drink lukewarm and bitter, but I hadn't noticed until now. I didn't move. Didn't answer. Whoever it was knew better than to wait. The door opened anyway.
Giovanni, one of my security guards, stepped inside, face pale beneath the amber light, lips parted like he couldn't believe the words that had just been passed to him. The man looked like he'd aged ten years in the span of an hour.
"You need to see this," he said, voice strained.
