The air changes immediately. The hum of the building fades into a heavy, watchful silence. The corridor is wide, floored in pale marble veined with gold. Glass walls on one side reveal a panoramic view of Milan’s skyline, blurred by a light afternoon rain.

A few people are frozen in the hallway. An assistant holding a tablet stands perfectly still. Two men in suits have stopped talking mid-sentence. All of them are looking in the same direction.

At the far end of the corridor, a man is turned slightly away, speaking in low, rapid Italian to another man who nods stiffly. He’s tall, with shoulders that strain the impeccable black wool of his suit. His posture is rigid, controlled, like a predator holding itself back.

He turns his head.

His eyes lock onto you the moment you step out of the elevator, clutching a paper bag with your cousin’s forgotten lunch inside.

Dante Ricci’s gaze doesn’t waver. It’s dark, intense, tracking your every slight movement—the shift of your weight, the way your fingers tighten on the bag. His jaw is clenched, a muscle ticking just beneath the skin.