A burst of hurried, panicked footsteps echoed up from the stairwell.
A man in greasy work clothes stumbled up the stairs, his red scarf tied crookedly around his neck. His face was pale, and he was breathing hard as if he had run for his life.
André immediately raised a hand. The gesture wasn't violent, but it was unmistakably blocking. In fluent Italian he said coldly,
"Fermati."
"Stop. No one comes closer."
Then he seemed to remember the man might not understand. Switching to English with a thick accent, he added with open irritation,
"Back off. You shouldn't be here."
"I have to see Mr. Lorenzo! Something's happened! There's a problem with the production line!"
The man was almost crying as he shouted, his voice sharp with fear.
"Jason—Jason Morris is gone!"
André and Marco exchanged a glance.
Not fear.
Contempt.
Of course something had gone wrong.
These American nobodies never did anything except cause trouble.
"Gone?" Marco scoffed. "Maybe he finally couldn't stand working in that pigsty and ran off."
"No! No!" the man stammered. "All his things are still there! Nobody saw him leave! It's like… like he just vanished!"
His whole body trembled.
"We didn't dare hide it…"
André frowned.
Trouble.
He hated the uncertainty that came with these local idiots.
He stepped closer to the heavy door and knocked twice with restrained precision. It was less a knock than a polite signal.
Inside, the flowing aria of a Verdi opera suddenly stopped.
A voice with an elegant Roman accent came from within, speaking Italian.
"Avanti."
"Come in."
André opened the door and motioned for the nearly collapsing messenger to enter. He himself remained outside, as if unwilling to let the air inside be contaminated.
The room beyond looked absurdly luxurious in the middle of the apocalypse.
Thick carpets.
Genuine works of art—of questionable origin.
Expensive furniture.
Lorenzo stood with his back to the door in front of a massive floor-to-ceiling window, posture straight and composed.
He wore a perfectly tailored dark gray suit. Every line of it fit flawlessly. His dark brown hair remained immaculate even in the dim light.
Lorenzo slowly turned around.
In his hand was a silk handkerchief, which he used to carefully polish a crystal wine glass.
Inside the glass was a small amount of deep red Barolo wine.
His face was strikingly handsome.
When his brown eyes fell on the man kneeling on the floor, there was no emotion in them—only faint irritation at being disturbed.
"Speak."
The single English word was perfectly pronounced, though it carried a refined Italian rhythm.
"M-Mr. Lorenzo…"
The man stammered in terror and repeated the report again.
Lorenzo did not pause his polishing even once. He tilted his head slightly as he listened.
"Scomparso."
"Disappeared?" he murmured softly.
"In my territory… how does a man simply disappear?"
He sounded as if he were pondering an interesting philosophical problem.
"M-maybe he ran away, sir!" the man blurted out desperately.
"Ran away?"
Lorenzo's lips curved slightly.
"Why? Was the protection I provide not safe enough?"
"Or was the work I assigned beneath his talents?"
The man shook his head wildly, nearly breaking down.
"An accident," Lorenzo said at last as he set the wine glass down.
His eyes sharpened.
"I do not believe in accidents."
"Accidents are excuses for the weak."
"They are the first sign that order is collapsing."
Centuries of family history had taught him one truth.
Control.
Absolute control.
Lorenzo stepped forward and crouched in front of the man. The oppressive presence he carried was suffocating.
"Tell me," he said softly.
"If someone breaks the order I established… and shakes the already fragile loyalty of your people…"
"What value does that person still have?"
The man trembled helplessly, able only to beg for mercy.
Lorenzo stood again.
With visible disgust—but meticulous care—he wiped the tears and snot from the man's face using the silk handkerchief.
Then he tossed the cloth into a nearby trash bin as if discarding toxic waste.
He walked to a finely crafted mahogany desk and pressed an unobtrusive button.
A moment later, Wagner entered.
The arms smuggler who operated in Knoxville was one of the few people Lorenzo had recruited locally whom he actually respected.
Cold.
Efficient.
Like a perfectly sharpened military knife.
He had also been one of Lorenzo's business partners before the apocalypse, when Lorenzo flew in to negotiate deals.
"Sir."
Wagner gave a slight nod.
"A little mouse seems to have lost its way," Lorenzo said calmly, lifting his wine glass again and gently swirling it.
"The production line workers believe this was an 'accident.'"
"Should I investigate?" Wagner asked without emotion.
"Go."
The command was sharp and decisive.
"Use whatever methods are necessary. I want the truth."
"Is this internal rot that needs pruning…"
His eyes drifted toward the window as if looking beyond the city.
"…or some reckless outsiders trying to hunt inside my territory?"
In the apocalypse, small survivor groups attacking and absorbing each other for resources and territory was common.
The Red Scarf Gang—built on Knoxville's old gangs and reinforced by countless desperate criminals—had done it many times themselves.
Lorenzo's pupils narrowed slightly, flashing with dangerous light.
"Remember this, Wagner."
"Order above everything."
"Any challenge, no matter how small, must be crushed."
"Find the problem."
"Then eliminate it completely."
"Understood."
Wagner turned and left immediately, passing the collapsed man on the floor as if he were nothing more than furniture.
Just then the trembling man seemed to remember something.
Like someone grabbing a lifeline, he suddenly looked up.
"Wagner! A few days ago!"
"Didn't we borrow some of your men and a few of Mr. Lorenzo's people to ambush a group in the eastern district?"
"Could it be… could it be them? Could they be coming back for revenge?"
The room fell silent.
Lorenzo slowly turned his head.
For the first time, his eyes truly focused on the man.
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, his fingers tapped lightly against the desk.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Ambush," Lorenzo repeated thoughtfully.
"I remember the report."
"A modified armored vehicle."
"Personnel who appeared well-trained."
"Their weapons were similar to ours. Not ordinary refugees."
"They resisted fiercely."
"They even killed several of our men."
He paused slightly.
"So you believe…"
"That unit—despite taking heavy losses—didn't hide and lick its wounds."
"But instead had the courage to infiltrate my territory…"
"…kidnap one of my people with precision…"
"…and do it without alerting a single guard?"