CHAPTER 8
Lucien
She attended her first real Syndicate meeting tonight. Not as an observer hidden behind glass but seated at the table.
That was deliberate.
The room itself is designed to intimidate, with a long black oak table, low lighting, walls lined with soundproof velvet panels. The scent of cigar smoke lingers permanently in the grain of the wood. Men who control ports, weapons routes and offshore accounts, they sit straighter when I enter.
Tonight, they noticed her and I noticed how she handled it.
She wore black. Simple. No jewelry except a thin silver chain at her throat. Hair loose over her shoulders. She didn’t look like someone meant for this world.
But she didn’t shrink.
When Matteo questioned her presence, she met his gaze directly.
“She’s here to learn,” I said.
He scoffed. “This isn’t a classroom.”
“No,” I replied calmly. “It’s an empire, and she is part of it.”
That silenced the room. She felt it. The weight of those words.
Part of it.
After that, I watched her more than the spreadsheets. Her fingers rested lightly on the table, but her posture remained straight. When discussion turned to shipping delays through Marseille ports, she leaned slightly forward, listening carefully.
She absorbs information like someone who has lived in chaos before. When the meeting ended, I dismissed everyone except her.
“You did well.” She blinked, surprised.
“You expected me to fail?” she asked.
“I expect everyone to fail at first.”
“And me?”
“I expect more.”
Silence.
Heavy.
Intentional.
She stepped closer this time.
“You put me at that table to prove something.”
“Yes.”
“To them?”
“To you.”
Her eyes searched mine for something softer than strategy.
She won’t find it yet.
But she will feel it.
Because it’s there.
And I don’t like that.