"I didn't expect the Bratva's tech queen to be quite so... captivating," Lorenzo's voice dripped with irony as he observed Galina, who was absorbed in deciphering a web of encrypted data.
Galina's gaze remained fixed on her screens, her expression a...
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The low hum of murmurs that had lingered in the air dissipated like a fading ghost as Pakhan's voice broke through, sharp and commanding—a blade slicing through the thick, suffocating silence. The room fell into an unnatural stillness, the air taut with anticipation and unspoken weight. A single light, warm and amber, hung overhead, casting long shadows that stretched across the walls like tendrils of time itself, reaching, grasping. The chairs, once neatly aligned in military precision, now formed a circle—a subtle yet deliberate shift, designed to invite something closer, something far more intimate than usual. The circle's geometry seemed to suggest unity, or perhaps the illusion of it—whatever it was, it invited a sense of intimacy that wasn't entirely welcome.
I sat, back rigid, eyes sharp as knives, every inch of my posture taut with the knowledge that this moment would demand more than just presence. It would demand resolve, precision, and patience. I could feel the weight of the others in the room, their stares heavy on my skin. Each breath seemed drawn from the very marrow of the earth, thick with expectation. This wasn't just any meeting. No, it was a reckoning, a spark in the dark that would set things ablaze.
Pakhan's gaze swept the circle with the calculated coolness of a man who had long since ceased needing approval—his eyes glinting with authority, a storm contained within the storm. "So, you all are already aware of what happened," he began, his voice cutting through the air with the precision of a scalpel. His words were like fire, igniting the tension that swirled in the room, setting it alight with something far more dangerous than the casual chatter we'd just exchanged.
In response, our voices rose in perfect harmony, sharp, unified, "Yes, Pakhan."
A brief nod from him—his approval as swift as it was fleeting—and the room seemed to exhale collectively, only to inhale once more, deeper this time.
"As you all know, we need to find a suitable lady for that Marchetti boy," he continued, his tone biting with the same razor-sharp clarity. The words hung in the air like a fragile truth, hanging between us all, a thread waiting to snap. "However, before we address that," his voice dropped, as if pulling us closer into the web, "we must first arrange a contractual lady."
