“Boss,” Marcus began, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. “There’s something weird going on.”Gabriele didn't look up immediately from his phone “Weird how, Marcus? Did the shipment get delayed again? I swear, if those dockworkers mess this up—”“No, Boss. It’s Antonio’s tracker,” Marcus interrupted, pointing a remote at the wall screen. A small red dot on the map was highlighted, completely static. “It hasn’t moved. Not one inch since yesterday.”Gabriele finally looked up, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face, revealing a flash of white teeth. He tilted his head. “Oh? And what’s the location, Marcus?”Marcus rattled off the address: “A residential area near the waterfront, Boss,It's the Eastwood Heights district, where most of the major corporate players live.”The smile on Gabriele's face intensified. He set his tablet down with a deliberate thud. “Go get the boys, Marcus. Every single one. Full combat gear.” He leaned back, his eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction.

Xavier shot upright in bed, a cold sheen of sweat coating his skin. The air in the room, cool moments before, suddenly felt suffocating. It was that dream again—the day of Alessia’s death, replaying with brutal, agonizing clarity. Every scream, every flash of light, every moment of sheer helplessness. Regret, sharp and physical, clawed at his throat. He was dimly aware of the sheets tangled around his legs. Why had he fought so hard to regain his full memories if this was the price? Back then, when he was blissfully amnesiac, he didn’t have this nightly torment. Ignorance had been a shield against this level of anguish. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stumbled into the marble-clad bathroom. His hands trembled as he yanked open the drawer beneath the sink, pulling out the bottle of powerful sleeping aids. He didn't bother with careful consideration, despair demanded immediate silence. He tipped seven small, white ovals into his palm, far surpassing the prescribed dosage

Xavier sat at the head of the table, looking impeccably sharp. To his right, just slightly behind him in a corner chair, Ari sat upright. Around the table were the fifteen core Directors. They exchanged uneasy glances, their hushed conversations breaking the silence. Mr. Davison finally leaned forward, resting his hands on the table. "Mr Stewart,we appreciate the urgent summons, but the lack of an agenda has us all a bit on edge. Could you shed some light on what this meeting is actually about?" "Indeed,Mr Xavier," chimed in Mr. Chen, a logistics specialist. "Our schedules are tight. This is about the quarterlies, yes?" Xavier raised a hand, a calm, measured gesture that instantly commanded attention. "Gentlemen. Please, be patient," he said, his voice quiet but carrying an unmistakable weight. "I promised an important meeting, and I assure you, it will be the most important discussion we've had this year and as a matter of fact,fun" Just as the Directors settled back into their se

When Ari finally emerged from the ladies' room, having carefully cleaned up,she walked into The Meridian's dining room. She immediately spotted Xavier in the corner booth, calmly sipping water while pressing his phone.Xavier glanced up, gave her a brief, reassuring nod, and simply gestured to the empty seat. He didn't mention the inconvenience, the quick dash to the store. He acted as if nothing had happened, “I was waiting for you so we could place our order” he simply told her.But for Ari, the rest of the day, and particularly the lunch, felt terribly awkward. She was intensely conscious of the expensive suit jacket—now draped carefully over her chair back—that had saved her from public humiliation. She hated that she had been caught unprepared, a word that described everything she strived not to be. She knew, rationally, that the early arrival of her cycle was something she couldn't control, but the feeling of disgrace lingered. She yearned to explain that it was ten days early,

“Watch it, lady!” a young woman snapped, her eyes barely visible under a heavy fringe of synthetic hair.Ari was shoved, her black dress a perfect target for spills and clumsy elbows. Then came the murmurs. Not shouted, but hissed—low enough to be cruel, loud enough to cut through the music.“God, what’s she doing out here?”“Like she doesn’t have kids to take care of.”The words struck her like physical blows. The urge to flee, to crawl back into the safety of the dark corner, was overwhelming. Her shoulders sagely slumped. She had thought a night would be great. Now, she regrets ever getting out of bed. She regretted not just staying home and finding a new soap opera to lose herself in. It would have been a thousand times less painful.“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” she began to whisper, an automatic apology escaping her lips, not even sure who she was apologizing to. But before she could retreat, a hand—firm, warm, and strangely possessive—grabbed her wrist.Ari gasped and spun around