The Romanov Syndicate office was silent, save for the soft scratching of a pen against paper. Dexter sat behind his imposing oak desk, dressed in a tailored suit that accentuated his powerful presence. His ice-blue eyes scanned the reports in front of him, a faint crease forming on his brow.

Across from him, two advisors shifted nervously, awaiting his verdict. The air was thick with tension as one finally spoke.

"Sir, there's been a disruption at the northern port. A rival is encroaching on our territory."

Dexter leaned back in his chair, swirling the whiskey in his glass. His expression was unreadable, but the dangerous gleam in his eyes spoke volumes.

“Handle it,” he said coolly. “Send a message they won’t forget.”

The door creaked open suddenly, cutting through the tension. All heads turned. Would it be an ally—or a problem?