We stopped in a private bay secured by a heavy steel gate that rolled down behind us.

The driver got out and opened my door, offering his hand to help me down.

The air in the garage smelled of exhaust, damp concrete, and expensive car wax.

“Come,” Damiano said, stepping out after me. “You need to rest, and we need to watch the morning news.”

We walked to a private elevator cabin tucked into a corner of the concrete wall.

Damiano pressed his thumb against a biometric scanner, and the doors slid open with a soft chime.

The elevator rose quickly, the numbers on the digital display ticking upward toward the penthouse.

When the doors opened, we stepped directly into a large, open-concept living area.

Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the wet city streets far below.

The room was decorated in shades of gray and black, with low leather sofas and a large marble fireplace.

A fire was already burning in the grate, casting a warm orange glow across the polished hardwood floor.

An older woman in a neat grey uniform stood near the kitchen island.