Sebastian in France.
Olivia in France too.
They'd known each other for five years.
Since Leo was born.
These coincidences stacked together, and something felt off.
Sebastian and I had been close.
He was the son of my father's exiled brother, five years younger than me, raised outside the family. When he was ten and his father died, he was brought back. My father, out of guilt, raised him like his own. We grew up together, close as brothers, but after we became adults, he drifted away, rarely came home.
The elders didn't like him because his mother wasn't family-approved.
But my father liked him—liked him more than me, even.
Because he was gentle, polished, always said the right things, did the right things.
And me—
I was the cold, grim son who satisfied the elders but disappointed my father.
Before my father died, he called Sebastian to his bedside, talked to him for a long time.
What they said, I never knew.
But after that, Sebastian left the family, took over a company, went roaming. He only showed up when something major happened.
He said he wanted freedom, didn't want to be chained to the family.
The elders agreed. He wasn't the heir anyway—didn't matter if he stayed or left.
But now—
Now he showed up next to Olivia. Next to Leo.
This wasn't a coincidence.
Absolutely not.
My phone rang. I answered.
"Sir," Carlo said. "Got the preliminary findings."
"Talk."
"Sebastian Visconti left New York five years ago, went to France. On the surface, he's running an investment company, but—"
He paused.
"But what?"
"But under the table, the company's doing business with some smaller gangs."
My fingers tightened against my knee.
"Keep digging," I said. "Figure out which old bastards are pulling strings behind this. There's more to this."
