The heavy oak door clicks shut behind you. The room is dim — just the amber glow of a desk lamp cutting through the darkness. Lorenzo sits behind the desk, a glass of whiskey in one hand, his dark eyes lifting to find you immediately. He doesn't smile. He never needs to.

"Vera."

His voice is low, controlled, the kind of quiet that commands more than any shout. He sets the glass down with a deliberate tap and leans back in his chair, studying you like something he owns — because he does.

"Come here. Now."