Page 25 of Fire and Silk
I grew upunderneaththem.
They were already halfway out the door by the time I learned to tie a tie. Sent off to manage ports and ships, to cut deals in foreign languages, to represent the empire. They hated that I was there. Hated that I was a reminder that they weren’tenough. They took their mother’s last name and legacy, my father gave his blessings out of guilt.
I learned quickly: I would never be their brother. I would always be the threat.
Especially once it became clear I wasn’t stupid.
Especially when my father started to hint that maybe, just maybe, I was the one with the mind for legacy.
Then he died.
Three years ago. A stroke, they said. Peaceful. Alone in his study.
What a way for a warlord to go.
But the bastard couldn’t die cleanly. No. He had to leave behind one final trick—an absurd clause buried in his final estate brief. No single heir would be granted full control until afourthheir was located.
Someone no one had ever heard of.
The clause stalled everything. Power seized, property frozen. Maksim and Mina split what they could—ports, vessels, warehouses. All the things they had managed under our father’s eye. Their roots ran deep. But control of the estate? Of the core seat of power? That remained with me thanks to my stunt. .
I sit up straighter, watching Matteo’s shoulder twitch slightly as he turns the wheel.
Everything is aligning.
With Lira in place, the last card is mine to play.
Maksim and Mina may have scraps of power—legacy projects and loyal men—but I’m building something bigger. Idon’t want to share the throne. I want to end the bloodline with me.
And thanks to Lira… I will.
****
The Marazzi Estate – Hills of Balwyn, Inner Melbourne
We pull up to the gates and they open without a word.
Of course they do. Mina doesn’t believe in drama at the door. She prefers her warfare behind tablecloths.
The Marazzi mansion perches over the hill like it’s judging the city below—terracotta rooflines, long angular verandas, glass that reflects nothing but sky. Not a single leaf out of place. The kind of symmetry only money and control can buy.
As I step out of the car, Matteo shadows me silently. He’s dressed in pale gray—just as I asked—harmless as a dove, at least on the outside.
A valet takes the car wordlessly. No greetings. No gestures. That’s the Marazzi welcome—polished hostility.
The front doors open before I knock.
And there she is.
Mina, my sister.
Tall. Blade-thin. Elegance in the coldest form imaginable. Her black hair is twisted into a sleek coil, not a strand out of place. The structure of her face is mathematical—cheekbones you could measure with a ruler, lips painted in a red so deep it looks black in the shade of the hall.
Her dress is immaculate white.
Her eyes slide over me. They never widen. They never soften.
“I knew you would come to gloat,” she says, arms loosely crossed, voice smooth as lacquer. “I take it your meeting with the Don went well.”
