The apartment-door handle moved once.
Then it stopped.
Iris stood beside the table, unable to look away from the final page in Matteo’s folder.
Her logo occupied half the sheet.
A street map occupied the other half.
Thin red lines connected the geometric leaves she had spent six hours adjusting.
One line ended at her building.
The knocking came again.
Three measured blows.
Not a neighbor.
Not someone who had forgotten a key.
Someone who expected the door to open.
Matteo closed the folder and moved between Iris and the entrance.
“Take Britney into the bedroom.”
Iris did not move.
“You admitted you’ve been watching me, brought surveillance photographs into my apartment, and now someone is trying my door.
I’m not going anywhere until you explain what’s happening.”
The corner of Matteo’s jaw flexed.
“This is not the time.”
“It became the time when you walked inside.”
The handle turned again, harder.
Britney grabbed Iris’s wrist.
“We can argue about the terrifying control issues after we survive the hallway.”
A soft scrape sounded against the lock.
Matteo took out his phone and made one call.
“Third floor,” he said.
“Two at the door.
Take them quietly.”
He ended the call before anyone answered.
Iris stared at him.
“Who did you just call?”
“People who were already nearby.”
“Because you were watching me.”
“Because the men outside were watching you first.”
Footsteps rushed along the hallway.
Someone struck the apartment door from the outside.
A second set of footsteps followed, then a low command Iris could not understand.
The lockpick scraped across the floor.
A man cursed.
Another voice ordered him toward the stairs.
Within seconds, the hallway fell silent.
Matteo did not relax.
He crossed to the window and looked through the edge of the curtain.
The black sedan pulled away from the curb so quickly that its tires sprayed rain across the sidewalk.
“They left one man upstairs and kept the driver outside,” he said.
Iris felt cold spread through her body.
“Who are they?”
“A rival crew that has been trying to map my businesses, delivery routes, storage properties, and private residences.”
Britney pointed toward the folder.
“Using a logo?”
“Using her revisions.”
Matteo opened the folder again, but this time he placed it in front of Iris rather than turning the pages himself.
The photographs were grainy, taken from cars, across streets, and through windows.
Each carried a date in one corner.
Iris recognized the dates immediately.
They matched the nights her client had demanded major revisions.
