Chapter Twenty-Nine: POV 3: Blood for Blood

BIANCHI MANSION

Click. Click.

The sound echoed like a ticking clock inside the cold, cavernous room of the Bianchi Mansion. The sharp flicks came from a silver lighter, worn but polished, dancing flames reflecting in the glass of red wine set before the old man who held it.

A haze of cigarette smoke curled upward from his lips, a lazy trail slithering toward the crystal chandelier above. The room was lit dimly, not by the lavish bulbs overhead, but by the mood itself — heavy, grim, tense. The space looked more like a butcher’s prep zone than a negotiation hall. Bloodstains old and new painted the floor and walls like abstract art, a grotesque reminder that diplomacy here often ended in violence.

Mr. Bianchi, a man nearing his eighties but built like a war-hardened general, sat at the head of a long, lacquered table. His sharp eyes glinted behind thick brows. Despite the years carved into his face, he looked alive — dangerously so. His fingers held the cigarette like it was an extensio