Another silence. Then, a low, guttural sound that was pure, unleashed violence. “Ten minutes. Tell me where.”“Back alley. Film festival.” I gave him the cross streets.“Stay alive. I’m coming.”The line went dead.In the distance, from the warm, dry dressing room, I could still hear the faint sound of Vincent’s laughter.Nine minutes.I counted each one, the pain in my knees a steady, grounding throb.Then, the night split open.Not with sirens, but with the roar of high-performance engines that didn’t belong on a red carpet street. Tires screeched, metal barriers groaned in protest.Headlights—dozens of them—pierced the rain, belonging to a convoy of blacked-out, armored SUVs. They formed a perfect, intimidating circle, blocking all access.The lead vehicle, a matte-black Rolls-Royce Cullinan, stopped directly in front of the service entrance. The door opened.Federico Falcone stepped out.He didn’t wear a suit jacket. Just black trousers and a dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to h
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