Silence again.
Then Victor leans back in his chair.
“And what of my son?” he asks.
I glance at where Elias stands in the corner of the room. He’s wearing a a blue suit tailored to his exact measurements. A gold pin bearing my crest sits on his chest boldly.
“What of him?” I reply.
“You claim he was framed,” Victor says. “Yet he remains in your home.”
“You call that protection?” he continues. “He was delivered to you as tribute. A humiliation.”
I level my eyes with Elias’s. He is unwavering.
“You mistreated him,” Victor says. “Used him as leverage. And now you kill your own men and expect us to believe the truce stands?”
The room shifts slightly. Watching. Measuring.
“You call me unstable,” Victor continues, eyes hard. “You call my son protected. But from where I sit, Lucian, you look like a monster who devours his own.”
The insult lands clean. I don’t flinch.
“What exactly are you implying?” I ask.
“I’m implying,” Victor says, “that this truce should not be upheld.”
A few heads turn at that.
I need to be careful. Victor isn’t stupid. He wouldn’t make this move without thinking through the consequences.
“You believe dissolving the truce benefits you?” I ask quietly.
“I believe my son was mistreated.”
A lie.
Or at least a convenient version of the truth.
“And I believe,” Victor continues, “that you are too volatile to lead.”
That earns a low murmur, but my pulse remains steady.
“If you’re suggesting war,” I say evenly, “then say it plainly.”
Victor opens his mouth?—
A metallic click interrupts him.
The room stills. Elias stands behind his father’s chair.
With a gun labeledsweetheartin small script pressed cleanly to the back of Victor Moretti’s head.
A gift I gave him for his birthday as a joke. No one laughs now.
The other bosses go rigid, hands twitching subtly toward their jackets.
“Don’t,” I say calmly.
