The door creaked. He walked in Alfredo Maserati. Two minutes late, yet perfectly timed. Cold gaze forward, silent, unreadable. Every head turned; no one dared breathe. He sat beside her shoulders nearly brushing. Her pulse quickened. He didn’t look. Just clicked his pen, calm and cruel. That one twitch of his lips? Dangerous. Alfredo didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His presence said it all: Look, want, crave just don’t touch.
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