The air in the grand hall of the Petrov mansion was thick with the scent of aged whiskey, polished mahogany, and the faint, lingering trace of cigar smoke—a fragrance that spoke of power, legacy, and unspoken wars waged in gilded rooms.
Orion stepped inside, and for the first time in years, the weight of lineage pressed down on him like a physical force. He had expected the elders—the true architects of the Petrov empire—but not 'this'.
Every seat in the cavernous receiving room was occupied. Even the ghosts of the family, those who had long since vanished into the shadows of foreign cities, had returned. Their presence alone was a statement. This was no ordinary gathering.
The chandeliers overhead cast a diamond-bright glow over the assembly, catching the glint of gold insignias
