I spent hours pacing the dark concrete floors, watching the rain strike the glass.

The smell of expensive leather and polished metal became sickening to me.

On the fourth night, the lock on the heavy front door clicked.

I stood up quickly from the sofa, clutching the black folder against my chest.

Damiano walked in, shedding his wet wool overcoat and draping it over a leather chair.

He wore a dark charcoal suit, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar.

“You look like you haven’t slept,” he said, his dark eyes scanning my face.

“I read this,” I said, holding out the folder.

Damiano did not look surprised.

He walked to the wet bar and poured himself two fingers of amber liquid.

“I left it there for you to find,” he said, taking a slow sip.

“Why?” I asked, my voice trembling. “Did you bring me here to blackmail me?”

“If I wanted to blackmail you, Arya, I would have done it in your apartment,” he said.

He walked over and stood a few feet away from me, his presence filling the quiet room.