Darke Beginnings

Chapter #19

The invitation sat on the television console in his room and Lucien stared it down with a steel glare. The paper was gray, almost silver, the intricacies of the calligraphic letters offset by deep indigo ink. A red wax seal was split, it's two halves occupying opposite ends of the paper. Lucien knew that seal, the mark it held, the penmanship of the person who'd written it. Martin always had a flair for the dramatic and Luc expected no less. He wasn't sure why the invitation bothered him as it did, except that it was the only communication he'd had from his mentor since he'd orchestrated Vladimir Korsikov's death.

Months had passed since Lucien returned from Russia. He'd heard bits and pieces of Seth's whereabouts, rumors more likely, and he wasn't concerned. He knew Sebastian preferred his solitude and that the notoriety of the assassination amongst the Bratva was beyond his comfort level. Luc expected he would see him soon enough. Martin, on the other hand, had assumed control of the Russian syndicate and solidified his reign with a bloody purge of all those who were loyal to Vladimir Korsikov. Lucien knew of this plan and halfway expected Martin to contact him regarding the contracts, but his phone remained silent, as did his mailbox. 

Once Lucien returned, he'd gained enough from the Bratva contract that he could afford his own home. He chose a penthouse in London with a panoramic view of the Thames and Parliament. The flat was enormous, it's breadth taking up the entirety of the building it crowned. Expansive windows were topped with cathedral ceilings. Floors glistened with polished marble, it's crystal white perfectly swirled with ribbons of silver and black. He'd furnished it himself, preferring the formality of antique reproductions to the sleek, modern lines that had come into favor as of late. He'd chosen carved rosewood and mahogany upholstered with deep red velvets and embroidered seats. The Louis XIV tables held lamps styled with Hurricane glass and bulbs made to look like candles. Turkish rugs adorned the floors where clusters of furniture resided, their deep, rich colors contrasting against the marble, but not out of place. It was the palace he always imagined he'd have, though his wildest dreams never included the helipad. His penthouse did.

With a sigh, Luc stood from the bed and reached for the invitation. He figured he'd mulled it over long enough. His long, graceful fingers unfolded the paper and he held it at arms length, his muscles taut as though the invitation was capable of attacking him. "Luc," it said, "I have to say that I am proud of your actions in Moscow. You pulled that off with impeccable preciseness, something I am sure I would not have been able to do in your place. I would like to invite you to my manor house for a celebration. As you have heard, I've taken the reins as head of the Bratva. Please consider. Yours, Martin."

The invitation had possibilities, though Lucien was skeptical. While he cherished the memories he had of Martin, Luc alone knew of the cruelties Martin was capable of. He was not sure if he would arrive at the soiree as a guest or a target. It would all depend on how Martin received him, whether he took credit for the assassination, whether there was a number on his back. Luc knew that the only way he would know for sure was to accept and arrive. The life he'd chosen was a good one, but also balanced on the whims of other madmen.

Lucien picked up his phone and dialed Martin's personal number. He took a deep breath as the other line rang, unsure of what he would say and hoping there was no answer. Luck was on his side. After the fourth ring, the line transferred him to voicemail. Martin was not tech savvy and had the robotic, default greeting still set. That fact amused Luc and he chuckled as he heard a beep. "Hello, old friend," he said, "I received your invitation and wanted to let you know that I will be there."

Arrangements for his travel were planned with meticulous precision. Luc was also aware that he needed to control every detail, since it required the utmost level of secrecy. There was no room for error, as he knew his presence at Martin's manor would bring severe consequences. He wanted to arrive in an unexpected fashion and making a grand entrance.