He stood in that doorway for another long moment, staring at the tiny bed and the pile of battered notebooks. A part of him — the part that knew how to survive by turning his heart to stone, told him to walk out and forget it.
But he didn't.
He pulled out his phone, thumb brushing the side as he forced his voice to stay steady. "Roman," he said when the line clicked, his tone cool as ice. "Have the men pack everything up in this room. All of it — the notebooks, the clothes, the computer, even that broken chair. Nothing stays."
The man on the other end acknowledged the order. Leonardo ended the call without another word.
He walked down the narrow stairs, shoes echoing on the rotten wood, and stepped outside. He didn't look back. His face was expressionless.
He remembered…
