Sinveer POV
The Grand Ballroom of the De Luna estate pulses with a life that feels both unknown and intimately familiar. It's a carefully planned chaos, a gilded cage throbbing with the collective heartbeat of power, greed, and calculated civility. A charade, meticulously crafted to draw out…a ghost.
Music of classical orchestra weaving intricate melodies, clashing subtly with the lower hum of hushed conversations. Laughter, sharp and brittle like shattering glass, floats above the din, emphasized by the click of heels on polished marble and the constant, almost melodic clinking of tableware. It's a symphony of pretense.
A cacophony of scents washes over me, assaulting my senses in a way that is both intoxicatingly strong and strangely soft. The overwhelming sweetness of imported perfumes—Jasmine, Rose, the sharp tang of Oud,mingles with the robust notes of aged whiskey, the light citrus of gin, and the rich, comforting aroma of roasted meats and delicate pastries wafting from the arranged buffet tables. It's an overdose of luxury— a gilded trap.
I stand at the heart of it all, dressed in black suit tailored to conceal, rather than highlight, the faint traces of my recent ordeal. The sapphire silk pocket square is the only color, a deliberate counterpoint to the darkness in my eyes. A glass of amber liquid, which I've barely touched, rests in my hand. With every masked smile, every calculated nod, I observe just as I am being observed.
The game has begun.
Whispers, like unseen currents, eddy around me.
"Is that the so-called Don of the De Luna's?"
"I heard he's a useless piece of shit."
"But this party says otherwise. How can a fool have this kind of connection?"
My gaze sweeps across the ballroom, a slow, methodical search. My vision is sharper tonight, my hearing tuned to the slightest discord. Even if my body is still healing, it vibrates with a tense readiness, a predatory hum that only I can feel. Below the surface of my calm demeanor, a frantic anticipation coils tight within me.
She is here. The thought echoes in my mind, a mantra fueled by two weeks of obsessive planning. She has to be.
Serena's voice, cool and precise, buzzes in my ear through the discreet comms device. "Boss, as per your request, two females arrived with two family heads, and Cisco with a girl."
"Who are the other families?"
"De Santi and Morreti."
The De Santi and Morreti only have sons, no wives. So who are these two unknown variables?
And Gabriel with a girl? Is it a daughter or a worker?
A known variable. And two unknown variables? I sift through the mental database of known female associates, looking for any that match the lithe, athletic frame I remembered from the club. The shadow, the blur of motion, the absolute lack of wasted movement. It was a dancer's grace, a killer's efficiency.
"Add them to the watchlist."
"Yes, boss."
I scan the crowds again, my gaze lingering on every woman with red hair, every slender form. I hope her hair too wasn't fake. Nothing. But no specific build registers, no face pulls at the corner of my memory. The initial surge of adrenaline begins to recede, replaced by a slow, creeping frustration. And with it, a familiar, bitter disappointment.
Is she truly this good? This elusive? Or did she simply not show? The thought grates. No. She's here. She has to be.
I take a shallow breath, letting a polite, almost bored smile touch my lips as I exchange a few words with the aging patriarch of the Moretti family, his eyes darting nervously around the room.
"The night is young, Don Moretti," I murmur, my voice smooth as aged whiskey. "Perhaps the main entertainment is yet to come?"
"Mio Don De Luna, what entertainment is more than what's here already." He says, laughing anxiously.
I shift my gaze, past the local Dons who mingle, their faces a mix of feigned camaraderie and barely concealed envy. They believe they know the limits of my power, the extent of my reach. Tonight, I show them how little they truly understand.
It's time to make my rounds, to formally greet the guests who have truly given this party its audacious, unsettling weight.
My steps are measured, slow enough to appear casual, yet deliberate. I move towards the far side of the ballroom, where a cluster of figures draws the eye like a magnetic pole. A new current of murmurs ripples through the room as I approach. Faces pale, eyes widen. The forced smiles of the local Dons falter, replaced by genuine shock.
First, I clasp hands with Tanaka-san, the stoic Yakuza Oyabun from Tokyo, his tattoos heavily visible beneath the cuffs of his impeccably tailored suit. He nods, a deep, respectful bow that speaks volumes.
Next, Dimitri Volkov, Zen's father and his brother Gon Volkov, the burly, scarred Pakhan of the Bratva Kvas, men whose presence alone could chill the blood. They offer a rare, predatory grin, a silent acknowledgment of our renewed alliance, one that sends shivers down the spines of any local who dares to meet his gaze.
Then there's the ethereal elegance of Madame Dubois, the silent, sharp-eyed representative of La Cour Noire from Paris, her gaze like chipped ice. And finally, the quiet power of Master Chen, the ancient, inscrutable leader of the Triads from Hong Kong, his eyes holding centuries of wisdom and ruthlessness.
I exchange brief, cordial words with each, a nod here, a shared, knowing glance there. My voice remains calm, polite, even as I feel the palpable shift in the atmosphere around me. The local Dons, the minor players, the ambitious upstarts—they are stunned into near silence. Their expressions betray a dawning, terrifying realization.
"He's not weak. He's stronger than ever." someone whispered.
"He invited them all," another mutters. "These are the giants.The ones who move the world's shadows."
The murmuring continues
"This is not from his father's cheap alliance."
"Did you see who he invited?"
"The Don is back, and he appears stronger."
A smirk tugs at the corner of my lips, though I quickly smooth it away. Good. Let them see. Let the fear sink in. They thought I was broken, crippled. They thought my empire was ripe for the taking. This party isn't just about finding her. It's about showing them the folly of their assumptions.
My recent injury, once seen as a sign of vulnerability, now transforms into a twisted badge of honor. I survived. And not only did I survive, I have pulled the titans of the underworld to my doorstep.
Whoever among these pigs truly believed I'd still be on my deathbed, should show carefully. Because the very fact of their presence here, and my invitation, screams my restored power louder than any decree.
I nod to Master Chen, preparing to move towards the last section of the room, where Don Miguel Ramirez of the Dominican Republic—representing the American weapon syndicate, whom I didn't invite—stands alongside the De Santi and Gabriel families. That's when it hits me.
A scent. The scent.