CHAPTER HUNDRED AND SEVENTY - SIX - A CALL FOR HELP.

The office was cast in shadow, save for the cone of light thrown by a single desk lamp. He paced the length of the room, his strides long and purposeful, the tap of his Italian leather shoes echoing against the polished floor. He lifted the receiver of a rotary phone, his tone sharp and demanding as he barked out orders. "Get me the damn file already, would you?" he commanded. "No, not Marisol. The daughter. Isabella, damn it!" He paused, listening to the voice on the other end of the phone, the only sound the steady rhythm of his breathing. "Good," he said, his voice cold as ice. He returned the receiver to the cradle, his eyes fixed on the ceiling as if he could see through the concrete to the floors above. "They got too close," he muttered to himself, his pacing becoming more erratic. "Needs to be dealt with. Immediately." Behind him, a man sat at an armchair, reading what seemed to be an old newspaper. As he paced the room in thoughts, a finger tapping against his teeth, th