Otavio Vasconcelos did not knock before entering Dante's office.
He never had.
In Otavio's world, doors were for people who needed permission, and he had spent more than sixty years making sure no room connected to the Vasconcelos name could deny him entrance. He walked in with a silver cane he did not truly need, wearing a dark suit that looked less chosen than inherited from some older century of power. His hair had gone white at the temples, but his eyes remained sharp, pale, and deeply unimpressed by human emotion.
Dante did not rise from his desk.
That alone was enough to make the air tighten.
— Father.
— I heard an interesting rumor, Otavio said.
Dante continued reading the report in front of him, though he had stopped absorbing words the moment his father crossed the threshol
