The news of the charity gala had spread through Monterio like a wildfire, but in the upper echelons of the city's power, it was treated as a declaration of war. No one was more attuned to the shifting tides than Collins Fisher.
Collins Fisher sat in his private study, a room designed with the cold, sharp edges of modern minimalism. He didn't look like a man who commanded an elite paramilitary force; he looked like a scholar of power. He held a small, high-resolution photo of the black card Dante had used, his eyes tracing the gold-pressed dragon crest.
"You're quiet, Collins," a voice said from the shadows. Stefan Moretti stepped forward, his face still pale from the previous night's events. "Does the card scare you?"
Collins didn't look up. "Scare is a word for people like you, Stefan.
