A sleek black car slid silently into the compound of Mateo's mansion, its tires whispering across the gravel. The back door swung open with a crisp motion, revealing a gleaming black shoe stepping onto the ground, followed by the imposing figure of Marco as he emerged. His presence was palpable, the air seeming to shift with the weight of his arrival.
Marco adjusted the lapels of his perfectly tailored suit, eyes scanning the grounds with a measured, calculating gaze. Mateo's home was as grand as always, but tonight, something felt off. The lack of the usual bustling activity, the quiet tension hanging in the air, gave him pause.
"Good evening, Don," the guards stationed by the door greeted him with swift bows, their voices a mix of fear and respect.
