The car came to a sharp stop in front of the towering gates of the Salvatore compound, tires skidding slightly on the gravel. Vince stepped out first, his dress shoes tapping the ground with a soft but purposeful click. Each step was precise, calculated—no hesitation. Franco followed, his steps matching Vince’s in their careful precision. The faint gleam of his leather gloves reflected in the dim streetlight as his hand hovered near his sidearm, ever vigilant.

The guards at the gates, two well-built figures in sharp suits, didn’t flinch as they assessed the visitors. They knew better than to question the Romanos, or anyone deemed a superior. Franco exchanged a brief nod with one of them, a familiar gesture, and the massive wrought-iron gates creaked open. Without a word, Vince moved forward, his gaze scanning the compound as they made their way up the gravel path.

The Salvatore estate rose ahead, its dark stone exterior bathed in shadows, like a fortress waiting for an intruder. The only light came from the faint glow of the city skyline in the distance, making the mansion appear even more imposing. Vince’s expression remained unreadable, but his mind was already turning over every possibility. This wasn’t just a social call.

"Stay sharp," Vince murmured to Franco, barely audible over the crunch of their footsteps.

Franco’s eyes narrowed slightly, his jaw tightening, "Always."

They reached the front doors, where a servant stood waiting, his face betraying nothing but a touch of tension in his posture. He stepped aside without a word, ushering them in. The heavy scent of cigar smoke and dark wood filled the air as they entered the grand hallway, the polished floors gleaming under the low light. Portraits of the Salvatore ancestors lined the walls, each figure frozen in time with eyes that seemed to follow them.

Without a word, the servant led them down a long corridor, past rooms that seemed to stretch on endlessly, until they reached the Don’s office. The door opened before they could knock, and there he sat—Don Salvatore, in his chair, relaxed yet regal, as if nothing in the world could ruffle him. The blinds were drawn, and the soft glow of the city lights outside barely filtered through the edges of the windows, casting long shadows that stretched across the room. Instead, candlelight flickered the room to life

."Vince," Salvatore said, his voice smooth and controlled, "I wasn’t expecting you so soon."Vince stepped forward, his shoes clicking sharply against the floor, echoing through the stillness.

He didn’t bother to sit, standing instead, his posture every bit as composed as the Don’s, "You heard about the shipment, surely. You should have known I'd be here."

Salvatore didn’t respond immediately, just let the words hang in the air for a moment, his fingers tapping lightly on the armrest of his chair. Then, finally, he spoke, his voice casual but laced with a hidden tension, "I did. But I’m sure you’ve already formed your own conclusions."

Vince’s gaze never wavered, "I came here for answers, not assumptions. Was that your mess we found tonight?"

Salvatore’s eyes flicked up from the papers on his desk, the hint of a smile playing on his lips, "You think it was me? It's a bit early to be throwing accusations, don’t you think?"

Vince’s jaw tightened, "It’s not an accusation if your family seal is painted all over it.”Salvatore’s eyes flashed briefly with irritation, but he quickly regained his composure. His voice was steady, though laced with coldness, “You’re treading dangerous ground, Vince. My family’s name is not something you throw around lightly.”

Vince took a step closer, his voice quiet but unyielding, “You’ve always been meticulous, Salvatore. It's what you're known for. Your family’s reputation—your control—has been the backbone of everything you’ve built.”

Salvatore’s gaze hardened, the facade of calm beginning to crack, “How dare you. You think I’d risk everything I’ve worked for on some sloppy little stunt?”

Vince’s lips curled into a slight, humorless smile, “I think you’ve been getting lazy. The Salvatores don’t make mistakes like this, not unless there’s something to gain. So unless I get some answers, your entire family will suffer. Did you have anything to do with it?”

Salvatore’s hand gripped the edge of his chair, but his voice remained controlled, though a faint edge of tension lingered, “No. I don't know anything about it. If you must know, I've been focusing on exports just like you. I've got my own problems.”Vince’s eyes bored into his, “You’re playing a dangerous game Salvatore. My father would be disappointed to know you've fallen this low.”

Salvatore’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing. Vince used the moment to continue, “The crates, the way it was staged—only the Salvatores could be behind something that sloppy and deliberate at the same time. Not like you, perhaps your heir? I hear she's been getting cozy with the Michaelis girl. Your daughter’s been making waves, getting too friendly with the wrong people. They don’t make deals without a price. She doesn’t realize the cost yet, but you do, don’t you? You know what it means for your family.”

For a brief moment, the tension in the room thickened, and Salvatore’s gaze flickered ever so slightly as if connecting the dots. But he was quick to mask it, his voice icy, “You’re overstepping, Vince. If you have a problem with my family, you know where to find me. But you’re making a mistake if you think I’m letting anyone jeopardize what we’ve built. I know my daughter, she wouldn't go behind me like that.”

Without warning, Vince’s hand shot out, grabbing Salvatore by the collar and yanking him forward. The chair screeched across the floor as Salvatore staggered slightly, but Vince held him firm, “Then you're delusional, Salvatore.”

Salvatore’s hand went instinctively to Vince’s wrist, trying to pry him off. Vince’s voice was low, his anger simmering just beneath the surface, “You aren't powerful. You aren't untouchable. If you aren't responsible then find out who is. I want my answers, Salvatore, before this gets out of hand.”

Salvatore’s lip curled, but his composure was slipping. His breathing was shallow now, a slight bruise already starting to form where Vince’s hand had grabbed him.

"You’re making a mistake, Vince,” he growled, but there was less confidence in his voice.

Vince released Salvatore, backhanding him with as much strength as he could muster." Salvatore falls back into his chair, lip busted and bleeding from the impact. Vince stood there for a moment, staring down at him, before adjusting his coat and straightening up. The tension in the room was thick, and Salvatore, now looking bruised and disoriented, struggled to regain his composure.

Vince didn’t wait for him to respond or make a move. His eyes flicked toward the door, his tone icy, “You’re walking a fine line, Don Salvatore. And if I am dragged into this, then so are you.”

He turned to leave, his voice cold as he threw one last look over his shoulder, Franco followi mg closely behind,. “You’ve got one chance to fix this, or it’ll be the last chance you get. Prove your loyalty to the truce or fall with it. It's you're choice.”

The door shuts behind them with a dull thud, swallowing the warmth and tension of the Salvatore manor. Outside, the night is colder than it had been when they arrived. Damp. Silent. Rain begins to fall in fine sheets, soaking the tips of Vince’s polished shoes as he steps forward without pause.

Their steps fall in perfect sync, boots crunching against wet stone. The wrought-iron gates stand ahead like a mouth ready to close. As they approach, they creak open slowly, without command. The guards stand motionless in their suits, pretending not to watch, their eyes fixed somewhere beyond the two men. Smart of them.

Only when they reach the car does Franco finally speak, his voice low, “He was lying.”

Vince stops at the passenger door, hand resting on the polished metal. He doesn't look at Franco. “He was hiding, but not from us.”

Franco nods slowly, raindrops settling on his shoulders. His expression is unreadable, but Vince can hear the shift in his tone, the rare note of uncertainty laced with suspicion, "He didn’t flinch when you grabbed him. Didn’t even reach for a weapon. He let it happen.”

Vince opens the door, slides into the leather seat, and shuts it behind him with quiet finality. The door muffles the outside world, enclosing them in a sealed capsule of silence. He rolls the window down just enough to be heard.

“He’s afraid,” he says at last. “But not of us. That’s the problem.”

Franco keeps his eyes on the driveway, "Then who?”

“Start digging,” Vince says finally, “I want everything on Freya Michaelis. I want her communications tracked. Any recent shifts in loyalty inside her structure. I want manifests. Port records. Dock schedules. If someone inside leaked our route, they did it under her watch. And I want an audience. Set up a visit for tomorrow. We should remain cordial."

Franco nods once. He doesn’t need further instruction. Vince’s gaze drifts toward the window. His reflection stares back, fractured by passing lights, cold and still.

“She wanted us to find the shipment. That much is clear. She left just enough behind to stir the pot but not enough to point the finger. That’s not carelessness. That’s strategy.”

“She’s playing bigger than anyone expected,” Franco murmurs.

Vince’s expression doesn’t change. But something in his eyes sharpens.

“Then it’s time we start playing bigger too.”

Vince leaves his men to handle their tasks. Rain streaks across the windshield, city lights bending and bleeding through the glass. The silence stretches until it is taut. The drive home is spent thinking about the last time he had met Freya. Merely children, the trio of youngsters from each major family would spend days together in the summers while their parents discussed politics. It had been years since they once spoke, not since he was around eight. Even then she was always in some kind of trouble, dragging the others into it as well, but the Freya that he once knew didn't seem like the one he is facing now.

By the time Vince returns, the storm has thinned to mist. The compound’s entrance recognizes him automatically, the iron gate sliding back with its usual hiss. No fanfare. No guards needed this late. No one who would dare question where he's been.

He parks the car himself.

Inside, the house is dark. Silent. Not in a threatening way, but in the way that tells you everything here has been waiting for him.

He passes through the main hallway with the practiced ease of a man who has walked these floors his entire life. The portraits of the old Romanos watch from the walls with blank eyes. His father’s gaze follows him hardest.

The kitchen lights flicker on with a touch. No one else is awake.

A covered plate sits on the island, wrapped neatly in foil. Franco must have told someone he hasn’t eaten. Or maybe it is instinct at this point. Vince doesn’t check.

He peels the foil back and sits in silence at the counter. Mama Rose, bless the woman’s heart, has made sure his food is warm. Not fresh, but enough heat still lingers to be edible.

The silence in the kitchen is different from the silence in Salvatore’s office. There, it had been thick with tension. Here, it just sits across from him like an old companion.

He stares at nothing.

The burden of it presses heavier now that he is alone. Not the business. Not the war. The knowledge that everything still has to pass through him. Every mistake. Every movement. Every ounce of blood spilled on city asphalt belongs to his shadow, and no matter how composed he seems on the outside, he carries every piece of it home with him.

A storm is building, and somewhere across the city, Freya Michaelis is standing in the eye of it.