The car rolled through the iron gates of the Mancini estate. Salvo didn't speak. Not once during the entire ride. Not even a glance.
He just sat there—pissed in a way that made the air feel heavier than steel, like the world itself had wronged him and he was going to punish it until it begged for mercy.
The gates shut behind us with a metallic clang, too loud, too final. Like a coffin lid snapping shut. Gravel crunched under the tires as we coasted up the winding path.
The mansion loomed ahead—tall, cold, and suffocating. Like it hadn't been built but had grown from the earth itself, a living monument to power and violence. A place meant to keep secrets and bury the screams.
The car stopped.
Silence again.
Then Salvo moved.
Slowly. Deliberately. Like the devil himself taking his time to stretch before dragging someone to hell. He stepped out first. Didn't look back to check on me. Didn't say a word. Just walked toward the entrance like he knew I'd follow.
And I did.
