Don Virelli
The receiving room was designed for one purpose. Everything about the space reflected it. Dark mahogany walls polished to a mirror sheen. Low amber lighting that cast long shadows instead of warmth. Expensive artwork that spoke of power rather than beauty. Floor-to-ceiling curtains partially drawn over reinforced glass windows. Even the air itself felt measured and deliberate.
Nothing in this room existed without intention. And neither did the man waiting inside it.
He stood near the far wall with his back partially turned toward the entrance, completely at ease as if he were standing in his own estate instead of mine. That alone made him interesting.
He was dressed in a tailored grey suit that fit him with quiet authority, the fabric complementing the streaks of silver beginning to claim the sides of his dark hair. The kind of man who had survived long enough to become dangerous in quieter ways.
