PROLOGUE (ALESSIO)
The room is silent but never still — not with Adonis Stavrakis in it. My father leans over the glossy edge of his mahogany desk, fingers steepled, eyes unreadable. Behind him, the city burns in light through floor-to-ceiling windows, as if even the skyline bends for him.
I watch him in this quiet moment — head bowed in thought, sharp suit pressed with military precision, his cufflinks a gleam of gold that somehow managed not to be loud.
Everyone says I am becoming him. I don’t deny it. I don’t want to.
He does not look up when he speaks, “We’ll be finalizing the Bastani merger by the end of the quarter.”
I nod, “We’ll need to renegotiate the shipping clauses. They’re trying to fold in their Malta inventory like it’s a gift.”
He glances up — sharp grey eyes meeting mine — and there it is. That flash of quiet pride he’d never speak of out loud. Good.
I live for that look.
“I just remembered,” he says, voice casual like it was nothing. “Arnold Vale is coming in.”
I scoff, “You hate Arnold Vale.”
“Did I say otherwise?” he mutters, finally leaning back.
“Then why let him in?” I ask, unable to hide the curl of amusement in my voice. “His company’s a carcass. He’s been leeching off whatever’s left for years.”
“We knew each other in school.”
“Which was decades ago.”
“He was an ass then too,” my father says mildly, swirling the scotch in his glass. “But... I don’t know. Sometimes pity wins.”
I watch him go quiet. The way his fingers tap the armrest, the way his brows pinch just slightly. Deep thought. Not good.
Before I can ask what is on his mind, Alicia steps in. “Sir, Mr. Vale has arrived—”
Arnold walks in before she even finishes, all faded grandeur and arrogance.
“Adonis!” he announces cheerily, striding in like he owns the floor.
My father’s lips flattens, but he stands, extending a hand.
Arnold’s greying blond hair curls over his collar. His beard is untrimmed, his suit a wrinkled disgrace. His shoes haven’t seen polish in weeks. But on his wrist sits a Phillip Patek watch — iced out, gaudy, probably worth more than his entire board’s salaries combined.
I wrinkle my nose. Subtlety clearly isn't on the menu.
My father notices, and for the first time that morning, he chuckles, “Alessio, give us a minute.”
I blink. He’s never asked me to leave during a deal. But I nod and walk out without question.
An hour passes. The tension in the air clings to my shirt when I return.
Arnold’s grin spreads wide the moment I enter, “I hope you enjoy your package, boy,” he says, licking his lips with a chuckle.
He shakes hands with my father, who is barely managing to hold it together. When the door finally shuts behind Arnold, my father reaches for a heavy onyx ornament on his desk and hurls it at the floor. Glass and metal fragments skids across the marble floor.
I raise a brow, “What the hell did he give us?”
My father doesn’t look at me, “You,” he says simply, voice dark. “You’re getting married.”
