𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑴𝑬𝑬𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑹𝑶𝑶𝑴 𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑶𝑫 𝒊𝒏 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒌 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒏, 𝒔𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒌 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒚𝒐𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒅𝒐𝒐𝒓𝒔. While the rest of the building dripped in polished black surfaces and sharp, cutting-edge design, this space was something else entirely, older, heavier, saturated with an unspoken weight. It bore the silent recognition of something deeper than business, something older than wealth.
Family.
Not one solely bound by blood but built upon it.
The walls were carved from dark, polished wood too rich, too deep, swallowing the dim light that dripped from the heavy overhead fixture like molten gold. The room wasn't large, but it carried weight, a suffocating presence built from years of whispered deals and unspeakable secrets. A monolithic mahogany desk commanded the center, its surface pristine save for a single bottle of whiskey resting near the edge untouched but deliberate, a silent invitation or a veiled threat, depending on who was looking.
Behind it, an entire wall gleamed with rows of encased liquor bottles, their amber depths catching the flickering light. Valentino had spared no expense when designing V, and this office, perched high above the city, was built with precision. It wasn't meant for just anyone. No lower-ranked employee would dare set foot here; this space existed for the elite; the ones with blood on their hands and names too powerful to be spoken aloud in polite society. It was a room for business, but not the kind written in ledgers.
Low leather couches stretched along the walls, framing the space in silent vigilance. They weren't there for comfort. They were there for waiting. Watching. For those who occupied them, figures half-consumed by shadow, drowning in quiet authority; their presence was like a pulse beneath the surface, steady and inescapable. These were men who moved the world with a whisper, who carried entire legacies on their backs, their power a lingering specter that refused to fade.
