She gives him a warning.

The sunset light bathed Adrián’s penthouse in a golden, deceitful glow. Magi stood before him once again, but the atmosphere was charged with a different kind of electricity. She no longer felt like a lost piece; she felt like a double agent who had just planted her first landmine.

"Lorenzo," Magi began, her voice pure steel. "He’s more sophisticated than we anticipated. His caution isn't fear; it’s methodology."

Adrián, who had been watching the city like a monarch from his floor-to-ceiling window, turned slowly. His eyes, two slits of obsidian, fixed on her with an intensity that would have made Cadet Rojas faint.

"'Methodology' is a word that sounds like a delay to me," he said, his voice a whisper vibrating with latent threat. "And I don’t tolerate my money waiting at the door because an Italian wants to play at protocols."

"It’s not a delay, it’s an investment," she countered, holding his gaze. "He comes from an environment where risk is measured in millimeters. The club and the yacht feel... noisy to him. He believes true power is exercised in silence. If we want his signature, we must give him the stage he respects."

She was inventing Lorenzo’s profile with surgical precision, using the truth to manufacture a perfect lie.

"He wants galleries, discreet cafés, the illusion of a gentleman’s agreement," Magi continued. "If we give him that sense of security, he’ll lower his guard. And that’s where we’ll close him."

Adrián didn't respond immediately. He walked toward a dark leather cabinet and, with a slow movement, pulled out an object that made the air freeze in Magi’s lungs: a short, heavy braided leather whip—a relic of cruelty resting in his hand like an extension of his will.

"Security," Adrián repeated, stroking the black leather with his thumb. "You talk to me about his security, but you seem to be forgetting your own, Magda."

He stepped toward her until Magi could smell his expensive cologne mixed with the dry scent of leather. Adrián raised the whip and used its cold tip to trace her jawline, forcing her to keep her head high.

"I don’t pay you to be patient," he whispered, as the whip descended toward her neck, pressing lightly. "I pay you to be effective. If this 'gentleman’s game' doesn't produce results within forty-eight hours, I’ll stop using words with you." He paused, his eyes gleaming with pure sadism. "This leather has an excellent memory for skin that fails me. Do you understand what’s at stake?"

Magi didn't flinch. She felt the brush of the leather as a reminder of the beast before her, but her mind was already processing how to use this pressure to accelerate her plan with Lorenzo and Costa.

"I understand perfectly, Adrián," she replied with a calm that bordered on insolence. "You’ll have your result. Lorenzo Fiore will sign because he’ll believe he’s in control—when in reality, he’ll just be walking into the slaughterhouse I’ve prepared for him."

Adrián smiled—an expression devoid of warmth—and snapped the whip away from her neck with a sharp movement.

"Good. Prove to me that you’re worth more than the pleasure of punishing you."

Leaving the penthouse, Magi still felt the cold trail of the leather on her skin. Adrián had threatened her with physical pain, but she felt only an icy determination. She had bought the time Lorenzo needed, but the margin for error had shrunk to zero. Now, every move had to be lethal. She was no longer a pawn trying to be a player; she was the queen who, under the threat of the whip, was determined to topple the king. The game had turned bloody, and Magi was ready to see who would bleed first.