Page 4 of Empire
Then they meet in secured conference rooms with soundproof walls, armed guards outside the doors, and heirs positioned at their elbows—people who attended Vintermoor beside me not two years ago.
Tonight, it’s a private conference suite on the top floor of a hotel in Milan. Neutral ground, and expensive enough not to insult anyone, but cold enough to suit all of them.
A long table cuts through the center of the room, where bottles of water sit untouched beside crystal glasses. No one here is relaxed enough to drink.
My father, Aldo Vieri, sits still as stone at the head, one gloved hand resting on the table, the other on the head of his cane, though he doesn’t really need it. He likes what it says: that power doesn’t need to stand to dominate a room.
I know every man seated here. I know their habits, their tempers, and the way they breathe before they threaten.
To my father’s right sits Don Barone, thick-necked and pink-faced, with his eldest son leaning back in his chair as if boredom is a sign of strength.
Across from them is Don Marchetti, silver hair slicked back, wedding ring tapping the table every few minutes whenever he loses patience. Beside him is his daughter, not son, which still irritates half the men in this room, even though she’s sharper than all of them put together.
At the far end sits Don Conti with both hands folded and his youngest son quiet at his shoulder—watchful and unblinking.
And then there’s the Russian delegation seated opposite us. Not one of the original Italian lines, but too powerful now to ignore. They’re too deeply tied into shipping, arms, and eastern routes to leave them outside the room.
Mikhail Dragovich sits at the center of their side—broad and brutish, with an expression carved from granite. Cold blue eyes and pale blond hair, he has the look of a man who came out of the earth already bloodied. To one side of him sits his eldest son, Viktor, who looks exactly like the kind of heir any outside observer would expect to take the Dragovich name into the next era. Scarred, hard-eyed, built like a weapon. To the other side sits the youngest son, Ruslan.
The bane of my existence.
He doesn’t slouch or fidget. He sits with one elbow braced on the armrest and his fingers brushing his lower lip as if this entire conversation is either boring him or amusing him.
I know for a fact it’s both.
He didn’t tie up his long blond hair today, leaving it to fall over his shoulders. He wears black, no tie, the top button of his shirt undone, in a room where every other heir is dressed in respectably tailored attire. That alone would be enough to make him look arrogant. The way he sits, loose but alert, as if this meeting amuses him, makes it worse.
He’s older than me by two years, but men still glance at him twice, not because he’s beautiful, though he is, but because there’s something feral in him that doesn’t fit cleanly inside fine clothes.
Ruslan catches me looking, and the corner of his mouth twitches. I look away first because Ruslan Dragovich has a talent for making every glance feel like a loaded gun.
“We’ve delayed long enough,” Don Marchetti says, snapping my attention to him. “The eastern route through Trieste bleeds money every day it’s stalled.”
“It’s stalled because customs are sniffing too close because of the Andretti incident last month,” my father replies without hurry. “Moving now invites scrutiny.”
Mikhail leans back, one thick hand resting on the table. “Scrutiny exists whether you move or not. The longer my men wait, the sloppier they get.”
“Then your men need discipline,” my father says.
The air changes in the room at once, not enough for anyone without instincts to feel it, but enough for me. Ruslan, too, because I see the slight shift in his shoulders and the interest sharpening in his gaze.
Men like our fathers don’t need to shout to be heard. The insult is clear enough as it is.
Mikhail’s expression doesn’t change. “My men have discipline.”
“Then they can wait ten more days.”
“They’ve already been repositioned.”
My father glances at the open ledger in front of him, though he doesn’t need to. He remembers numbers the way priests remember confessions. “That sounds like your mistake.”
Across the table, Viktor’s jaw ticks once. Ruslan makes a soft sound under his breath that might’ve passed for a laugh if it wasn’t so openly insulting.
Every head turns in his direction, but Mikhai doesn’t even look at his son. My father turns his head just enough to acknowledge it. “Do you have something to contribute, or are you here to smirk at your father’s business?”
Ruslan’s gaze is full of amusement when he says,” I was wondering if all Italians solve problems by waiting for them to disappear.”
It’s not the worst thing he’s ever said in a room full of men who could order his death. It’s still enough to bring silence down hard over the table.
