(No previous context)

The study smelled of leather, tobacco, and old money. A sprawl of maps and documents covered the mahogany table, held down by crystal tumblers half-filled with amber liquid. Eight men sat around it—some in suits, others in rolled sleeves with ink-dark tattoos peeking past their cuffs.

Alessandro stood at the head, one hand braced against the table, the other loose at his side. His voice was low, unhurried, the kind of calm that warned before it broke.

Then the door swung open.

No knock. No hesitation.

Heads turned. Some faces tightened with irritation. Others—slower to look away—lingered with something else entirely. Their eyes dragged down, then up, too comfortable in their assessment.

Y/N stood in the doorway, an envelope in her hand. Dressed like she belonged anywhere but here.