He pushed the door open with his foot, his movements swift and silent.

The office was freezing, the window behind the desk cracked open to let the damp night air rush inside.

Mrs. Bellamy sat at her mahogany desk, her face illuminated by the harsh glare of the dual monitors.

Her hands were poised over the keyboard, frozen mid-stroke.

She looked up, her eyes widening in terror as the blue light caught the tears shining on her wrinkled cheeks.

Her usual neat bun was disheveled, strands of gray hair sticking to her forehead.

“Mr. Rossi,” she gasped, her voice cracking.

Lorenzo stepped into the room, his eyes scanning the dark corners behind her bookshelf and the leather sofa.

The room was empty of anyone else, but the air felt charged, as if someone had just vanished through the open window.

“Who was in here with you?” Lorenzo demanded, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

Mrs. Bellamy shrank back into her leather chair, her hands clutching the edge of the desk.

“He’s gone,” she whispered, her chest heaving. “He went out the terrace doors just before you came down.”