Chapter 15: Games they plan
703 Words
The grand estate of Don Rican sat like a fortress on the outskirts of the city—silent, ominous, and impenetrable. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of aged leather, fine whiskey, and the quiet hum of power.
In his private study, Don Rican poured himself a glass of bourbon, his movements deliberate as he settled into a deep armchair. Across from him, Alana stood near the window, her box braids cascading over one shoulder, eyes scanning the darkened garden below.
“He’s learning quickly,” Rican mused, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Your fiancé.”
Alana let out a small, humorless laugh. “He’s not my fiancé. I released him from that contract.”
Rican arched a brow, amusement flickering in his sharp gaze. “And yet, you’re still here.”
She turned to face him. “Because I want to see how he handles himself. I want to know if he’s truly the man his father failed to be.”
Rican took a slow sip, savoring the burn before leaning forward. “His father was a fool. Arrogant. He thought legacy was enough to keep him on top, that the Moretti name alone made him untouchable.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “But the world doesn’t respect bloodlines anymore—it respects power.”
Alana crossed her arms, her expression unreadable. “And you think Victor is different?”
Rican’s lips curled into a small smirk. “I think he’s dangerous in ways his father never was. He’s calculated, ruthless when needed, but he hasn’t yet realized the full extent of what he must become.” He leaned back, eyes narrowing. “He still has a conscience.”
Alana walked toward him, her heels clicking softly on the marble floor. “You don’t believe he’ll shed it?”
“He will,” Rican said confidently. “But not without a push.”
Alana studied him carefully, reading the subtext beneath his words. “You plan to be that push.”
A dark chuckle escaped Rican’s lips. “Of course. He’s got potential, but potential without guidance is wasted.”
Alana tilted her head slightly, her gaze calculating. “And if he refuses to be guided?”
Rican’s smile faded. He set his glass down with a soft clink. “Then he becomes a problem. And I don’t tolerate problems.”
A heavy silence settled between them, but before either could say another word, a slight creak in the hallway caught Alana’s ear.
Rican, too, noticed it. His gaze flickered toward the door. With a smooth, controlled motion, he reached beneath the table, hand wrapping around the cold steel of his pistol.
Alana moved swiftly, yanking the door open—only to find a figure stepping back into the shadows.
Victor’s mother.
Her face was pale, lips parted as if she had just heard something she wasn’t supposed to. Her hands trembled slightly at her sides, but she straightened quickly, regaining her composure.
Rican leaned against the desk, a slow, knowing smile creeping across his face.
“Well, well,” he murmured. “Eavesdropping, bella?”
She met his gaze, steel beneath her fear. “A mother listens when her son’s future is being discussed.”
Rican chuckled, but there was no warmth in it. “Then I hope you enjoyed the conversation.”
Alana stepped forward, folding her arms. “What do you want to do with her?”
Victor’s mother held her ground, but Rican simply smirked. “Let her go.”
Alana frowned. “You’re not worried she’ll run straight to Victor?”
“Oh, she will,” Rican said, swirling the last of his drink. “But what difference will it make?” His eyes gleamed with something almost cruel. “He’s already in the game, Alana. The question is, will he survive it?”
Victor’s mother took a step back before turning on her heel, her breath quickening as she made her way down the hall. She had to get to Victor. She had to warn him.
Because if there was one thing she knew about Don Rican…
When he set his sights on something, he never let it slip away.
- Writer
