Flashback continues.
The Castellanos Tower stood tall and imposing.
As the sedan pulled up to the tower's entrance, the sound of the engine cut through the night like a knife through butter.
Vincente's guards opened the car door the cold evening air rushing in to greet him.
He stepped out, the leather of his shoes squeaking slightly on the waxed pavement.
The guards at the tower's entrance snapped to attention, their eyes flicking over him before they reached for the gleaming chrome handles of the towering doors.
With a nod from Vincente, they pushed them open, the heavy glass panels gliding smoothly apart to reveal the opulent lobby beyond.
The elevator ride to the top was silent, the only sound the muffled hum of the cables and the ticking of his own thoughts.
When the doors finally opened, he stepped into the hushed sanctum of his office.
The room was vast, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic view of the city.
The walls were lined with mahogany panels, the scent of leather and wealth thick in the air. A large, gleaming desk sat in the center, surrounded by high-backed chairs.
Vincente walked over to the bar in the corner, his movements fluid and predatory. He poured himself a whiskey, the amber liquid glinting in the low light as he swirled it in his glass.
His male assistant, a man in his late 30s named Carlo, was a picture of efficiency and discretion, his eyes always alert and his movements swift and silent. He had been with Vincente since the early days of his reign, a loyal and reliable presence. Carlo had a sharp nose and a thin-lipped mouth.
Carlo entered the office with a knock, his gaze immediately flicking to his boss's face before dropping to the floor. "Welcome back, Don Castellanos," he murmured, his voice a blend of respect and wariness.
Vincente took a swig of his whiskey, the liquid burning a path down his throat. "Yeah, Carlo," he said, his eyes never leaving the cityscape before him. "I need you to get me all the details about Isabella within 2 hours. She works at the Serene Cafe."
Carlo nodded, his gaze flicking briefly to the half-empty glass in his boss's hand before he turned to leave. "Yes, Sir" he said and retreated from the cabin.
Vincente downed the rest of his whiskey, the warmth spreading through his chest like a warm embrace.
He waited, the seconds ticking by like hours. When Carlo finally re-entered the room, Vincente's eyes darted to the envelope in Carlo's hand before snatching it away.
"What have you found?" he demanded, his voice a low rumble that seemed to echo in the quiet of the office.
Carlo held out the envelope with a trembling hand. "Here's what I found on Isabella," he murmured, then he handed over the envelope.
Vincente's eyes scanned the document, his brows furrowing as he read. Isabella Saintfield was an orphan, raised by a family friend after her parents were killed in a car accident.
Her life was as ordinary as it could get for a girl working in a café. No siblings just a close friend Lucia who works with her at the café.
Her age 21. Graduated from high school. Loves to read books. She had a boyfriend named Sebastian Resotto, age 23 now, dated for 2 years but broke up. It's been 8 months since.
Just thinking about she was with a man before him frustrated him but remained calm thinking it's her past.
"Isabella," he murmured, the sound of her name on his lips.
Vincente sat at his desk, the heavy oak chair groaning slightly under his weight as he leaned back, his eyes never leaving the file in his hands.
The soft, golden light of the desk lamp cast shadows across his sharp features.
His fingers drummed a restless rhythm on the armrest.
Finally, he looked up at Carlo, his gaze piercing through the silence. "You may leave," he said, his voice a cold, hard edge that sliced through the quiet.
Carlo nodded and retreated, closing the door with a soft click.
At the Serene Cafe, Isabella was just finishing her shift, her feet aching from hours of standing.
She took a moment to straighten her white apron and smooth her hair, her eyes catching the reflection of the streetlights in the gleaming chrome of the espresso machine.
As the last patron left and the door chimed a farewell, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, and she turned to find the café empty except for the lingering scent of roasted coffee and the soft hum of the refrigerator.
The neon lights outside cast a glow through the windows.
She grabbed her bag from the counter, the leather feeling comforting under her palm.
As Isabella locked the café door and stepped out into the night, the cool air kissed her flushed cheeks.
The street was quieter now, the rush of the evening giving way to the whispers of the late-night stragglers.
Across the street, under the flickering glow of the amber street lamps, a man leaned against a sleek, black sedan.
He was dressed impeccably, his tailored suit fitting his broad shoulders like a second skin.
The stark white of his shirt contrasted sharply with the darkness of the night. His tie was loosened slightly, hinting at the end of a long day.
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