The silence in the room was beginning to settle like a heavy fog, thick and uneasy. Riccardo leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed loosely, his sharp eyes studying Lorenzo who sat unmoving on the couch, eyes staring blankly out the tall glass window of the penthouse. The sun had begun to dip beneath the horizon, casting long orange streaks across the sky—an almost perfect view, yet Lorenzo didn't see it.
Riccardo pushed off the frame, stepping closer, and with a mock frown asked, "What's up with you, Big Dog? You look like someone stole your favorite gun."
No answer.
Riccardo narrowed his eyes, then slowly walked over to the table, pouring himself a drink. "Is it the sweetheart?" he asked casually. "She going back to her house with Henry and you're sulking like a kicked puppy?"
Still no reply.
Riccardo chuckled under his breath, but when he looked up, he noticed the tension in Lorenzo's jaw. His eyes were dark, distant, and unreadable.
