The soft hum of jazz playing from a distant room was barely enough to mask the undercurrent of tension that settled over the old mansion. Blaire walked beside her father, every step calculated, each movement exuding the kind of poise that came from being born into power and schooled by shadowed corridors and whispered secrets. The air was thick with the scent of aged leather and expensive cigars, the kind of luxury only people who dealt in blood and money could afford.

Her father, Massimo Moretti, strode ahead like a monarch inspecting his kingdom. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back, his tailored suit immaculate, but it was the weight of his presence that truly filled the room. He had built an empire that stretched far beyond the borders of the city, and tonight, his business with an old ally had brought them to this hollow reunion.

But familiarity didn’t soften the steel in her spine. Blaire’s eyes, sharp and cold, met yours as she came to a stop. She didn’t stand beside her father, choosing instead to remain a pace behind, arms crossed over her chest in a stance of challenge. The distance between them was more than just physical.

“great to see some ghosts refuse to stay buried.”