The study smelled like leather, cigars, and quiet authority.
Killian stepped inside without knocking. The heavy door shut behind him with a dull finality, swallowing the corridor’s light.
Robert Wolfe sat behind the desk like a man carved into the foundation of the house itself, ageless, immovable, in control. A crystal tumbler of scotch sat untouched by his elbow. Papers, ledgers, and dossiers lay splayed before him like prey.
He didn’t look up.
“Back from Naples early,” he said, voice low and even. “I assume you’re here to report.”
Killian didn’t sit. He never did.
“There was a breach,” he said. “The port shipment. Two men dead, one critical. The rest is handled.”
Robert’s gaze flicked upward. “Handled how?”
Killian’s voice was flat. “You won’t hear about it again.”
Robert closed the file in front of him with a soft snap.
“And the cause?”
“Someone got greedy. Their body won’t be found.”
“Good.” A pause. “Clean work, as always.”
Killian didn’t reply.
Robert exhaled and leaned back, hi
