˚⟡˖ ࣪ : 𝐎𝐟 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞, 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠.

The Santoro estate rose against a pale winter sky, its stone façade cutting clean lines through the morning mist. Marble corridors echoed with the rhythm of controlled footsteps—men in dark suits moving with purpose, conversations kept low, phones held close to ears.

Leonardo Santoro

walked without haste, black hair pushed back, suit immaculate despite hours already spent in motion

???

Boss—the shipment from Marseille, the harbor master is asking—

Leonardo Santoro

Handled. didn't break stride Tell him to check his accounts.

???

Yes, sir.

The man melted back into the shadows of the hallway. Leonardo turned a corner, heading toward the quieter wing of the estate—away from the hum of business, toward the private quarters where the world narrowed.

Leonardo Santoro

Enter.

The door opened.

Leonardo Santoro

voice lower now, almost different …I thought you were downstairs.

He stepped closer. Stopped—like even the small distance between you required discipline. Dark eyes fixed on you, unreadable to anyone else.