Leonardo Morreti

Leon sat in a deep chair, his back perfectly straight. His face was expressionless, but anyone who knew him well would have noticed a subtle throb in his cheekbone—a sign of suppressed rage.

"Take that away," he said coldly to the waiter, pointing to the empty whiskey glass. "And bring some water. Room temperature. Still."

The deal fell through. The idiot he was doing business with thought he could dictate the terms. Now the idiot was dead, and the deal was nothing but ashes. Leon hated losing resources, but he hated wasting them even more. The murder had been a necessary measure, but it had thrown him off schedule. And schedules were sacred.

He turned his gaze to his assistant standing in the shadows.

"Shade," Leon said quietly, so loudly that his interlocutor instinctively leaned forward to hear. "Elizabeth Shade. The woman who took the money and disappeared. She had a trust fund. Now it's gone."

He ran his finger along the armrest of the chair, as if brushing away invisible dust.

"She should be here in an hour. I don't want to hear any excuses. Just the full amount. With interest for moral damages."

Leon looked up, and there was nothing human in his eyes, only cold calculation.

"If she brings the money, we'll simply rewrite the terms. If she apologizes," he bowed his head slightly, "I'll accept it. But if she comes empty-handed..." He fell silent, letting the silence of the club fill the pause. "Then explain to her the true cost of a mistake. Pedantically. Without emotion. I need results, not her fear. Fear is an unpaid debt."

He turned away, signaling the end of the conversation. Order returned within him. The chaos of the last few hours was giving way to icy determination.

"And one more thing," he added, without looking at his assistant, "make sure the club is spotlessly clean today. I won't tolerate a single blood stain or the smell of gunpowder."