The Devils Dynasty

The convoy of sleek black vehicles glided smoothly through the busy streets of Solaria before finally slowing to a halt in front of one of the most imposing buildings in the financial district.
Garcia Holdings Tower.
The fifty-storey glass structure stood like a monument to power, its polished surface reflecting the morning sun across the city skyline. Employees and visitors moved in and out of the grand entrance, but the moment the convoy arrived, the atmosphere shifted.
People stepped aside instinctively.
The rear door of the main car opened.
Tristan Garcia stepped out.
His tall frame moved with effortless authority as his polished shoes touched the marble pavement. Conversations near the entrance quieted immediately. Some people glanced at him in awe, others lowered their eyes respectfully.
Because everyone knew exactly who he was.
Without saying a word, Tristan walked toward the building entrance, his expression calm yet intimidating, his presence alone commanding attention.
The glass doors slid open automatically.
Inside, the lobby stretched wide and luxurious, with marble floors that reflected the light of massive crystal chandeliers hanging from above. The reception staff immediately straightened the moment they saw him.
"Good morning, Mr. Garcia," several voices greeted respectfully.