The Prototype

46. Dual Triumphs

MARCELLUS

My gaze settling on the sprawling estate grounds below looking over the guests in expensive suits and custom dresses filtering in, their laughter and excitement floating up like whispers on the wind. Swirling the glass of whiskey in my hand, the finest Italian blend, its deep amber catching the slant of sunlight streaming in through the glass. The liquid giving warmth and strength, a smooth but biting edge that I savor with every sip.

Today marks the final day of the horse race tournament, a tradition of prestige, wealth, and competition that have become more than just a simple spectacle. For the past weeks, powerful men some with their beautifully adorned companions gathered here, their eyes set on the track and minds scheming, their ambitions burning beneath tailored suits and jeweled collars. The men who entered these races weren't doing so for the thrill of it; they were here because today's winner would secure more than just a title. They'd win access to me—to my world, my empire, and the influence that so many dreamed of claiming for themselves.

There will bring twice the number of guests, more eyes, and even more potential allies—or enemies. This kind of power shifted worlds and dictated the lives of men who consider themselves untouchable. And at the center of it all stood me—a king among kings, the one they would all be vying to impress, hoping for a chance to do business, to earn favor in my world. I didn't need to seek them out; they came to me, drawn like moths to a flame, hoping for a chance to enter my world, to bask in the glow of my reputation. They'll whisper my name in their circles, hoping it would rub off on them like a coveted perfume, hoping a hint of my power might cling to them, elevate them in the eyes of their peers.

Yet, despite all the noise and anticipation brewing outside, a feeling tugged at the back of my mind. One absence weighed more heavily on my thoughts than I cared to admit. Tempest isn't going to be at the tournament.

Taking another long sip of whiskey, letting the burn distract me from the thoughts swirling in my mind. She knew her absence would draw attention. The social vultures would circle, hungry for any hint of scandal or gossip, whispering behind my back as they attempt to connect the dots. Some will think it's over between us, that she'd fallen out of favor or been cast aside, that she no longer holds a place in my world. They'll assume she, like many others before her, who dared to test me and been ruthlessly discarded.

Tempest has always attracted attention, whether she wanted it or not. Her beauty isn't just physical though that alone was enough to make most men stutter. It's her presence. She enters a room, and it bends to her will, as if every set of eyes follows her because they have no choice. Tempest has that arrogance, that defiance, that unapologetic dominance that make men weak in the knees. She's not like the other women who circled this world, hoping for a seat at the table. She isn't the type to flutter her eyelashes and play the pretty thing on a man's arm. No, she demands the whole room, the whole damn table. 

That makes her dangerous, and it makes her a target for men like Vincenzo.

Though I intended for her to join me today, to dangle her in front of him like forbidden fruit and watch him unravel from the inside, keeping his composure by a thread, things changed. Vincenzo will be here, no doubt hoping to see her—hoping to continue his pursuit. His true intentions. Not the feigned concern he offered about "Tempest and her intentions with me." If he only knew there were no real intentions involving me, he'll stop his act. Everything between Tempest and me has been settled and made clear. Which means there's no way Vincenzo's concern centers on her intentions toward me; his concern is with Tempest herself. He wants her—for himself, to place her as a jewel in his crown. To place himself on the throne Joseph Salvatore currently occupies. He craves the power, the influence that comes with being a boss of a family, the control that has people falling at his feet