The Prototype

58. Black Roses

                            MARCELLUS

The chandelier loomed above, casting a fractured light over the towering mahogany shelves of the library. Centuries-old books lined the walls,their cracked spines holding the weight of generations of Galilei secrets—ledger upon ledger of illicit deals, power plays inked into performance like relics of a dynasty built on blood and betrayal. The air carrying the aroma of faint cigars, thick and heady, mingling with the quiet decadence of the room and the sins of its inhabitants.

I leaned back in the oversized armchair, the leather creaking faintly under my weight, the sound a soft groan against the silence. Bourbon in my glass catching the chandelier's glow as I swirled it, watching the liquid move, slow and deliberate, coaxing answers from its depths. My eyes moving across the room, settling on each presence, assessing, calculating.

To my left, Uncle Galilei sitting like a king on his own throne, his ice blue eyes tracking the thin trail of smoke curling from the cigar between his fingers. The way he held it—calm, methodical, masking it without a wasted motion. Across from me, Nino slouched in his chair, fingers wrapped around a glass of bourbon, his expression unreadable. The amber liquid shifting as he swirled it lazily, but his grip was anything but.

Further back, near the low table, Gabby and Gia lingering, twin silhouettes against the walls, their presence a whisper in the periphery. The way they moved—quiet, seamless, shadows stitched into the room—meant they were listening.

"Rocky called me today," my voice low, deliberate, slicing through the stillness like a blade against silk. "Faxed in this information."

I picked up the folder from my lap, passing it to Uncle Galilei. He leaned forward, his fingers curling around the folder with the same predatory patience he applied to everything. He didn't speak as he opened it, but the slight curl of his lips betrayed his intrigue.

Taking a slow sip of bourbon, allowing the burn to settle, letting the moment breathe before continuing.

"Aleksei and the Ambassador," I began, my tone even, measured, "used to be thick as thieves back in the day. Informal business partners for years. Smuggling. Laundering. Arms deals." I let the words hang, tasting them like the liquor coating my tongue. "The Russian Ambassabor promised Aleksei that he would help him start his oil business, help him into rooms with high-class power players, businessmen, investors. People who could give him the kick-off he needed. But they had a deal.

I leaned forward, swirling the bourbon in my glass, watching the dance under the light. The weight of the conversation pressed down, thick as the silence that stretched between us. The documents laid open in Uncle Galilei's hands, his fingers moving with the same calm precision as a surgeon dissecting flesh. His eyes remained unreadable, but also sharp, glacial—gleaming with interest.

Nino leaned forward, elbows heavy on his knees, his eyes locked onto me with a hard stare. "What kind of deal?" His voice carried the rasp of suspicion, a thread of something lethal woven between the syllables.

I exhaled slowly, my voice measured, deliberate. "The deal was that if the Ambassador helps Aleksei. Aleksei would give the Ambassador a percentage. Aleksei also agreed to let the Russian Mafias regulate a tax on all oil shipments."

A pause. The words settled in the air, heavy with implication moving through the room, the unspoken calculation behind their eyes.

"The Ambassador promised Aleksei access to his network" I continued, " In return, he'd not only gain more power and connections but also all—protection. The Russian Mafias would shield him, making it damn near impossible for anyone to touch him, Legally or otherwise. And since the Ambassador already powerful in his own right, he could grease the wheels, making Aleksei transition into those circles smooth and seamless."