The air in Vitale Tower was always cold. Freezing, even.
But not because of the air conditioning.
It was something else. Something thicker. A silence that coiled from the marble floors to the forty-foot glass windows, wrapping itself around the tower like a second skin-sterile, heavy, absolute.
Angelo Vitale thrived in that silence.
He sat behind a matte black desk in his private study, thirty-seven stories above the screaming city. The floor-to-ceiling glass offered a god's-eye view of traffic, crime, sirens, life. But none of that touched him. Not here. Not in this sanctum of stillness and control.
Why waste energy on sentimental noise, on flawed human emotions, when power could be harvested, hoarded, and wielded? Money could buy silence. And silence, when enforced properly, could break empires.
He signed another document with a pen that cost more than most people's monthly rent. His signature-sleek, clean, final. Beside him, his Bluetooth earpiece buzzed with the voices of men who killed on command and never asked why.
"Confirm the weapons shipment. Secure new distribution through the Eastern docks. And find the bastard touching Rule's lane."
Static crackled.
"We think he's gone undergrou-"
"Then dig him out," Angelo said, his voice the temperature of a steel blade. "Drag him here if you must. Or drag his corpse. Either works."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. Fear did the amplifying.
Angelo Vitale was more than a leader. He was an executioner in a Brioni suit. A tactician forged from war and discipline. And nothing-nothing-escaped his attention.
Except the damn coffee.
It sat at the edge of his desk. Pale beige. Steam curling gently upward. Untouched.
Day three.
Still untouched.
The new girl didn't get it. Same beans. Same process. But the result? Off. Lifeless. Bitter in ways that made his mouth recoil. He'd spat it out the first morning. And again the next.
Today? He hadn't even tried.
His pen stilled mid-signature, eyes drifting to the cup.
Still.
Wrong.
Still not hers.
He turned away from it with a slight tick of his jaw and moved toward the liquor cabinet. Poured himself something dark, aged, and violent. Downed it in a single breathless swallow.
Emotionless.
Calculated.
The door opened behind him. He didn't turn.
Rebecca Driâlle.
He sighed.
Not tonight.
She strutted in like she owned the place-wrapped in scarlet silk, ambition, and a scent too expensive for her own worth. Capo's daughter. Obnoxious and shameless. The kind of woman who believed that sleeping with a king made her queen.
She didn't wait for an invitation.
Her heels clicked against the marble, slow and deliberate, before she slid behind him-pressing against his back like an impatient temptation. Her manicured hands splayed across his chest, fingernails tracing his buttons as if she'd personally stitched them.
"You haven't returned my calls," she breathed into his ear, lips brushing the skin just below. "Did you miss me? Or have you been too... busy punishing bad little traitors?"
Her hand wandered lower, finding his belt. Tugging-without shame. Without fear.
He caught her wrist.
Not rough. Just enough.
Enough to stop her. Enough to freeze her.
Her eyes flared, but she masked it with a coy smile.
"I thought we had an understanding, Angelo," she whispered, trying again-this time tracing the curve of his jaw. "You get bored so easily, and I? I'm the perfect cure for boredom."
"I'm not bored," he said flatly.
Before she could recover, the double doors burst open-his men dragging a battered man across the pristine floor, blood smearing across the marble like art.
Rebecca glanced lazily at the man, then turned back to Angelo, still clinging like perfume on skin.
She kissed his neck.
Angelo didn't react.
She kissed lower.
He didn't move.
Only when her lips reached the side of his throat did he speak.
And not to her but his men....
"Get this insect out of my sight,".
Rebecca blinked, a smile on her lips. Oh finally he was ready to get down to business with her. A smile that didn't last long when her arm was grabbed.
Wasn't it the battered man?
"Excuse me?"
"Out," he said again, voice like a gunshot muffled in silk.
She stepped back, pride flaring.
"You'll regret this," she hissed.
"I never do."
Two guards moved, but she turned and walked out on her own, chin lifted, hips swinging like a challenge. Her scent lingered after her, cloying and artificial.
Angelo returned to his desk like nothing happened. Unbothered. Unshaken.
He picked up the coffee again.
Paused.
The he sipped.
Still wrong.
He set it down with quiet disgust.
"Speak," he commanded the kneeling man, his voice like frost crawling over glass.
The man trembled. Weak. Unworthy.
One of Angelo's guards didn't waste a moment and delivered a brutal jab to the ribs, sending the man collapsing onto the floor with a pained gasp.
"D-Damien Vitale is planning something," the man coughed. "That's all I know. I swear."
Angelo's mouth curved.
A smile.
Cold. Controlled.
"Of course he is," he murmured. "The old man's been playing chess with two missing rooks for years."
"The Starpoint meeting," the man gasped. "He-he has something planned."
Angelo already knew he would. Of course he did. He had planned every angle, secured every variable. If Damien wanted to raise hell at the Starpoint gathering, he'd find himself burned at the gates.
Still, useful information was always worth squeezing.
"So you thought your master held a power card," Angelo said softly, almost kindly. "And that gave you the right to play in my territory?"
The man didn't respond. He was crying now-broken, sobbing.
Angelo didn't blink.
"You know what to do," he said simply.
The guards nodded.
The man's screams trailed into silence down the hallway as the doors closed behind him.
And then... peace.
That cold, beautiful peace.
Angelo sat there, surrounded by power and control.
Uninterrupted.
Undisputed.
Alone.
He turned his gaze once more to the untouched cup of coffee.
Steam still rose, faint and meaningless.
He stared at it for a long time.
Something shifted.
Not in the room.
In him.
A flicker. A ghost of warmth he hadn't invited.
He remembered the way Livia had always lingered at the door, pretending not to watch his reaction each time she made his coffee. The way she adjusted the foam with the back of a spoon. That ridiculous smile when he nodded. That nervous blink when he didn't.
She had been terrified of him-but she had dared to care anyway. Quietly. Irritatingly. Honestly.
And now?
Now the silence in the tower wasn't clean.
It was suffocating.
It rang louder than gunshots.
He closed his eyes.
Peace had returned.
But it didn't feel like peace anymore.
It felt like absence.
And he hated himself for noticing.