The sound of the rain still echoed faintly when Nicolas grabbed his coat, his movements sharp, mechanical. Scarlett stood by the bed, her hands trembling slightly as she buttoned her shirt. The warmth between them had vanished — replaced by something cold and sharp enough to draw blood.
"Nicolas," she said quietly, her voice barely above the whisper of rain. "Who is Moretti meeting?"
He didn't answer at first. His eyes were fixed on the gun lying on the table — silent, waiting. He slid it into the holster beneath his jacket with a click that seemed to cut through the air.
"Alisa Meng's brother," he said finally, his voice low, taut with tension. "Dmitri Meng."
Scarlett froze.
She had heard that name only once — whispered, almost like a ghost story.
"I thought he never left the border," she said. "The Mengs keep him out of public sight."
"They do," Nicolas replied, his tone grim. "He was stationed near the Russian border for years — overseeing arms shipments, securing supply routes. The kind of man who doesn't exist on paper. If Moretti is meeting him now, it means something's moving. Something big."
Scarlett stepped closer, her voice shaking. "You think it's connected to you?"
He looked up, eyes cold steel. "Everything is connected to me."
The words landed like a weight between them.
For a moment, she wanted to argue — to ask why he always believed the world revolved around danger, guns, and betrayal. But then she saw it — that flicker of fear beneath his hardened exterior. He wasn't just angry. He was afraid.
He reached for the car keys. "Stay here, lock the doors. Don't open it for anyone."
"Nicolas," she called after him, her voice sharper now. "You can't just—"
He turned, his expression softening for a brief heartbeat. "Scarlett. Please."
That single word — please — silenced her. He'd never used it before.
And just like that, he was gone.
---
The black Maserati tore through the streets of Rome, the rain glistening on the asphalt like shattered glass. Nicolas's mind raced faster than the engine. Dmitri Meng. The ghost son of the Meng family. The one who had disappeared from every photo, every press release, every deal.
And now, he was back — meeting Moretti.
His phone buzzed again. Matteo's voice was shaky on the other end.
"Boss, we tracked them. They're at the old shipyard near the docks — Pier 47."
"Security?" Nicolas asked.
"Minimal. But… you're not gonna like this. The Russian convoy arrived thirty minutes ago. Looks like a weapons exchange."
A curse slipped from Nicolas's mouth. "They're moving guns again. And Moretti's covering it."
He slammed the phone shut, the rain pounding harder against the windshield. His jaw clenched. This wasn't just business. This was betrayal.
The Meng family wasn't just expanding — they were sending a message.
They were declaring war.