Movements

The rain tapped against the large floor-to-ceiling windows of my study like impatient fingers. I leaned back in my leather chair, the low hum of classical music playing in the background, a cigar burning lazily between my fingers. The screen of my phone lit up, the caller ID flashing a name I hadn’t seen in weeks—Vicenzo.

I stared at it for a moment, jaw clenched. My thumb hovered over the decline button, but curiosity... and strategy won.

I picked up. “Speak.”

His voice came through low and cryptic. “After the rain... the movement begins.”

That was all.

I didn’t respond immediately. I took a long drag from the cigar, blowing the smoke toward the chandelier hanging above.

“Ten men. Fully armed. You'll have them by nightfall,” I said flatly, then ended the call before he could say another damn word.

I hated riddles.

But in this line of work, riddles were sometimes warnings in disguise. And Vicenzo… he never played fair.

I tapped a button on my desk. “Marco,” I said when he answered.

“Yes, sir?”

“Release ten of our best. Send them to Vicenzo. No questions asked.”

There was a pause. “Understood.”

By mid-morning, the rain had cleared, but the sky remained grey—ominous. I found myself doing something I rarely did.

Watching.

From across the street, behind the tinted windows of a black Bentley, I sat silently, eyes fixed on her.

Rose.

She stepped out of her building, her hair tied up, wearing a soft beige coat over black jeans, her bag slung over one shoulder. She looked... ordinary. Normal. But even that looked extraordinary on her.

She checked her phone, huffed softly, then walked toward the café down the street—the same one she visited almost every other morning before work.

“Why do I care?” I muttered under my breath.

But I knew why.

It wasn't obsession. It wasn’t lust. Not anymore.

It was something deeper, darker. Something I didn’t have the language for.

She ordered her drink, took a seat by the window, her fingers tapping at her phone screen with a mix of purpose and irritation. Probably texting someone. Possibly that friend of hers—the one always telling her to stay away from trouble.

Too late for that, sweetheart.

I watched her for a few more minutes, until she finished her drink, stood up, and started walking to work.

I didn’t follow.

I just... disappeared into the city.

By the time I returned to my penthouse, the sky was clearing, casting a weak beam of light across the marble floors.

My secretary, Alana, greeted me in a tight-fitting blouse and a too-short pencil skirt. She leaned forward on the edge of my desk, purposely showing more cleavage than professionalism allowed.

“Rough morning, Mr. Lombardi?” she asked with a purr.

I didn’t even look up. “Don’t play games with me, Alana.”

“I wasn’t playing,” she said, stepping closer, her heels clicking against the tiles. “You’ve been distant lately. I thought maybe...”

I stood, my towering frame making her instinctively take a step back.

“I pay you to keep my schedule, not to crawl into my bed,” I said coldly, voice like a blade. “Don’t mistake silence for invitation.”

Her eyes widened, lips parted, but she said nothing.

“Get out.”

She fled the room, leaving behind only the sharp scent of her perfume and the faint sting of disappointment.

I straightened my cufflinks, adjusted my collar, and made my way down the elevator that led to the underground office—my real kingdom.

The underground corridor was dim, sterile, and humming with the presence of danger. Armed men stood guard, nodding silently as I passed. When I entered the holding room, Marco was already waiting, a tall man seated in the center—tied to a chair, his head lowered.

“Found him trying to bypass the south entrance. Said he was lost,” Marco said, his voice laced with disgust.

“Lost?” I chuckled, slow and quiet. “Wrong place to get lost.”

I stepped forward, dragging a chair across the concrete floor and sitting down directly across from the man.

He raised his head.

A bruised face. Split lip. Eyes like steel. He was young but trained. No average street rat.

“You know who I am?” I asked.

He nodded once.

“Then you know I won’t ask twice.”

Silence.

I tilted my head. “Who sent you?”

He smiled—bloody teeth and all.

“I’d rather die than talk.”

I stared at him for a long beat. Then, without a word, I stood and walked to the tray behind me, picking up a pair of pliers.

“You’re in luck,” I said, holding the tool loosely in my grip. “Death is easy. Pain, though? Pain is an art.”

I reached forward, grabbing his hand, but he didn’t flinch. Not even when I clamped the pliers over his fingernail and began to pull.

He screamed. Finally. But it wasn’t a scream of betrayal—it was defiance.

Still... he didn’t talk.

By the time I was done, the floor was smeared with blood, and I was tired of his silence.

I stood, tossing the pliers aside. “Take him to the cell. Clean him up. Keep him alive.”

Marco nodded, dragging the man away.

As I stepped out of the room, I lit another cigar and exhaled.

“Marco,” I called over my shoulder

.

“Yes, boss?”

“Find out who he is. Everyone has someone. A sister, a child, a weakness.”

“And when we find it?”

I turned, my eyes like ice. “Then we’ll see how strong his silence really is.”

I got back home, changed back into my bathrobe as Marco rushed him.

“Sir Vicenzo called” he said as I turned to look at him surprised.

“He called you ?” I asked still in shock

As to why Vicenzo would call Marco instead of me , that was very unusual of him.

“Mmmmmmhhh, Marco what did he say the problem was”

“He said there had a difficult obtaining the goods and we lost four of our men” he said

“What did you just say ?????” I asked in anger as I turned toward him