(MARCELLO'S POV)
I check my wristwatch as the convoy rolls to a smooth stop.
6:59 PM.
Right on time.
One of my men is already at the door by the time the engine dies. He opens it and steps aside for me.
I don't rush.
I take my time stepping out, adjusting my cuffs, then smoothing down the front of my suit jacket as my eyes lift to the building in front of me.
Looks like some exclusive high-end restaurant.
Secret Service agents stand at the entrance like statues, all wearing the same black suits, earpieces, and sunglasses.
They clock me immediately, and as I walk past them without a word, no one moves to stop me.
The moment I step through the doors, a stunning kind of silence hits me.
The entire restaurant is empty.
No guests.
No staff in sight—except for the agents stationed at different corners, blending into the background like furniture.
And then there's him. Sitting at a table in the center like he owns the place.
President William Hartford.
