*April 5th, 8:16am.—Bellingham Penthouse
The morning sun cut through the frost-glazed windows of the Bellingham Penthouse like a scalpel—sharp, sterile, unwelcome. Tony sat up in bed, blinking against the light, but he wasn't fooled by the warmth it pretended to offer. His suit jacket still hung over the chair where he left it last night, carrying the lingering scent of expensive wine and threats veiled in velvet.
(Woah. Did all that really happen?)
Dent's voice echoed through his skull like a whisper beneath concrete.
"A lion can wear another man's skin, Mr. Bellingham, but it can't fake the roar."
Tony dragged himself out of bed. No breakfast. No calls. Just silence. The kind that sticks to your ribs and makes the air heavier than it should be.
(It was painful. Absolutely Painful.)
As he crossed the room, he paused by the window. The gardens below were draped in the fresh morning dew, the stone fountain long since dried out and cracked. Ghosts of a dynasty past lingered in those grounds. Things he was now expected to answer to.
He made his way to the hallway, where Aaron was already waiting by the old study. Hands folded in front of him. Stone-faced as ever. No nod, no greeting.
"We need to go deeper," Aaron said.
(Damn, this is seriously?)
Tony thought to himself, "Um....He didn't greet me!"
Tony didn't ask what he meant. He followed.
Cristiano Bellingham's study looked the same as always. Like a war room built by royalty: dark mahogany shelves lined with first editions, globe bar cart by the window, a leather chair with clawed feet. It smelled of dust, aged whiskey, and legacy. The air held a stillness that dared you to speak.
Aaron walked to the far wall and ran his fingers along the shelf. Click. A faint mechanical sound. The bookshelf split down the middle like a secret held too long.
(Classic)
Tony raised a brow. "How long has that been there?"
Aaron didn't answer. Instead, he stepped aside and gestured to the narrow passage.
"Your father called it 'The Keep.'"
( I bet the real Tony never knew About this.)
Tony entered, heart pacing faster now.
The space beyond was low-ceilinged, more bunker than office. Dust hung in the air like memory. Dim, overhead lights flickered on automatically, revealing a vault-like chamber filled with locked drawers, metal cases, and one long, polished table in the center.
(The VAULT)
The smell hit him first—leather, tobacco, and something metallic underneath. The scent of secrets, and bloodshed.
He walked slowly to the table. At its center lay a single object: a black leather book with crimson stitching.
He reached out. Touched it.
The leather was warm.
He opened the first page.
No greeting. No name.
Just a single phrase, scrawled in harsh pen strokes:
"Trust no one. Especially the ones who claim to know you."
Tony flipped through the pages. Names. Dozens of them. Some underlined, others circled in red or black. Dates. Coordinates. Symbols he didn't understand. One page had a coded message repeated three times in different handwriting. Another had the sketch of a ring—a family heirloom he'd never seen before.
(He wasn't the real one....so how could he have seen it.)
He slowed down when he saw a name underlined in red three times: "M. D'amico."
That name kinda stabbed his heart. He hung there for a while, tears nearly rolling down his cheek. But he cleaned them off. And asked
"That's the loan shark. He's the biggest Mafia in Asia. Isn't it?" Tony asked.
Aaron nodded, the faintest grimace on his face. "Cristiano paid him once. Years ago. A favor. A threat. It was never clear."
Tucked into the final pages was a small, plastic pouch. A USB drive.
Aaron cleared his throat. "There's an old terminal in the corner. It still works."
Tony slid the drive in. The screen buzzed to life.
A single audio file popped up. Labeled of: For The Heir.
He pressed play.
Cristiano's voice filled the room.
Low. Gravelly. Confident.
Part of it wasn't hearable. So they skipped to the hearable part
"Power is a mask, boy. You don't wear it to hide—you wear it to remind people they don't get to see the real you. Because the real you? He's still learning. He's still bleeding. That man gets you killed."
Tony stood still. Breath shallow. Every word like a crack in the foundation.
"You want to survive Dent? Learn names. Real names. Not aliases. Not brands. Names. The ones that break a man when whispered. The ones no one writes down."
A pause.
Silence filled the room, not because of the tension but because he couldn't here the other part. It refused to play.
Another pause. A slower inhale. Then a different tone.
They scrolled through, hoping to hear more
*Click*
The audio ended.
Silence returned harder.
Tony leaned back against the table, heart pounding. His reflection stared back at him from the polished surface. The name. That damned name. Tony Cristiano Bellingham.
He remembered last night.
"Mr. Bellingham," Dent had said.
Not the real name.
Not yet.
Tony looked to Aaron, whose jaw was tight.
"He knows something. Not everything."
Aaron nodded. "But he's baiting you. Waiting for you to crack."
Tony looked down at the black book. Ran his fingers over the cover.
"Then we crack him first."
He picked up the book, tucked it under his arm.
"I'm not just wearing the crown, Dad."
He turned toward the door.
"I'm re-forging it."
The lights dimmed behind him as he walked out, shadows stretching like claws across the vault.
Outside, the estate was beginning to stir. Staff voices in the distance, the hum of engines in the garage. But for Tony, the world had narrowed to a blade's edge.
He walked with Aaron in silence until they reached the atrium. There, beside the grand staircase, hung a massive portrait of Cristiano Bellingham. Regal, commanding. A lion's gaze.
Tony stopped.
A beat passed.
Then Tony turned.
The front doors opened. Cold air swept in.
Tony stepped through.
This time, he wasn't looking back.