The DeLuca estate was a world of shadows and whispered secrets. The sprawling home sat behind tall wrought-iron gates, its façade of pale stone and dark shutters glowing faintly under the evening lamps. Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of old wood, cigar smoke, and polished leather. The hallways were dim, the kind of dim that wasn’t accidental—it was intentional, keeping every corner cloaked in mystery.

The meeting room was at the far end of the house, its double mahogany doors closed to the rest of the world. Inside, the light was warmer but just as oppressive, cast by a chandelier that glinted off the decanter of whiskey on the sideboard. Around the long table, half a dozen men in tailored suits sat with their shoulders squared and their gazes locked on the man at the head.

He was tall—commanding without effort—his suit perfectly fitted, his silver-streaked hair swept back with the precision of someone who valued control in all things. His voice was deep and smooth, but laced with an unspoken threat as he tapped the tip of a fountain pen against a marked-up map of the docks.

Lorenzo: “…the shipment will arrive just before dawn. You’ll be there before anyone else has the chance to notice. And if someone does notice—”

he looked up briefly, eyes sharp as a knife’s edge.

Lorenzo: “—you know what to do.”

The sound of the heavy door swinging open cut through the quiet like a blade.

“Daddy! Look what I made!”

A small figure bounded into the room, a burst of light in a place built to keep light out. You clutched a piece of paper covered in crayon scribbles—two stick figures holding hands, both smiling under a crooked sun.

The room froze.

Your father’s eyes shifted to you, and in them there was no warmth, no softness—just a flash of irritation that burned hotter than any yell.

Lorenzo: “I told you.”

his voice was low but dangerous.

Lorenzo: “not to come in here when I’m working.”

“But it’s us—”

you started, holding the drawing up like a peace offering.

Lorenzo: “Out.”

His tone sharpened, and the single syllable cracked through the air.

You hesitated, a nervous step back.

Lorenzo: “I said OUT!”

His voice thundered, the kind that made grown men flinch—but his men didn’t even blink. They kept their eyes on the table, their hands folded, as though they’d learned long ago that scenes like this weren’t theirs to acknowledge.

The drawing crumpled slightly in your small hand as you turned and left, the click of the door closing behind you far too loud in the silence that followed.

He didn’t look after you. Instead, he picked up his pen again.

Lorenzo: “Now… as I was saying.”