The chandelier light in the Meng estate flickered, scattering golden reflections over the mahogany table where the deal of the decade was being whispered.
Outside, the Tuscan night lay still — too still. Inside, it pulsed with power.
Moretti Meng sat at the head of the long table, his fingers wrapped around a glass of Barolo. He wasn't drinking. Just watching the crimson swirl in the glass, like blood in motion. Across from him sat a man whose face the papers hadn't printed in years — Lord Osborous, his expression as sharp as the blade he carried beneath his coat.
And beside Moretti, his son Dmitri Meng leaned back in silence, cigarette smoke curling lazily from his lips.
"Volkov's heir returned to Italy," Osborous said, his voice calm but edged. "He's already reclaimed half of the shipping routes that used to be ours."
Moretti's jaw twitched. "Let him take his routes. The boy's playing with ghosts. He thinks being a Volkov still means something."
Dmitri smirked. "It does, Father. To the fools who still fear the name."
His tone carried that effortless arrogance — the kind that came from men born to wealth and raised to believe loyalty was currency.
Moretti turned to him with a glance that was both pride and warning. "And what do you think, Dmitri? Should we let Nicolas Volkov rise, or remind him what happens when lions grow soft?"
Dmitri's eyes narrowed, a dangerous glint sparking there. "I think we gut the lion before he remembers his claws."
Osborous's low laugh echoed in the hall. "You sound just like your father."
The young Meng leaned forward, crushing his cigarette in the crystal ashtray. "No," he said coolly. "I'm worse."
---
The tension thickened, laced with expensive wine and unspoken promises.
On the sideboard, a silver-framed photograph caught Dmitri's eye — his sister Alisa, in one of her flawless designer gowns, smiling like she hadn't been born into treachery.
"She's still playing her role?" Dmitri asked casually.
Moretti's gaze followed his. "Alisa's always been good at playing roles. Soon, she'll remind the Volkov heir where his duty lies. Marriage to her will tie him to us — or destroy him."
Osborous leaned back. "And the girl?"
Dmitri arched a brow. "Which girl?"
"The one he keeps in the shadows," Osborous said. "Scarlett Rivera."
For the first time that night, Dmitri's composure slipped. He tilted his head, intrigued. "Ah, the ghost from his past."
Moretti's tone hardened. "She's nothing. A distraction. If she becomes a problem—"
"I'll take care of it," Dmitri interrupted smoothly.
Moretti studied his son's face for a moment. There was a faint, unreadable smile there — the kind that made men uneasy.
"Don't play with her, Dmitri," he warned. "This isn't one of your games."
But Dmitri only laughed under his breath. "Everything is a game, Father. Even love."
---
The room went silent again. Somewhere in the distance, a clock struck one.
Osborous stood, adjusting his coat. "The shipment leaves from the eastern port tomorrow night. Your men will receive it under Aras's signature. He'll never know it's forged."
Moretti nodded. "Once the deal goes through, we'll control half the Mediterranean trade line. Volkov won't even realize his allies are bleeding him dry."
"And when he does?" Osborous asked, almost amused.
Dmitri's voice was low, almost a whisper. "Then I'll be there to watch him fall."
He picked up the untouched glass of wine before him, raising it slightly — mockingly.
"To old empires and new rulers."
The men clinked glasses, the sound sharp as a gunshot in the quiet room.
---
Later that night, when the hall was empty and the servants dismissed, Dmitri lingered by the window. The vineyard stretched endless under the moonlight, the silence deceptive.
He took another cigarette, lighting it with practiced ease. The smoke curled upward as he whispered to himself,
"Scarlett Rivera… I wonder if you'll scream when you learn the truth."
The ember flared, reflecting in his dark eyes — not with anger, but fascination.
He smiled faintly.
"Let's see how much she's worth to the great Nicolas Volkov."
And with that, he turned toward the door, leaving a faint trail of smoke and menace behind him.
Outside, the wind picked up again — carrying the first whispers of war.