Luca POV:
I slammed my foot on the brakes of the beat-up Ford, the worn tires screeching against the asphalt as two heavily armed estate guards stepped directly into our path.
For ten years, the heavy iron gates of the Vitiello estate used to swing open automatically the second the cameras recognized my license plate. Today, the gates stayed shut.
A guard approached my window, his hand resting casually on his holstered weapon. He didn't smile. He ordered us out of the car. For ten agonizing minutes, Matteo and I were subjected to a brutal, humiliating pat-down. They stripped us of our weapons, emptied our pockets, and ran metal wands over our bodies like we were common street thugs trying to infiltrate the compound.
When they finally cleared us, they didn't offer a golf cart. They pointed toward the long, winding driveway. We had to walk.
By the time we reached the West Wing, my lungs were burning and my shirt was clinging to my back with sweat. I marched straight down the familiar corridor, my eyes locked on the heavy double mahogany doors of Elena's private study. I reached out, fully intending to shove the doors open and demand she look me in the eye.
A white-gloved hand shot out and clamped onto the brass handle, blocking my path.
I stopped short. Arthur, the estate's head butler, stood perfectly still in front of the door. His posture was rigid, his face carved from stone. He looked at me with a gaze so cold and dismissive it felt like a physical slap.
"Get out of the way, Arthur," I growled, my voice rising. "I need to see Elena."
Arthur did not blink. "The Miss is currently processing core family finances. Without a scheduled appointment, no subordinates are permitted to interrupt."
The word *subordinates* hit me like a bullet to the chest. My jaw clenched so tight my teeth ached. "We grew up together," I snarled, stepping into his personal space. "I don't need a damn appointment to see her!"
Arthur raised his chin slightly, looking down his nose at me. The mockery in his eyes was unmistakable. "That was the past. As of this morning, your security clearance designates you as bottom-tier outer perimeter soldiers. I suggest you watch your tone, boy."
The disrespect from a servant made my blood boil. I raised my fist, ready to shove him aside.
Matteo grabbed my arm and yanked me back. His grip was like a vice. "Don't do it, Luca," he hissed in my ear. "There are cameras everywhere. You swing at him in the West Wing, and we're dead before we hit the floor."
I breathed heavily through my nose, forcing my fist to uncurl. I glared at the butler. "Fine. Then we'll stand right here and wait until she comes out."
Arthur gave me a slow, mocking bow and gestured to the empty space against the wall. "Be my guest." Then he folded his hands behind his back and stood like a statue.
Time crawled. The air conditioning in the West Wing was kept at a freezing temperature to preserve the antique paintings. Matteo and I were only wearing thin suit jackets. Within thirty minutes, the cold seeped into my bones, making my teeth chatter.
Every ten minutes, a maid or a junior staff member would walk down the hall carrying silver trays. They would see us standing there, shivering against the wall like punished schoolchildren. I saw them hide their smiles behind their hands. I heard their hushed whispers echoing off the marble.
"Look at them," one maid whispered. "The princess finally pulled the teeth out of her dogs."
The humiliation burned in my chest, fighting a losing battle against the freezing air.
Two hours passed. My legs ached, my knees stiff and throbbing from standing on the hard floor. I stared at the wood grain of the mahogany door. My mind started playing tricks on me. I remembered all the times I used to knock on that door. Elena would always open it herself. She would smile, her eyes soft, and ask me what I needed.
The violent contrast between that warm memory and this freezing, pathetic reality slammed into me. My throat tightened. My eyes burned, and for the first time since this nightmare started, a wave of pure, crushing regret washed over me. I had thrown away a diamond for a piece of glass.
Suddenly, the sharp, rhythmic click of hard-soled shoes echoed from inside the study.
My heart leaped into my throat. I pushed myself off the wall, standing up straight. I quickly smoothed down the lapels of my jacket, plastering a desperate, apologetic smile on my face. I was ready to beg.
The heavy mahogany doors let out a deep groan as the latch clicked open.
"E—" I started, the name dying instantly in my throat.
The person stepping out of the study was not Elena.
It was Ezra, the family's Chief Financial Officer. A ruthless, emotionless man in a sharp gray suit and gold-rimmed glasses, known for cutting off fingers over bad debts. He held a thick, heavy black folder in his hands.
He stepped into the hallway, his eyes sweeping over Matteo and me with absolute zero emotion.
I craned my neck, trying to look past his shoulder into the study. I saw the massive antique desk. I saw the high back of Elena's leather executive chair. She was sitting right there. But the chair was turned toward the window. She wouldn't even give me the back of her head.
Arthur stepped forward and swiftly pulled the mahogany doors shut with a solid *click*, completely cutting off my view.
Ezra adjusted his glasses. He held the thick black folder out, pressing it directly into my chest.
"Gentlemen," Ezra said, his voice flat and perfectly calibrated for delivering bad news. "The Miss asked me to give you this. Please review it."
