A week later
Café Verona was tucked into a quiet nook on New York's Upper West Side—a cozy, warm retreat from the world outside. The soft hum of jazz swirled beneath the low chatter of customers, and the scent of dark-roasted coffee beans clung to the air like a warm embrace. Tall potted plants stood like sentinels, carving the space into intimate corners meant for hushed secrets and unspoken thoughts.
Leo Grant sat in one of those corners, dressed in a crisp gray turtleneck layered under a dark overcoat. His black cap was pulled low, shadowing his sharp features. He held a ceramic mug in both hands, sipping slowly, but his eyes weren't on the coffee. They were fixed on the front door.
He wasn't here for caffeine.
He was waiting.
