Chapter 2

The penthouse was expansive. Floor to ceiling windows framed the night skyline like a painting. Modern minimalistic furnishings whispered wealth.  

Yet despite its grandeur it felt cold.  

Just like its owner.

Not a single light was turned on. The only illumination came from the television screen flickering in the far corner. It cast ghostly shadows on the walls. The low murmur of the news filled the room. A quiet voice narrated the downfall of a legacy.

“Breaking news. The fall of the Montage Empire has sent shockwaves through the business and political world...”

Lucas sat still. His tall frame folded into the sleek leather armchair nearly swallowed by the darkness.

His elbow rested on the arm of the chair. A cigarette pinched between two fingers. The tip burned a faint orange as he took a slow drag. He exhaled the smoke with the calm of someone who had already seen this moment a thousand times before.

This was everything he had anticipated. Everything he had worked toward.

“Ricardo Montage’s sudden death just a few nights ago continues to raise questions,” the newscaster continued.  

“However it appears no autopsy was conducted due to lack of funds. Shocking considering the family’s once limitless wealth.”

Lucas smirked bitterly. He tapped ash into the tray beside him.

His jaw clenched as the newscaster’s voice droned on. “It’s believed Mr. Montage died of a heart attack but officials have yet to confirm any details...”

Heart attack.  

If only they knew.  

He had been there that night. He watched the life slip out of Ricardo’s arrogant eyes. His was the last face that bastard saw.

And yet now that it had happened. Now that the Montage name was being dragged through the mud and their empire crumbled like dust. Lucas felt nothing.  

No joy. No triumph. No relief. Just an emptiness. A hollow ache where vengeance was supposed to feel sweet.

The TV continued spitting theories and shocked speculation.

The collapse appeared sudden to outsiders. But it wasn’t. It was years of work. Breaking it little by little.  

Exactly as planned.  

Lucas had spent nearly a decade orchestrating this fall. Quiet moves. Strategic sabotage. And now they were gone.

Then came the familiar rhythm. Slow steady thuds of a cane striking marble tile. The sound echoed through the silent room.

Lucas didn’t turn. He didn’t need to.

A tall elderly man stepped into the dim glow of the TV. His silver hair combed back with precision. Dressed in a tailored black suit he leaned heavily on a carved wooden cane. His eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

He chuckled. A deep raspy proud sound.

“Success,” he said. His voice low and gravelly. “At long last.”

Lucas stood slowly. His cigarette had burned down to its end. He crushed it into the tray with finality.

The old man’s smile widened.

They had won.

“You were right Luca,” the old man said. A gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. “Revenge is best served slowly. Deliberately. Not rushed. Not impulsive. You start at the roots. Chip away at the foundation piece by piece until the entire structure is weak. Brittle. Then with a single push.” He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. “The whole damn tower collapses.”

Lucas stood in silence.

Don Antonio. His father not by blood but in every way that mattered. He chuckled deeply. The sound echoed off the cold marble walls of the penthouse.

“You did it son. You waited. Over ten years you carried this grudge like armor. Patient as a viper coiled in the dark. And when the time came you struck. Hard. Quiet. Perfect.”

He laughed heartily. The kind of laugh only men with blood on their hands and power in their veins could afford. “You brought that goddamn empire to its knees.”

Lucas let out a breath. “It wasn’t clean,” he muttered. “Things almost got out of hand towards the end.”

Don Antonio waved his hand dismissively. “Bah. Clean is for saints and fools. What matters is results. And Ricardo Montage is gone. Everything that had to do with him is gone. His heir isolated and left in despair.”

“He’ll be turning restlessly in the grave now.” He chuckled.

Then his voice dipped slightly. A rare note of disappointment slipped through. “Still it’s a pity he died quick and easy. Watching him rot in a hospital bed powerless and humiliated would’ve been sweeter than death. Seeing everything he built reduced to ash while he breathed through tubes. That would’ve been justice.”

Lucas said nothing. His gaze distant. Unreadable.

Antonio stepped closer. He rested a hand on his shoulder. “You did a thorough job Lucas. You didn’t just take the empire. You isolated him.”

Lucas inclined his head slightly. “Thank you Father.”

Antonio grinned. The corners of his eyes crinkled with pride. “And now there’s nothing left. Not even scraps. Though…” He chuckled as he turned toward the decanter on the bar and poured himself a drink. “Diego’s been sulking. Says he didn’t get to play.”

Lucas’s lips twitched faintly. “He’ll survive.”

“Oh I know he will.” Antonio raised his glass. “But next time let the boy break something.”

“You should come with us tonight,” Antonio said as he stepped forward with the drink in his hands. “To the Gentleman’s Club.”

“I’ll pass,” Lucas replied. His tone clipped and cold.

Antonio paused. He turned slightly with a glint in his eye. “There’ll be an auction tonight. A special one. We’ve got our eyes on a prize. A little gift for Diego.” His smile turned wolfish. “A new toy. And it was all possible thanks to you.”

Lucas said nothing. His expression unreadable.

“What could be more satisfying than seeing the fruits of your victory on full display?” Antonio pressed. His voice light but edged with something darker. “You should come.”

Then after a pause his tone shifted. Disappointment crept in. “Or have you grown too big now? Achieved our grand purpose and become untouchable? Is that it Lucas? Have I lost the right to ask anything of you?”

Lucas’s jaw clenched. He met the older man’s gaze.

This man. The one who had taken him in that night so many years ago when Lucas had nothing. No family. No hope. No reason to live. A broken boy ready to throw himself off a bridge. Antonio had pulled him back. Given him a name. A purpose. And a war to fight.

They had both lost everything.

Antonio’s only remaining son Diego had been left in a complete pathetic state. Lucas had seen the man weep once.

“Of course not,” Lucas said finally. His voice quiet but firm.

Antonio nodded. Something like approval flickered in his eyes. He stepped forward and handed Lucas a slim black access card. “Use this,” he said. He gave him a firm pat on the back before turning away. His cane echoed against the marble floor as he walked off flanked by two guards in sleek suits.

Lucas stared down at the card.

The Gentleman Society.

An elite underworld cabal. Men who didn’t just influence governments and industries. They owned them. A network of power brokers, arms dealers and kingmakers. The late Ricardo Montage had once been one of the most powerful among them.

And now he was nothing but a face flashing across news screens.

Lucas glanced up at the now muted television mounted on the wall. Ricardo’s image appeared once again. His smiling face from an old interview. How ironic. He used to be one of the men who called the shots in the Society. Now he was just a cautionary tale.

“Fear not the man,” Lucas murmured to himself. “But the one who can bring him down.”

The Society was watching now. Curious. On edge. Eager to find out who had dismantled one of their own from the inside out. And who was to be the next target.