It wasn’t the entourage that gave him away, nor the line of security that flanked him, nor even the hush that drifted through the sixth floor like a breath everyone forgot to exhale.

It was the shoes.

Black. Polished. Italian. The kind that whispered power in every step — the kind that said, I don’t chase the world. It comes to me.

I was walking back from the archive room, a misplaced design file tucked under my arm, when I saw him for the first time.

Luca Bellandi.

He didn’t look ...