Chapter Four: Kingmaker in the Shadows
948 Words
Salvatore’s POV
Salvatore hated the quiet of his father’s estate.
It wasn’t real quiet—it was the kind that throbbed beneath polished marble and ancient chandeliers. The kind of silence that held secrets in its teeth and waited for them to rot.
He stepped into the west wing, passing portraits that looked more like warnings than legacy. His Italian-leather shoes echoed off cathedral-high ceilings as he moved toward the Blackwood family library.
That’s where Ricardo waited.
Always in the library. As if books could validate the schemes spinning in his mind.
Salvatore pushed the door open.
Ricardo stood by the bar cart, a glass of scotch in hand, his posture stiff. The eldest Blackwood brother was always tense, always on edge—as if the world owed him an apology for not being born first and favored.
“You’re early,” Ricardo said, not looking up.
Salvatore adjusted his cufflinks—onyx and silver, custom-cut. “You texted me three times. I assumed it was urgent.”
“It is.” Ricardo turned, eyes narrowed. “You’ve been getting… distracted.”
Salvatore tilted his head. “Be specific.”
Ricardo dropped a file onto the table with a flat smack. Adaya’s face stared up at him from a security capture outside Alaster HQ.
“She’s not just a partner, Sal. She’s a liability.”
Salvatore’s jaw flexed. “That woman built her empire from the bones of betrayal. She’s more steel than silk.”
Ricardo scoffed. “Steel bends under heat. You’re bringing heat into this house.”
Salvatore walked over slowly, his presence tightening the room.
“You don’t get to lecture me about liabilities when you hired a Mexican street crew to tail me last month.”
Ricardo’s scotch glass froze mid-air. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You never do.”
The tension in the room coiled, thick and suffocating. They weren’t brothers in that moment—they were two kings fighting over a crown still warm from their father’s rule.
“I’m not going to let you burn this family down over a woman,” Ricardo hissed.
“And I’m not going to let you keep pretending that you're heir to a throne you never earned.”
Salvatore leaned in, voice silk-laced steel.
“You walked away from the family business ten years ago to start a cleaning company, Ric. Don’t act like you’ve bled for this legacy.”
Ricardo slammed the glass down. “You think you're untouchable. But even kings fall.”
Salvatore smiled—cold, slow, calculated.
“I don’t fall, brother. I calculate descent. And I bring others down with me.”
He left the room before the conversation could slide into something uglier. Ricardo wouldn’t move yet—not without Father’s blessing. But Salvatore knew jealousy didn’t sleep. It simmered.
---
Outside, the estate’s security team adjusted their stances when he passed. Romeo was already waiting by the car, leaning casually against the hood of the bulletproof Maserati, phone in hand, glasses dark even under the twilight sky.
“Let me guess,” Romeo said, slipping into the driver’s seat as Sal climbed in, “Ricardo had that pre-stroke vein on his forehead again?”
“Worse. He tried to sound noble.”
Romeo laughed. “Classic Ric.”
They pulled out of the wrought iron gates and into the sweeping roads of Adelaide’s elite district.
Salvatore sat back, but his mind raced forward.
Adaya’s face flashed in his thoughts again—defiant, regal, the kind of beauty that wasn’t made to please but to be survived. She wasn’t a woman who melted at compliments. She wanted facts. Truth. Strength.
And that made her dangerous.
He respected dangerous.
“She’s not ready for what’s coming,” Romeo said, breaking his silence. “You know that, right?”
“She will be.”
“You planning to tell her Brandon’s not just spying—but planning?”
Salvatore’s fingers tightened on the edge of his seat. “Not yet.”
Romeo glanced at him. “You’re starting to care.”
Salvatore’s voice was low. “I’m starting to prepare. There’s a difference.”
Romeo didn’t press. He knew better.
They pulled up outside a private dockyard ten minutes later. Blackwood Trans-Logistics had acquired it five years ago, but Salvatore had converted one of the underground levels into something else entirely.
Surveillance. Arms inventory. Interrogation space.
Tonight, it served as a control room.
Inside, Romeo tapped into a laptop, screens flaring to life with digital maps and heat-sensor feeds. One square glowed brighter than the rest.
“Brandon’s on the move. He met with someone new. Blonde. Late thirties. Interpol tag.”
Salvatore frowned. “They’re expanding.”
“Looks like it.”
He stared at the screen a long moment, eyes narrowing.
“If they touch her,” he said, “they don’t breathe again.”
---
Later that night, in his penthouse above the 58th floor of Blackspire Tower, Salvatore poured a drink he didn’t touch. His suit jacket hung off a chair. The city blinked below, endless and cold.
He opened his secure line.
Texted Adaya.
> Brandon isn’t your past anymore. He’s your present threat. And you’re not dealing with him alone.
A pause. Then another text.
> I’ll be at your office tomorrow at 10. With options. Wear something sharp. It’s going to be a long day.
He stared at the skyline a moment longer, then slipped the phone into his pocket and walked toward the shadows of the bedroom.
Some wars were fought with guns.
Others with silence.
And a few with velvet words that sliced deeper than any blade.
- Writer
