ALLURA'S POV
TWO DAYS LATER.
The opulent, latest-model Rolls-Royce limousine seemed jarringly out of place as it approached the gate—a wreck of rusted metal and crumbling stone, seemingly abandoned and deliberately hidden from the world. A sudden, cold shiver raced down my spine as we passed through.
The gate slammed shut behind us with a resonant, metallic clunk. We immediately plunged into a dark tunnel, a maw that whispered danger. It was a suffocating, absolute darkness that swallowed the powerful beam of the car's headlights, rendering them ordinary, almost useless.
The car finally glided to a stop. We were in an underground garage, dimly lit, with a few other high-end vehicles already parked. A single, intense blue light shone ahead, a harsh beacon cutting through the gloom.
Damion, always attentive, opened the door for Xavier, while another guard did the same for me. They ushered us deeper into the suffocating tunnel, away from the car, following the blue light's persistent call. It was a calculated signpost, I realized, designed to guide the Mafia elite and prevent them from stumbling into the lethal traps rumored to be set in these catacombs.
The blue light led us to an old, rusty elevator hidden behind a sleek glass door—a bizarre contrast of modern security and archaic machinery.
Six guards, three on each side, entered first. Xavier and I followed. The doors slid shut, and the silence inside the steel box stretched, heavy with anticipation and the scent of ozone and dust.
Finally, the elevator pinged and the doors opened. The guards stepped out first, flanking the exit, clearing a triumphant path for us.
Dressed in my sleek, long-sleeved pencil gown, golden clutch in hand, and white stilettoes adorned with gold, I stepped out. The shock was immediate. I had anticipated a dirty, utilitarian lair, a reflection of the sinister deals that transpired here. Instead, I found a grand ballroom.
Expensive chandeliers bathed the room in a dazzling light, illuminating marble floors, and tables laden with rare, near-illegal food and wines. Yet, despite the luxury, the air was thick with a palpable, dangerous energy.
I counted perhaps thirty to forty people—all men—the leaders seated, the others mingling. I recognized the signs: men communicating through quick eye movements, subtle hand gestures, or even sharp, low whistles. Guns and armed machinery were openly displayed, a non-issue in a place immune to government oversight. I noted several men wearing masks, their faces and eyes completely obscured except for small viewing slits. These, I was certain, were the political partners and financiers of the Giovanni family.
Xavier gently guided me toward a raised podium. On it, dominating the entire room, was a massive, golden, dragon-shaped throne.
As we ascended, the seated audience rose in unison. A deep, loud chorus of Italian filled the hall.
"Lunga vita al Patriarca e alla Matriarca del Drago della Fenice! Possa la vostra unione e la vostra dinastia regnare per mille anni!" (Long live the Phoenix Dragon Patriarch and Matriarch! May your union and dynasty reign for a thousand years!)
I felt their eyes on me—contempt mixed with a chilling, undeniable fear.
"Lunga vita ai Giovanni!" Xavier commanded, his voice a sharp blade of Italian, and everyone echoed the sentiment before a deafening round of applause and wolfish hoots erupted.
Xavier's hand, as was his custom in public, curled possessively around my waist, pulling me tight against his body. I leaned in, a theatrical show of affection, snuggling against him like a cat seeking warmth—an elaborate performance of love designed to reassure and fool our unsuspecting audience.
The meeting commenced.
I watched Xavier as he began to speak. He was different now, sterner than his usual composed self. This version of him was pure discipline, cautious, every word and gesture measured. He looked like a hawk on overwatch, poised and dangerously good-looking.
A man at the main table, wearing a silver mask that gave him the look of a stylized gargoyle, cleared his throat and addressed Xavier in a low, grating voice.
"Patriarch," the man said, using the formal title. "We have fulfilled our end of the agreement. The funding for the shipping channels has been disbursed. But the risk is... significant. The Senate is closing ranks. If they discover the extent of our partnership with your operation, the consequences will be severe. We require more than simple assurances now."
Xavier's grip on my waist momentarily tightened, a tiny, almost imperceptible signal of his rising temper. His eyes, however, remained cool, calculating.
"Assurances are for bankers, Senator Massimo," Xavier replied, his voice calm but laced with an icy finality. "You speak of risk, but you forget the foundation of our entire system. Your risk is tied directly to my stability. And my stability, as you well know, is absolute."
He paused, letting the statement hang in the opulent room. He then smiled, a sharp, humorless curve of his lips that didn't reach his eyes.
"You fear the Senate. I own the silence of the Senate," he continued, his tone softening only slightly, the menace becoming more casual, more effective. "You have been paid handsomely for your services. You will receive your next payment when the first shipment arrives successfully. Until then, you will remember one simple fact: You are a Giovanni partner. You only rise or fall at my pleasure. Is that clear?"
Senator Massimo visibly swallowed, the silver mask hiding his face but not the tension in his shoulders.
"Perfectly clear, Patriarch," he muttered, dipping his head in submission.
Xavier turned his attention back to the room, the matter closed. The silent, terrifying power he wield wielded was absolute. I realized, watching him, that this was the truest version of the Phoenix Dragon—and I was snuggled against him, right at the epicenter of the storm.
The meeting had dissolved into a mid-afternoon pause. Xavier's eyes, sharp even when resting, fixed on mine. "Are you hungry, Allura?"
I gave the slight, practiced nod—the one that said yes, husband, I am the perfect, compliant partner you require. "A little, dear."
He snapped his fingers once, and the "feasting segment," as he called it, commenced. A silver trolley was silently wheeled in, topped with an array of delicate dishes. The food itself was a guarantee of non-poison: the kitchen was under 24/7 CCTV surveillance, yet Xavier, ever the meticulous predator, adhered to his own ritual.
A hulking man in a tailored suit stepped forward. He took a fork, scooped a sliver of the steamed salmon and a piece of my favorite Moon Cake, and ingested both with an expressionless face. We waited for a full minute as he maintained his perfect posture, a living, breathing canary in a coal mine.
"Excellent," Xavier murmured, gesturing to the guard.
I finally took a bite. The Moon Cake was rich, slightly sweet, a comforting contrast to the cold paranoia clinging to the air.
The meeting resumed, and the atmosphere immediately shifted to cold steel. Xavier and the two men across the vast, mahogany table began speaking a harsh, fluid language that was not for my ears: deep Italian
.
I could hear the names—Valkov—and see the sudden, aggressive tightening of Xavier's jaw. I focused on the few recognizable words: spia (spy), magazzino (warehouse). I was deliberately being kept in the dark, a fact that both infuriated and terrified me.
They're sending spies. The Valkov family is trying to infiltrate his operation, I translated mentally, piecing together the scraps of non-verbal hostility and familiar terms. They want a business deal, but Xavier refuses. He called them 'foxes.'
A cold knot formed in my stomach. The childish, yet venomous, threats I had been receiving—the he-goat sending letters—could this be connected? Were the Valkovs using the same method of psychological warfare against Xavier, or was it a separate play designed just for me?
I remained still, glued to Xavier's side as if by force, a silent, ornamental fixture until the meeting concluded for the day.
HOURS LATER
"My driver will take you home, Allura," Xavier said, barely glancing at me as he packed his leather briefcase. "I have a few late-night arrangements to finalize."
"Of course, Xavier. Be careful," I replied automatically, the expected words of the good wife.
The ride home was swift and silent, just me and the armed guard in the back of the armored sedan. I was deposited back into my gilded cage, the mansion that felt less like a home and more like a high-security vault.
Exhaustion was a heavy cloak, but a relentless spark of curiosity had finally ignited into an idea. I pulled myself off the bed and walked to my vanity.
From the hidden compartment beneath my jewelry box, I took two things. First, a small, polished metal emblem—a sleek, coiled fox—which I'd found carelessly discarded in Xavier's study a week ago. I knew it belonged to the Valkov family; Xavier had thrown it across the room after a terse phone call.
Next, I retrieved the latest threatening letter. It was printed on cheap paper, crude and insulting, but I now scrutinized it with new, frantic focus. I held the paper up to the light, then pulled out my phone and used the magnifier app, turning the brightness to its maximum.
At the very bottom, in ink so pale it was almost transparent, was an infinitesimally small, handwritten line, a final, arrogant signature hidden in plain sight: Valkov Foxx.
A shaky breath escaped me. It wasn't just a threat. It was a declaration of war.