The jet sliced through a sky bruised with dawn. No words passed as Damian stepped aboard, just curt nods exchanged between men who already knew. The Drăghici heir had returned to Romania, and blood would follow. The interior of the plane was opulence forged in shadow: dark mahogany panels carved with the wolf crest, embossed leather seats stitched in burgundy thread, and gold accents dulled with age and legacy. Beneath one seat rested a locked weapons case; he didn't need the key. He broke the latch open with his boot and dragged it into the aisle.
Damian pulled out a combat blade wrapped in an oilcloth, unsheathed it with care, and then pricked the edge into his palm until blood welled up. No hiss. No wince. Just an old rite: Drăghici steel drank from its master before it hunted. The red smeared along the spine of the blade like war paint as he whispered something low and guttural in Romanian, an oath of vengeance passed down from his grandfather's grandfather.
One of thre
