flash
Adrian Moretti stared at the black screen of his phone long after the call ended. The silence of the mansion felt heavier now, no longer the quiet of exhaustion, but the tense vacuum before a storm. / Chapter 2 / 18

Chapter 2 - The Art of the Mask

By 9:00 a.m., the facade of the broken boss was back in place, though it required a monumental effort of will. Adrian sat at the breakfast table in his silk robe, deliberately letting his hand shake as he raised a cup of black coffee—untouched by Dominic's poisons—to his lips.

When the double doors swung open, Dominic Moretti strode in, looking the picture of corporate efficiency and dutiful brotherly concern. Dressed in a tailored charcoal Brioni suit, his silver-rimmed glasses catching the morning light, Dominic radiated an aura of confident management.

“Morning, Adrian,” Dominic said smoothly, pulling out the chair opposite him. He cast a practiced, sympathetic glance at Adrian’s cup. “Rough night again? You look even paler than usual.”

Adrian let out a slow, ragged breath, leaning back as if the simple motion exhausted him. “The nightmares, Dominic. They don't stop. Every time I close my eyes, the old docks in Palermo burn all over again.”

Dominic’s eyes flickered with a micro-expression of triumphant satisfaction—so fast that a normal man would have missed it. But Adrian caught every single detail.

“You’re carrying too much weight, big brother,” Dominic said, leaning forward with an air of absolute sincerity. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out a thick leather folder stamped with corporate seals. “That’s why I took the liberty of reviewing the Atlantic Shipping contracts last night. The Board needs a signature on the dry-dock acquisitions by noon. Since your hands have been trembling so badly, I drafted a power-of-attorney clause. Just sign here, and let me take the burden off your shoulders.”

Adrian looked down at the paper. It wasn't just a shipping contract; it was a total transfer of voting rights for Moretti Holdings Inc. With this single signature, Dominic would legally own the entire syndicate, reducing Adrian to a penniless ghost locked away in a sanitarium.

“A power of attorney,” Adrian murmured, feigning hesitation. “Are you sure the Board will approve this without my direct oversight?”

“They’re worried about you, Adrian. We all are,” Dominic lied smoothly, tapping a gold-plated pen against the mahogany table and sliding it toward his brother’s unsteady fingers. “Dr. Vance said your cognitive decline is accelerating. If you don't step down voluntarily, the Capos might force an emergency vote. I’m doing this to protect your legacy.”

Adrian picked up the pen. His fingers hovered over the signature line. For three years, he had protected this empire with blood, grit, and iron discipline, only to watch his own blood try to dismantle it from the inside out with drops of a colorless, odorless neurotoxin.

“Protect my legacy,” Adrian repeated softly.

“Always,” Dominic smiled, his eyes gleaming with greedy anticipation.

Adrian brought the pen down—and deliberately slipped, scratching a jagged, useless ink mark across the paper before dropping the pen with a hollow clatter.

“Damn it,” Adrian cursed hoarsely, squeezing his eyes shut in feigned frustration. “My coordination... it’s completely gone.”

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The rain tapped a frantic rhythm against the glass of Marissa’s cramped, dimly lit kitchen, but the storm outside was nothing compared to the tempest raging inside Adrian Whitmore’s mind. Standing just beyond the rotting wooden doorframe of her apartment, hidden by the heavy shadows of the crumbling stairwell, the millionaire tried to steady his breathing. His expensive wool coat was soaked through, but he didn’t care. His eyes were entirely fixed on the scene unfolding a few feet away.

The rain tapped a frantic rhythm against the glass of Marissa’s cramped,...

My hand froze inches from the cold steel of the Sig Sauer P226. Beneath the amber glow of the bedside lamp, the source of the warmth against my side wasn't an assassin, an operative from a rival syndicate, or a traitorous lieutenant.

My hand froze inches from the cold steel of the Sig Sauer P226. Beneath...

The silence in the master bedroom stretched so tight I could hear the slow, heavy drip of my own pulse in my ears. Dominic Rossi’s dark eyes locked onto mine, burning with a feverish intensity that should have sent me running back down the hallway and out into the rain

The silence in the master bedroom stretched so tight I could hear the sl...

Dominic concealed his annoyance behind a mask of profound pity, patting Adrian’s trembling shoulder. “Don’t worry, brother. Take your time. I’ll have the assistant bring up a fresh copy this afternoon. And... make sure you drink your tea tonight. Double the dosage, if you have to. You need rest.”

“Yes,” Adrian whispered, staring blankly at the table. “More tea.”

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