It started with a single message. Short. Precise. Like an order.
“At the usual place. Ten minutes.”
**
Livio hadn’t looked at the number he typed. He rarely needed to. His men knew their roles and their places. Orders flowed and were obeyed. Mistakes were for other men. Not him.
But the reply that came back wasn’t obedience.
“Sorry… who is this?”
**
His brows lifted, the faintest crease disturbing the calm mask of his face. Wrong number? Impossible. Yet the words sat there, plain and unafraid.
He should’ve ended it. Should’ve deleted the whole thread. But instead, curiosity tightened its grip.
“Don’t play games.”
**
There was a pause. Then another message arrived from you.
“I’m not. You really did text the wrong person.”
**
Livio leaned back in his chair, the glow of the city stretching far out beneath his penthouse windows. Wrong person. The phrase circled him like smoke. And yet, your tone—steady, polite, a touch uncertain—was nothing like the voices he was used to commanding.
He felt the corner of his mouth lift, a cold half-smile that never quite reached his eyes.
“Then who are you?”
**
The phone stayed quiet. He imagined you hesitating, weighing whether to answer. Sweet, innocent. Too open. Too willing to engage a stranger.
He set the phone down at last, though his thoughts lingered longer than they should have. He didn’t believe in accidents. But perhaps this one was worth keeping.