Clifford was driving through the dimly lit city streets when his phone buzzed on the passenger seat. He reached for it with one hand, eyes briefly flicking from the road. The screen lit up with a name that made his stomach twist—Gerald Moretti.
His hand froze for a second.
Of all people…
He hesitated before answering. Then, pressing the phone to his ear, he said quietly, "Good evening, sir."
The voice that came through was firm and cold. "Come straight to the mansion."
No greeting. No reason. Just an order. And then—click—the call ended.
Clifford let out a long sigh, his grip tightening on the wheel. "What does this man want again?" he muttered, making a sharp U-turn toward the Moretti estate.
As he pulled up to the familiar iron gates and stepped out of his car, a wave of old memories hit him like a punch to the gut. The mansion stood tall and proud, its lights glowing against the dark sky. But to him, it looked more like a haunted house than a home.
