Chapter 32
The engine of the Aston Martin idled with a low, predatory purr, a sound that usually brought me a modicum of satisfaction. Today, however, it was merely background noise to the spectacle unfolding on the sidewalk.
I watched through the tinted glass as Aleesha exited the vehicle.
She didn't step out; she tumbled. Her bag—laden with an excessive number of keychains that jingled like a janitor's belt—caught on the door handle. She yelped, untangled it with a chaotic flailing of limbs, and then proceeded to trip over her own feet on the flat pavement.
She righted herself, smoothed down her skirt, and beamed at the university gates as if she had just conquered a mountain range rather than simply exiting a car.
I leaned back against the leather seat, my expression flat.
She stumbled through life. That was the only way to describe it. She moved through the world with a baffling lack of spatial awareness, as if gravity were a concept she had only recently been introduced to and hadn't quite mastered. She looked confused by the very air she breathed.
Pathetic.
My gaze lingered on her retreating figure.
She was small. Absurdly so. She was not statuesque. She was not elegant.
She had wide hips that swayed with an unrefined gait.
Her thighs were... soft. Jiggly. I knew this for a fact.
I knew the density of her flesh because she was constantly clinging to me, wrapping herself around me like a parasitic vine.
When she sat on my lap to inflict that ridiculous tattoo on my chest, I had felt the weight of her.
Soft.
She was entirely soft. Soft skin. Soft body. Soft brain.
I watched her disappear into the crowd of students, her pink bag bobbing like a buoy in a sea of gray.
I shook my head, dismissing the image.
She is the Asset. Nothing more.
I shifted gears, the car responding instantly to my command. I drove away from the university, leaving the chaotic splash of color behind, and merged into the traffic of the city.
My destination was the "Logistics Company."
It was a nondescript glass building in the financial district. To the tax auditors and the public, it was Muratori Global Logistics, a mid-tier shipping firm that moved electronics and textiles. It was boring. It was legitimate. It was the perfect shell.
I pulled into the underground parking garage, navigating past the reserved spots for the mid-level managers who believed they worked for a logistics firm. I parked in the private bay at the far end, shielded by concrete pillars.
I walked to the private elevator.
I scanned my retina. Beep.
I pressed the button for the 4th Basement.
The numbers on the display descended. Lobby. B1. B2. B3.
The air grew colder. The scent of recycled office air was replaced by the smell of ozone and steel.
B4.
The doors slid open.
A black armored SUV was waiting, engine running. The driver, a man named Rocco whose loyalty I had bought with the life of his sister, nodded once as I approached.
I got in.
"Headquarters," I said.
The car moved. We drove through a dedicated tunnel, a subterranean artery that connected the city front to the true heart of my empire. We emerged miles away, deep in the forested hills outside the city limits, approaching a structure that did not appear on any public map.
The Main Headquarters.
It was a fortress of brutalist architecture, concrete and steel buried halfway into the earth. It was a monument to power that didn't need to advertise itself.
I walked inside. The guards—men heavily armed with military-grade rifles—snapped to attention. I didn't acknowledge them. I walked through the corridors, the sound of my footsteps swallowed by the acoustic dampening of the walls.
I reached the central chamber. The Throne Room.
It was a vast, circular room with a high domed ceiling. In the center sat a single chair—high-backed, black leather, imposing.
I sat.
The leather creaked softly, a familiar sound. This was my place. Not the pink rug in a leaky house. Not the passenger seat of a car next to a babbling girl. This.
Dominion.
"Report," I commanded.
Luca, my Consigliere, stepped out of the shadows. He was dressed in a suit that cost more than Aleesha's entire childhood home. He held a tablet, his face a mask of professional deference.
"Don Gabriel," he began.
He started with La Corte Nera.
"The hotel expansion in Macau is complete," Luca stated. "The surveillance suites are active. We have already captured compromised footage of three senators and a foreign diplomat. The blackmail leverage is secured."
I tapped my finger on the armrest. "Good. Archive it. Use the diplomat to bypass the new trade embargoes."
Luca nodded and scrolled. "The Famiglia Valenti reports that the shipment of surplus assault rifles has successfully cleared the port in Somalia. The heat was diverted to a rival faction. Profits are up twelve percent."
"Reinvest in the shipping lanes," I ordered. "And tell Valenti to tighten his loose ends. I heard whispers of a leak in the dock workers' union. Silence it."
"Done," Luca said. "Regarding Il Consorzio.
.. the laundering channels through the new universities in Eastern Europe are flowing.
The scholarship funds are washing the narcotic revenue efficiently.
And the Ferraro Clan... the new synthetic opioid is ready for market testing.
They are asking for a green light on the distribution in the coastal cities. "
He droned on.
Ceasefires between factions. Territory disputes. Bribes paid to judges. Politicians bought and sold like cattle.
It was the machinery of the world, and I was the operator.
I tapped my finger against the leather. Tap. Tap. Tap.
It was... boring.
I stared at Luca, but I didn't see him. I saw the vast, intricate web I had spun. It was perfect. It was flawless.
And it was excruciatingly dull.
My mind, against my explicit permission, drifted.
It drifted to a small, yellow house with a leaky roof. It drifted to a crooked smiley face tattooed on my chest, currently itching under my shirt. It drifted to a girl who thought duct tape made me a "ninja."
Aleesha.
I rolled my eyes, a physical manifestation of my annoyance.
I hated her.
I loathed her.
I loathed her lack of sophistication. I loathed the way she couldn't walk in a straight line without tripping over oxygen. I loathed her voice, which was always an octave too high and filled with inane questions about penguins and magic powers.
She was loud. She was clumsy. She was an idiot.
She was the antithesis of everything I valued. I valued order; she was entropy. I valued silence; she was noise. I valued precision; she drew crooked hearts with permanent ink.
She was pathetic. A useless human being whose only value lay in her biological compatibility.
My hand clenched on the armrest.
The Heir.
That was the only reason she was still breathing my air.
I needed the boy. I needed a successor to inherit this—the throne, the power, the burden.
And once she gave me that...
My plan solidified in my mind, cold and sharp as a scalpel.
Once the child was born, once the DNA was verified and the heir was weaned... she would be redundant.
I would dispose of her.
Perhaps not kill her—that would be messy and might traumatize the child if discovered later. No. I would discard her. I would annul the marriage. I would strip her of the Muratori name. I would throw her back into the pathetic, yellow-walled life she came from.
She could go back to her parents. She could go back to her "onigiri" sales. She could go back to that golden retriever.
She would be a footnote in the Muratori history. A biological surrogate who served her purpose and was ejected from the system.
And I would be free.
Free of the pink rugs. Free of the noise. Free of the confusing, irritating heat that flared in my chest whenever she looked at me with those wide, stupid, trusting eyes.
"Is there anything else, Don Gabriel?" Luca asked, his voice breaking my reverie.
I blinked, refocusing on the room.
"No," I said coldly. "Leave me."
"Sì, Don Gabriel."
Luca bowed and backed out of the room. The heavy doors thudded shut.
Silence descended.
This was what I wanted. Absolute, unadulterated silence.
I leaned my head back against the chair, closing my eyes. I could finally think. I could finally sleep without a small, warm body trying to strangle me with a cuddle.
I breathed in the cool, sterile air.
Peace.
Click.
Clack.
The sound was sharp. Distinct.
It wasn't the heavy thud of a guard's boot. It wasn't the shuffle of a servant.
It was the rhythmic, piercing sound of a stiletto heel striking marble.
Click. Clack. Click. Clack.
My eyes snapped open.
I hadn't authorized anyone to enter. My guards knew better than to disturb me when I was in the Throne Room.
I sat up straight, my hand instinctively drifting toward the gun holstered under my jacket.
The double doors at the far end of the room creaked open.
A figure stepped into the light.
I froze.
A chill, colder than the basement air, ran down my spine. It started at the base of my neck and coiled around my heart, squeezing tight.
It was a woman.
She was tall. Five-foot-eight.
She wore a red dress that clung to her like a second skin, showcasing a figure that was the exact opposite of Aleesha's soft curves. This woman was sharp angles and aggressive sexuality.
Busty. Wide hips that swayed with a practiced, predatory rhythm. Slender arms. Long, endless legs that ended in the stilettos making that damning sound.
She tossed her hair.
Brunette waves cascaded over her shoulder.
She looked up.
Her face was angelic. Brown doe eyes that looked innocent, luscious lips painted a deep crimson. It was a face that could launch a thousand ships, or sink them.
It was a face I had memorized. A face I had loved. A face I had hated. A face whose name I had just burned off my body.
She smiled. It was a smile that promised heaven and delivered hell.
"Hello, Gabriel," she purred.
The name echoed in the vast, empty room.