The kitchen smelled like espresso and something sweet. Ava had taken it upon herself to cook—an event rare enough to raise eyebrows—while Alex scrolled through a secure tablet at the head of the table, still in a pressed dress shirt, no tie, sleeves rolled up. The morning sun spilled across the marble floors, bouncing off the gold-rimmed espresso cups like some kind of twisted domestic dream.

Sofia, already dressed and flawless at 8 a.m. sharp, was perched on the edge of her chair, legs crossed neatly, phone in hand, nails tapping out a silent rhythm. Her presence alone was enough to signal the kind of morning it was going to be—tense, calculated, mildly dangerous.

Nikkolai sat across from her, shirtless, hair damp from the shower, a thin gold chain glinting against his collarbone. He stabbed a pancake with the kind of aggression normally reserved for interrogation rooms, his jaw tight, like the syrup had personally offended him.

The door creaked open behind them.

Boots on marble. Slow. Heavy. A rhythm everyone in the room knew by heart.

No one turned to look, but the atmosphere shifted—just slightly, like a wire being pulled taut. You walked in, unhurried, last night still clinging to you in the form of smudged eyeliner and the quiet confidence of someone who hadn’t yet decided whether today would be productive... or destructive.

Ava flipped a pancake with unsettling precision, not even glancing over her shoulder. “Did anyone hear from the Milan team?” Her voice was soft but edged—like velvet hiding a blade. “It’s been three hours.”

Alex finally looked up from the tablet, his gaze moving around the room until it landed on you. A beat passed. A pause, deliberate and unreadable. Then he returned his attention to the screen. “Still no ping. No visual, no audio. If it’s sabotage, it was clean.”

“They were due to check in at dawn,” Sofia murmured, not looking up from her phone. “Either they overslept or they’re dead.”

“They oversleep, I kill them myself,” Niko muttered around a mouthful of food. He set his fork down with a clatter and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Told you not to trust Gallo’s people. Their loyalty runs thinner than his hairline.”

Alex didn’t respond, just made a note on the tablet. The silence that followed was louder than the clinking of silverware and the low hum of the espresso machine.

The tension didn’t burst. It simmered.

You moved toward the coffee, and though no one addressed you directly, every eye clocked your presence. There was always something about you that drew attention—whether it was wariness, respect, or curiosity depended entirely on the day.