The air in the Villa d'Oro was thick with the ghosts of dead men and the smoke of thousand-dollar cigars. It was a place of silent handshakes and lethal whispers, where power wasn't displayed, but felt—a crushing weight in the atmosphere. The Commission Summit was not a meeting; it was a convergence of predators.
I walked through the grand hall on Victor’s arm. The whispers didn’t just follow us; they parted before us like a wave. I was a ghost, and they were seeing me for the first time. I had chosen my armor with care: a gown of severe, midnight-blue silk that fell to the floor like a column of liquid steel. No jewelry, save for my father's signet ring on my right hand. My hair was pulled back in a tight, merciless chignon. I was not here as a grieving widow or a scorned wife. I was her
