Page 6 of Inheritance
Gabriel
Iwoke to the warmth of Sophia’s body pressed against mine. The dim light filtering through the curtains painted golden lines across her bare shoulder, her breath slow and steady against my chest. For a moment, I let myself stay there, caught in the quiet illusion that this was just another morning—no wars, no threats, nothing to deal with. Just her warm steady breath on my skin.
Carefully, I eased away from her, tucking the sheets back into place as I sat up. My muscles ached from the way I’d slept, too tense even in rest. I ran a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly before reaching for my pants.
“Where are you going?” Her voice was thick with sleep, warm and drowsy in the quiet morning.
I looked over my shoulder, wanting to lay back in bed at the sight of her—eyes half-lidded, hair tousled against the pillow, the sheet slipping low over her breasts. She was temptation wrapped in something softer, something that demanded I stay.
“Just handling a couple things,”
She smirked, those soft eyes of hers demanding too much.
“I wont keep you in the dark, don’t worry.” I traced my thumb over her cheek, smoothing away the crease of concernbefore it appeared. “Take a walk through the garden. The air will do you good. I’ll meet you there after my meeting.”
She closed her eyes and faintly nodded.
I kissed her, then pulled away.
The hallway was cool against my chest as I walked toward the war room. The scent of tobacco thickened as I got closer. I stepped through the open door, then closed it behind me.
Sunlight bloomed through the tall windows behind my father, catching on the polished mahogany desk that separated him from Damien and Frankie. A cigar tray sat between them, heavy with ash, billowing a thin line of smoke high into the air.
This room had once been the stage for our family’s power, but now, meeting here felt like just another move in a long, losing game.
My fathers imposing frame sunk into the high-backed chair, hands steepled in front of him. He didn’t need to speak. His presence alone commanded the room. That piercing gaze tracked every word, every breath, with the same ruthless intensity that had built an empire—and was now watching it fall.
“What do you mean they didn’t let you in?” Damien asked, incredulous.
Frankie stood, his broad shoulders tense. Short and overweight, but built like a man who had spent his life in the trenches of this world, he carried himself with the steady presence of someone who didn’t rattle easily. He had the rough, chiseled look of a fighter—square jaw, thick brows, a scar running along his cheekbone that told its own story. He was as loyal as they came.
But he looked uncertain now.
He swallowed, his gaze fixed on the floor. Even for a man like Frankie, scrutiny from Damien, the Don, and me was enough to make him nervous.
“I went to the museum, like always,” he began, his voice steady but his hands moving in loose, expressive motions, sketching the scene in the air. “Same time, same day of the week for the auction. I spoke to people, had some drinks, collected debts.” He paused.
“But when it was time for the auction, we started filing into the chamber. That’s when they stopped me.”
He hesitated, his hands clenching briefly before gesturing outward again, palms up, frustration bleeding through. “So I says, ‘What’s this about?’ And that rat fuck—he looks me right in the eye and says the Auditores are no longer welcome. No longer welcome at the museum or the auctions.”
His voice sharpened on the last words, and he shook his head as though he still couldn’t believe it himself. “So, I left. What could I do?” he muttered, quieter now, his gaze flickering upward to gauge our reactions.
The Don’s expression didn’t change, but the weight of his silence hung heavy in the room. His fingers tapped a slow, deliberate rhythm on the desk, the only sound as he considered Frankie.
"The Sinclairs must’ve pressured the Russians. They control the museum. Now they can scheme at the auctions with everyone who owes us, drive a wedge between us and our allies." Damien said.
The Don gave an acknowledging, slow nod, his eyes narrowing. “We look weak,” I said, glancing at my father.
Damien snorted a laugh. “The Sinclairs are scared of us, so they’re doing all they can to fuck with us, but why would the Russians side with them?”
“Regardless of their reason,” I replied, my tone measured, “they’ve made a move, and now our most efficient way to launder money is crippled.”
For too long, no one spoke.
Damien slammed his fist onto the desk. “We can’t just sit here and let them lock us out of the goddamn city.”
The Don’s gaze flicked to Damien, then to me. His fingers stopped tapping, his hand settling on the desk as he raised his chin almost imperceptibly, as though waiting to criticize my next words.
