Morning light filtered through ancient oak trees, casting spotted shadows across the sprawling grounds of Lorenzo De Luca's secluded estate.

  Massimiliano's Bentley rolled up the curved driveway precisely at nine, as expected. Lorenzo De Luca had many rules, spoken and unspoken, but punctuality ranked among the most sacred.

  Two minutes early showed eagerness, desperation. Two minutes late demonstrated disrespect. Massimiliano had learned the delicate balance of timing along with a thousand other invisible protocols before he could tie his own shoes.

  The elderly housekeeper, Greta, opened the door before he reached it. She'd been with the family since Massimiliano was born, one of the few constants in a world perpetually shifting with alliances and betrayals.

  "Mr. De Luca is waiting on the terrace," she informed him, taking his light jacket and draping it over her arm. "Breakfast is served."

  Massimiliano nodded his thanks, moving through the house with the familiarity of someone who'd grown up within its walls yet never felt completely at home.

  Family photographs lined the corridor, carefully curated moments of De Luca legacy. His graduation from prep school. Lorenzo receiving awards from politicians who publicly denounced organized crime while privately benefiting from its proceeds.

  His mother, elegant and distant even in photographs, positioned like a beautiful accessory rather than a central figure.

  The terrace overlooked immaculately landscaped gardens that gave way to dense forest in the distance.

  Lorenzo sat at the glass table, newspaper open beside a spread of pastries, fresh fruit, and coffee that would go largely untouched.

  "Massi." His father glanced up, his dark brown eyes assessing rather than welcoming. "Right on time."

  Lorenzo De Luca at sixty-eight remained imposing, tall, broad-shouldered, with silver hair swept back from a face that had grown sharper rather than softer with age. His tailored weekend attire-casual linen pants and button-down-looked as precisely arranged as his weekday suits.

  "Father." Massimiliano took the seat across from him, accepting coffee poured by the hovering staff member who immediately retreated inside, sensing the need for privacy. "You're looking well."

  "Golf." Lorenzo gestured vaguely toward the grounds beyond the terrace. "Three times weekly. Keeps the body functioning, the mind clear." He folded the newspaper neatly. "And provides excellent networking opportunities."

  "The Colombian shipment," Lorenzo finally transitioned, buttering a piece of toast he wouldn't eat. "Everything in order for the fifteenth?"

  Massimiliano nodded, "Peterson is handling customs inspection. We've increased security at the warehouse, given the size of the shipment."

  "Good." Lorenzo sipped his coffee, expression thoughtful. "The Escobar organization has grown complacent lately. Watch their representatives carefully during the transfer."

  "You suspect problems?" Massimiliano raised an eyebrow. This was new information.

  "Not necessarily. But thirty million creates temptation for even longstanding partners." Lorenzo's gaze drifted across the gardens. "Trust but verify, Massi. Always."

  They discussed logistics for another twenty minutes and or a man who claimed to have stepped back from operations, Lorenzo maintained remarkable awareness of every aspect of their business, both legitimate and otherwise.

  Massimiliano entertained his father before introducing the true purpose of his visit.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  When the business discussion reached its natural conclusion, Massimiliano reached for a strawberry, his movements casual. "The Hamptons property is coming along well. Renovations should be completed by summer."

  "Good. Your mother always loved that place." Lorenzo's expression softened, the closest he came to visible sentiment. "Though she complained endlessly about the salt air ruining her curtains."

  "And you? Any travel plans now that you're focused on retirement?" Massimiliano kept his tone conversational, watching for reactions. "Perhaps international? I heard Mongolia is unexpectedly beautiful this time of year."

  Not a flicker. No recognition, no hesitation. Either Lorenzo had no knowledge of Vera Volkov's current location, or his control was perfect. Neither would surprise Massimiliano.

  "Mongolia?" Lorenzo chuckled, shaking his head. "Why would I subject myself to that when the Caribbean is perfectly accessible? Besides, retirement doesn't mean what you think it means, Massi. I've simply delegated the tedious aspects of our enterprise... to you."

  "To focus on more interesting pursuits?" Massimiliano maintained eye contact over his coffee cup. "Like monitoring my bartender?"

  Lorenzo’s eyes narrowed at his accusation, before his expression settled into a calm nonchalance.

  "Your bartender?" Lorenzo waved dismissively. "You mean the Hayes woman? Don't be dramatic, Massimiliano."

  "Your surveillance team has been following her for three weeks." Massimiliano set his cup down precisely. "Rather thoroughly, I might add."

  Lorenzo studied his son for a long moment. When he spoke, his tone carried the perfect balance of dismissal and paternal concern.

  "You've never shown such sustained interest in a woman before. It warranted verification of her background." He shrugged one shoulder. "Simply ensuring she isn't an undercover agent or plant from the Gambinos. Routine caution."

  "Routine caution that preceded my interest by half a week, apparently." Massimiliano leaned back, expression neutral despite the challenge in his words.

  Lorenzo sighed, as he dismissed his son. "Semantics, Massi. Two and a half weeks, three weeks, the principle remains the same. You've been spending considerable time at Nocturne lately. It was noticed."

  "And?" Massimiliano asked suspivously. "What did your investigation reveal?"

  "Nothing particularly concerning." Lorenzo reached for his coffee. "Clean background, though a bit sparse. No obvious connections to competitors or law enforcement."

  "And yet the surveillance continues."

  "Thorough verification takes time, Massi," Lorenzo's tone indicated the subject should be closed.

  "Very well. Now, about the property tax situation with the Miami holdings.."

  "Your informant tells me you've been looking into the Moretti files." Lorenzo interrupted Massimiliano, clearly aware of his son’s activities. "Any particular reason?"

  The question caught Massimiliano off-guard. Not the knowledge itself, but his father's directness in addressing it.

  "Research and precaution. For better understanding of historical context. Understanding past organizational structures helps prevent repetition of previous mistakes." The explanation came smoothly, rehearsed without sounding rehearsed. "The Moretti’s collapse created power vacuums that still influence territory disputes today."

  Lorenzo studied his son with the intensity that had made grown men confess to betrayals they hadn't yet committed. "Ah, academic interest only?"

  "Professional thoroughness." Massimiliano corrected. "You taught me to understand history before making a strategy."

  Something unreadable flickered across Lorenzo's face. It wasn't quite suspicion but not quite satisfaction either. After several seconds, he nodded once.

  "Good practice. Although I would have thought those particular files wouldn’t contain useful information pertinent to current operations." He returned to his coffee, looking much calmer. "The Moretti situation was...unfortunate but necessary. He was a traitor, he needed to be eliminated. But it’s all ancient history now. There’s no need to bring up the past."

  "Ancient history that you maintain detailed files on?"

  "I maintain detailed files on everything, Massi." The subtle reprimand in Lorenzo's voice was unmistakable. "Information is power. You would do well to remember that."

  When their breakfast ended two hours later, Massimiliano returned to his responsibilities in the city. Lorenzo remained on the terrace, watching his departure with unreadable eyes that had witnessed the rise and fall of empires.

  Something connected these threads, though the pattern remained vague.

  Massimiliano suspected that his father's interest in both Tatiana Hayes and the Moretti files ran deeper than he expected.