The Game Was Just Beginning

"You did well," Augustus said, his voice low and approving.

The scent of rich leather, aged whiskey, and a faint trace of cigar smoke clung to the air like memory. Augustus sat back in his high-backed chair, fingers steepled under his chin, eyes sharp and calculating. He looked like a man who'd built empires out of blood and silence.

Across from him, Alessandro lounged with casual arrogance, one leg crossed over the other. The shadows from the chandelier danced over his sharp jawline and cold smirk — the kind of smirk only power could carve.

"Taking Marco was the right move. Bold," Augustus said, his tone edged with pride. "The kind of move that makes men bend... or break."

Alessandro tilted his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Diego Rossi won’t bend. Not easily.”

"No," Augustus chuckled darkly. He reached for the pack of cigarettes on his desk, tapped one free, and lit it with a slow, practiced motion. Smoke curled from his lips in lazy spirals. "But I wonder how long he’ll hold out. A man’s pride is only as strong as the thing he values most."

Alessandro leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His expression was unreadable, voice cold. “He’ll break eventually. And Marco?” He scoffed, the sound bitter and cruel. “I’ll play with him until he begs me to stop. By the time I’m done, he’ll regret being born a Rossi.”

Augustus gave a slow, approving nod. There was a flicker of something in his eyes — not just pride, but a kind of hunger. Control. Legacy. Domination.

“That’s my son.”

He rose from his chair and walked to the tall window overlooking the glowing city skyline. One hand disappeared into his trouser pocket while the other held the cigarette between his fingers. His silhouette looked carved from steel.

"But don’t you think it’s odd?” Alessandro asked, narrowing his eyes. “Diego Rossi has been… too quiet since Marco disappeared.”

Augustus didn’t answer immediately. He puffed the last of the cigarette, then crushed it into the ashtray on the windowsill.

“The Diego I know is bitter. Vengeful. But not reckless. He’ll wait. Hate silently. But he won’t make the first move—not while we have Marco.”

Alessandro chuckled darkly. “You seem to understand him well.”

“I do.” Augustus turned, his gaze sharp. “Because he’s a coward when it comes to what he loves.”

Alessandro reached for the crystal decanter on the table beside him and poured himself a glass of Château Margaux. He lifted the glass to eye level, watching as the deep red wine caught the light.

“Old wine in a new glass,” he murmured, swirling it slowly.

Augustus stepped away from the window. “There’s a party coming up. One of those tedious and pretentious family gatherings. I won’t be here — business in Warsaw.”

Alessandro raised an eyebrow. “You want me to go in your place?”

“You’re my heir,” Augustus said simply. “Act like it.”

Alessandro leaned back again, sipping the wine slowly. “Those old fools will sit with their mouths wide open, waiting to be spoon-fed lies and compliments.”

“That’s what keeps some of them loyal,” Augustus muttered.

“I hate those messy shows of loyalty,” Alessandro said with a dismissive wave of his glass.

“It’s not for you. It’s for visibility. For our name. While I’m away, the responsibility of this house falls on your shoulders. Keep your eyes open.”

Before Alessandro could respond, there was a knock on the door.

“Who’s there?” Augustus called out.

“It’s Luca,” came the voice from the other side.

“Come in.”

The door creaked open, and Luca stepped in with his usual composed demeanor. His posture was respectful, though his eyes flickered between the two men with the caution of someone who’d seen too much.

“Pardon the interruption, sir. Your attention is needed at the rotunda.”

“Have the investors arrived?” Augustus asked, already turning toward his desk.

“Yes, boss,” Luca replied.

Augustus picked up a file and exhaled slowly. He glanced at Alessandro, then gave a small nod.

“We’ll talk more later. Right now, money is important.”

He left the room with Luca close behind, the door clicking softly shut.

Silence followed.

Alessandro sat alone, swirling the wine in his glass, watching it dance like blood in motion. His eyes narrowed, the corners of his mouth twitching into a venomous smile.

“Marco… Marco…” he murmured.

His voice was low, almost fond — but laced with something twisted.

He raised the glass and stared into it, as if it held all the answers. Or perhaps all the questions.

"Marco... Marco..." he whispered as he fixed his face filled with venom smile at the wine cup in his hand, twirling and watching as the wine danced inside the glass.

"Marco Rossi... the game was just beginning," Alessandro said and took a sip from the glass.