Page 2 of The Shadow King's Brother

God, I wish I knew what was behind those glasses.

“Actually,” I say, suddenly impulsive, “bring the coffee anyway. And the current expenditures. I might as well dive headfirst into the abyss.”

Why fight the caffeine rush when it’s so obvious?

She pauses, a question in her eyes, but says nothing. She just nods and disappears.

I sigh, leaning back in my oversized leather chair. It’s comfortable but makes me feel like I’m sinking, and I hate feeling small. Mental note: I need a new chair—something that at least gives the illusion of control.

Sometimes, I wonder if she sees anything in me beyond being Elio’s girlfriend or Mattheo’s daughter. I don’t know why I care… Maybe it’s my stupid need for validation.

Does she notice the cracks beneath the surface? She probably does—and I’m sure she judges me for it. A little thrill of irritation runs through me. I can’t suppress it.

I may need a new PA.

I reach out, picking up the tablet she left, the one with the digital reports.

I tap the screen and open the summary of last year’s De Luca expenditures. The numbers flow by, mostly familiar—the usual expenses of a jewelry empire: shipping, salaries, taxes, rent, and purchases.

Nothing out of the ordinary, really.

I blink, rubbing my eyes as I scroll, the monotony of the report settling in. It’s all so… dry. The same old categories, the same figures that build this empire’s foundation. A few office supplies here, some large-scale shipments there, vendor invoices... the kind of expenses I’ve learned to tune out.

This part of the business, although I’m decent at it, is all Elio’s Uncle Tuvio’s domain. But the last year, with everything that’s happened, he taught me the ropes—mostly out of necessity.

We couldn’t trust anyone else. I don’t mind it as much anymore; sometimes, I find it oddly satisfying. But today… I’m just tired. My eyes feel heavy, the numbers blur together, and I can barely keep my focus.

But then, I see something.

A series of payments, all flagged as ‘Office Supplies,’ and they’re substantial. Not a few pens and paperclips – we’re talking hundreds of thousands of dollars a month, routed to a company called ‘Mighty Machines.’ The invoices are vague, with just a few words, such asroutine repairs, and the PO numbers are all out of sequence.

My pulse picks up as I stop scrolling, my fingers lingering on the screen, suddenly more awake than I was a moment ago.

“‘Mighty Machines’?” I mutter to myself.

I minimize the report and do a quick search online. ‘Mighty Machines Inc.’ pops up—a company that sells and services heavy construction equipment. Bulldozers, excavators, cranes… not exactly the kind of stuff you need for a jewelry business.

My brow furrows, a growing unease settling in my stomach. I click on the ‘About Us’ section, my brow wrinkling more. The website looks cheap and amateurish. It has stock photos of grinning employees, a generic mission statement, and a physical address that, when I look it up, looks like a run-down warehouse district on the outskirts of town.

“What the hell is this?” I mutter to myself. “The company looks—fake.”

Then, I type ‘Mighty Machines Inc.’ and ‘De Luca Enterprises’ into the search engine, my fingers flying across the keyboard, and the results come back mostly useless. Nothing except some business listings and one forum page: ‘local construction workers and small business owners complain about poor work practices.’

I scroll on. A news article from two years ago about the sale of Mighty Machines mentions a change in ownership. The previous owner, a local mechanic, had sold it for a surprisingly high price, claiming he wanted to retire early. No names of the new owners are mentioned in the article.

My gut clenches.

But one thing stands out—the company name was later changed to B.C., which is apparently a larger corporation… It’s like the company got swallowed.

Disappeared.

My pulse picks up as I stop scrolling, my fingers lingering on the screen, suddenly more awake than I was a moment ago.

“What the hell is B.C.?” I whisper.

I minimize the report and open the company’s internal search engine, entering “B.C.,” running through the archived transaction logs from the past two years.

Nothing.

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