Chapter 5 : Roses in the Shadows
The Visalla Estate garden was unusually quiet that evening. The sun had begun to dip below the horizon, casting a golden hue over the trimmed hedges and thorned rosebushes. Among them, Dante Visalla stood in solitude, his hands tucked behind his back, gazing silently at a blooming red rose.
A soft voice broke the silence.
"What are you doing here?"
Dante jolted slightly, startled by the sudden interruption. He turned to see Ashley approaching him, her eyes curious but calm.
"Ah—nothing," Dante said, recovering. "Just admiring nature, I suppose."
Ashley smirked. "That's rare around here. You might be the only sane person in this entire estate."
"Only you say that," he replied, the corner of his mouth twitching into a faint smile.
Ashley crossed her arms, glancing around. "Is Michael home?"
"No," Dante shook his head. "He went out earlier. He should be back soon, I think. Why? Looking for him?"
"I need to discuss something important," she said. A brief pause lingered before she added, "What's the board meeting situation?"
Dante turned his gaze back to the rose. "Still two weeks away. I heard the elders plan to vote on whether to accept Michael into the board officially."
Ashley narrowed her eyes slightly. "And what do you think?"
Dante plucked a rose from the bush carefully, studying its sharp edges. "Hmm. Michael's smart, but he has too many enemies. A board seat is... complicated."
She exhaled, clearly thinking hard. "Well, I need him to be on that board."
Dante chuckled, shaking his head. "His father and uncle don't want him near it. But the daughter of the third does? Tell me, Ashley... are you in love with Michael or something?"
Her cheeks instantly flushed red. "What? No! That's impossible. I just—need his support. That's all."
Before Dante could tease her further, Ashley's phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID, her expression shifting to seriousness. "I need to take this," she said, walking away toward the edge of the garden for privacy.
As her footsteps faded, an older man in a black suit quietly approached Dante. It was his butler, always silent unless spoken to.
"Sir," the butler said, handing him a black envelope. "This arrived for you."
Dante opened the file and skimmed the documents inside. His expression hardened.
"Interesting..." he muttered.
He snapped the file closed and handed it back.
"Burn this," he said firmly. "And scatter the ashes in water. Make sure nothing remains."
"Yes, sir," the butler bowed and walked away.
Dante plucked the rose again and looked at it with unreadable eyes before heading toward the estate. The hallway was dim, lined with family portraits that stared down with judgmental expressions. As he pushed open the door to his room, he stopped.
His father, Silas Visalla, sat waiting on a leather armchair, a half-lit cigar in his hand.
"Were you waiting for me?" Dante asked calmly.
"Yes," Silas replied without standing. "We need to talk."
Dante walked in, tossed the rose onto his desk. "If it's about Michael… I know why you're here."
Silas raised his glass slightly. "You always were sharp, boy. You see things the others don't. That's why I raised you the way I did."
Dante leaned against the bookshelf. "Is this one of your famous moral lectures?"
"No." Silas put the glass down. "This is a warning, masked as advice."
He stood and paced slowly, voice measured. "Back when I was your age—eighteen—I stood in the exact place Michael stands today. The board liked me. I had power. Charisma. Even the old men whispered my name as heir."
"But you didn't fight for it," Dante said.
Silas nodded. "Because I knew I couldn't beat my father. He was a tyrant, yes—but he was still stronger. And smart. The youngest brother tried to challenge him. Got himself humiliated and lost his only chance to succeed."
Dante walked toward his desk, picked up a pen, fiddled with it. "So you're saying I shouldn't support Michael?"
Silas turned. "I'm saying you shouldn't play the hero. This family doesn't reward heroes. It rewards survivors."
Dante narrowed his eyes. "And you think Michael won't survive?"
"I think Michael is walking into a trap. The board is divided, yes, but too many of the old men still see him as a child. They'll devour him if he steps wrong."
"You sound almost... concerned."
Silas chuckled coldly. "No. I just don't want you going down with him."
Dante stared at the wall, thoughtful. "You want me to back out. Stay neutral."
"No," Silas replied. "I want you to choose. Back the right man. The one who will win."
Dante finally turned. "And who is that?"
Silas was silent for a moment.
Then: "I'm not sure yet. But I am sure it's not the one who walks like a leader but bleeds like a lamb."
Dante scoffed. "That's poetic. Did you rehearse that?"
Silas smirked. "You always mock, but you listen. That's good."
He walked to the door, hand resting on the knob. "Just remember this, Dante. Power in this family isn't taken by brute force. It's taken by patience. By sacrifice. By aligning with the devil that suits your survival."
He paused.
"And whatever you do—don't try to be the devil. They always burn first."
He left.
The silence in the room returned.
Dante sat at his desk and pulled out an old leather-bound book—"Ways of a Leader." His fingers traced the title.
He leaned back, eyes lost in thought.
"Why did I have to be born among these insane, greedy bastards?"