The city of Milan gleams beneath a crisp twilight sky, its marble bones wrapped in silk and steel. From the top floor of Sinclair Enterprises, Elias stands before a window, tie loose, sleeves rolled just enough to reveal the edge of a scar he never explains.
Tonight, the Sinclair Foundation is hosting its annual gala—a glossy affair of black ties and whispered alliances. For most, it's a night of prestige. For Elias, it's another performance. Another room to read. Another silence to control.
He glances at the mirror.
The cufflinks were a gift from his mother. The watch belonged to his grandfather. The suit is custom, of course—stitched with threads no one would ever dare call fragile.
And yet… something in him feels unsettled tonight.
He fixes his collar as Kai enters without knocking.
"Everything's in place for the gala," Kai says. "Press coverage, guest security, the board members… even that insufferable French investment guy is here."
Elias offers a single nod. "And the shipment?"
Kai hesitates.
That pause is enough.
Elias turns, the room sharpening with his attention. "Kai."
"Naples," he says finally. "One of the arms convoys was intercepted near the port. We lost two men."
Silence floods the space between them.
Elias exhales slowly through his nose. He doesn't shout. Never has to.
"Valerio Moretti?" he asks.
"We're not sure. Could be him. Could be someone newer trying to make a name."
Elias looks down at his hands, flexes his fingers like he's shaking off something invisible.
"I'll go."
Kai blinks. "To Naples?"
"I don't delegate corrections," Elias says simply. "Not when blood's been spilled and silence broken."
"But the gala—"
"Handle it."
Kai sighs, then nods. "Of course."
Elias picks up his phone from the glass table, scrolls through his contacts, then stops. His thumb hovers over one name. He doesn't press it.
Instead, he pockets the phone and turns toward the door.
"Prep the jet."
"Now?"
He walks past him. "I'm not in the mood for dinner parties."
As he steps into the elevator, Elias's reflection catches him in the polished metal doors. Eyes dark and unreadable. Posture composed. And yet, beneath it all — a quiet rage thrums just beneath his skin.
He was raised with restraint, taught that control is the greatest weapon of all. But some nights… Some nights require fire instead of silence.
Tonight, Naples will burn quietly.