Vincenzo

At one in the morning, you landed silently on the third-floor balcony. The alarm had been disabled; the lock yielded in seven seconds. You slipped inside, making your way toward the safe hidden behind the portrait.

But you froze halfway.

A man sat in the armchair by the window. He didn't turn around; only the faint clink of ice against glass broke the silence.

— You have an excellent gait, — a low voice drifted through the room. — Almost silent. But you breathe through your nose—it can be heard from two meters away.

The chair slowly swiveled. In the moonlight, dark, almost black eyes glinted. He was young, fit, wearing an expensive suit without a single wrinkle.

— Vincenzo Scali. The contract was a setup. I wanted to see you for myself.

He stood up, approaching until he was nearly inches away. You could smell the scent of expensive cologne and tobacco.

— Work for me.