The grand foyer of the De La Vega estate had been transformed into a hall of judgment. The air was thick with a cold, biting stillness that made the lungs ache. Under the massive crystal chandelier, which hung like a frozen explosion of light, the staff was gathered.
Marcos stood at the front, his posture a masterpiece of military precision. To his left and right, the maids and the lower security detail were lined up in two perfect, trembling rows.
No one spoke. No one dared to breathe too loudly. They knew the hierarchy of this house was shifting, and they knew that whenever Luciano De La Vega called a midnight assembly, blood was the only currency that would pay the bill.
Then, the sound began—the rhythmic, slow clack of leather soles against the marble of the grand staircase.
Luciano descended with a terrifying grace. He hadn't bothered to put his jacket back on; his white shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up as if he were prepared for manual labor.
