Capo Rossi stood at the obsidian table as if it might bite him.
The table stretched nearly the length of the boardroom, polished to a black mirror that swallowed light instead of reflecting it. Beneath its surface, the faint reflection of Rossi's hands trembled despite his effort to still them. He wore a tailored suit cut sharp enough to pass inspection in any capital, but sweat had gathered at his temples, darkening the silver at his hairline.
Behind him, wall-mounted monitors glowed with rotating schematics—thermal overlays in red and blue, wireframes of weapons whose names were never spoken aloud. The room hummed softly with hidden processors and climate control, a sterile womb for violence.
"The prototypes are crated, Don Izana," Rossi said.
He dipped his head slightly, a gesture that fell somewhere between respect and fear. His hands remained clasped on the table, fingers interlocked tightly.
"Secured in climate-controlled transport," he added quickly, "just as you ordered."
The overhead lights were unforgiving. They caught the sheen of sweat on Rossi's brow, the tension in his jaw. His voice betrayed him, tightening as he continued.
"They've never handled optics this advanced. Some of the buyers are… concerned. Afraid of being outmatched."
Rossi gestured once, palm open, as if offering the concern up for inspection. He finished speaking and held himself rigid, waiting.
"Some are asking for reassurances," he said. "Warranties. Mercy."
At the head of the table, Izana Grimshaw sat perfectly still.
He wore black—immaculate, severe. The suit was tailored to his frame with surgical precision, broad shoulders squared, posture unyielding. A stark white blindfold was wrapped securely around his eyes, the fabric clean, uncreased, blindingly bright against his pale skin and dark hair.
His face showed nothing.
The blindfold's reflection stared back at him from the obsidian surface, a pale slash across endless black.
"Mercy," Izana said, calmly, "is not part of the invoice."
The words were measured. Exact.
He did not raise his voice. He did not move his hands.
"If they want the best," he continued, "they don't bargain like beggars."
The room seemed to shrink around his voice. The shadows deepened at the corners, as if the light itself were listening.
"They pay in blood or gold," Izana said. "And I accept both."
Rossi swallowed.
"Understood," he said quickly.
He rose from his chair, straightening his jacket with practiced obedience. Two other men followed suit, standing in unison along the table's edge. Together, they bowed deeply—precise, synchronized, rehearsed.
"Your word will be delivered," Rossi said. "Unchanged."
The men turned and walked toward the far doors, their footsteps muted against the polished floor. Blue light from the monitors cast long, distorted shadows behind them. No one spoke.
The doors closed.
Silence reclaimed the room.
Dante remained.
He stood a few paces from the table, checking his wristwatch. Like Izana, he wore black, though his suit was cut to accommodate muscle rather than ceremony. His presence was quiet but solid—anchored.
"You had them shaking," Dante said lightly. "Even Rossi forgot how to breathe."
There was respect in his tone. Not flattery.
He studied Izana's face, the blindfold, the stillness. Something in his expression shifted.
"Ready to head home?" Dante asked.
Then, more carefully, "You didn't push too hard, did you? You've been… pale all night."
Izana turned his head slowly toward Dante's voice and gave a single nod.
"It passed," he said.
The lie slid easily from his mouth.
Dante hesitated, clearly unconvinced, but he nodded once and turned toward the exit.
"I'll bring the car around," he said. "No detours tonight."
At the door, he paused and glanced back.
"I cleared the hallways," Dante added. "Don't push yourself getting to the lift."
Then he was gone.
The door shut, and the boardroom exhaled.
Izana remained seated for several seconds, unmoving.
Then his hands tightened against the table's edge.
His knuckles blanched as he leaned forward, drawing a sharp breath through his nose. The pressure in his chest surged—hot, insistent, familiar. His body swayed as he rose, the room tilting dangerously.
Stand.
Just stand.
Sweat gathered at his hairline beneath the blindfold. He straightened his neck, set his jaw, and forced the tremor down into his spine.
Not here.
Not now.
The underground garage smelled of oil and concrete.
A black armored sedan idled near the elevator bay, its red taillights glowing like embers against the stained floor. Dante stood beside the open rear door, hands clasped behind his back, posture relaxed but alert.
The elevator chimed.
The doors slid open, and Izana stepped out.
He moved stiffly, each step measured, controlled. The blindfold remained pristine. Dante watched him closely, eyes sharp.
"Watch your step," Dante murmured as Izana reached the car.
Izana steadied himself on the door frame and lowered into the leather seat. The door shut with a solid, reassuring thud.
As the car rolled forward, Dante's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror.
"Before we move," he said, "your grandfather called."
Izana stiffened.
"He didn't sound patient," Dante added. "Said it couldn't wait. Family business."
Izana leaned back into the shadows of the seat, the blindfold glowing faintly in the low light.
"Of course he did," he murmured.
Dante met his gaze through the mirror.
"One word," Dante said, "and I block the call."
Izana turned his head towards the window, city lights streaking past.
"If I don't answer," he said, "he'll come to us."
He exhaled slowly.
"Just drive."
The mansion rose from the dark like a shard of light.
Glass and steel, warm illumination spilling onto the driveway. The sedan came to a stop, and Izana pulled himself out, steadying his breath. His steps towards the doors were slow, heavy.
Inside, Elias waited.
He sat in a designer armchair, both hands resting atop a silver-handled cane. The living room was open and immaculate, bathed in artificial warmth that pressed in from all sides.
"Sit," Elias said. "We need to discuss your future."
Izana collapsed onto the sofa opposite him.
"You are twenty-six now," Elias continued. "Unwed."
Elias leaned forward slightly.
"I have arranged a match for you."
Izana's breath caught.
"Are you insane?" he snapped.
He surged forward, gripping the sofa cushions.
"Why drag an innocent woman into this?"
Elias's grip tightened on the cane.
"You need an heir!" he shouted.
His tone softened only slightly.
"I need someone to care for you."
Izana rose, pointing towards the staircase.
"He's up there," he said hoarsely. "My father. In a coma. Because of me."
His voice broke.
"And my mother is dead because of me."
Elias stood, slamming his cane down.
"Enough," he said. "It is done."
He smoothed his jacket.
"She arrives tomorrow. Leah Gryphon."
Izana froze.
"A Gryphon?" he whispered. "The rival house?"
"You're selling me for a truce?" Izana demanded, disgusted.
Elias's face did not change.
"She is twenty-five," he said. "It is decided."
Izana turned away.
"Fine," he said. "Let her come."
He started toward the stairs.
"But do not expect me to be a husband."
He vanished into shadows.
Elias remained alone.
And far above, Izana climbed, already resolved.
I will not love her.
I will not poison her with that.