"Mr. Ferraro, you can't possibly listen to her when she's clearly sprouting nonsense," the manager spoke up sharply, his voice tight with irritation. The deep crease between his brows and the way his lips curled made it painfully obvious that he was beyond annoyed—he was offended.
Llara couldn't care less.
She shifted instinctively, stepping closer to the man she knew—hoped—could help her. Close enough that she could feel the solid heat of him, close enough that if the manager tried anything else, he would have to go through Ferraro first.
"She belongs to Mr. Lorenzo and—"
This time, Ferraro didn't let him finish.
"I don't see his name written on her."
His voice was low, steady, and edged with something dangerous. It wasn't loud, but it carried enough force to slice through the air and leave no room for argument. The kind of voice that didn't threaten—it promised. The manager stiffened instantly, his mouth snapping shut as though he'd suddenly remembered his place.
