–Livana–
Just as I predicted, the media leviathan stirred from its slumber, fangs bared, eager to broadcast its half-baked narrative: Blackwell entangled in the smuggling of firearms. A crude web of allegations, hastily spun, designed to snare not only our name but Braxton's as well—merely because I, Livana, now helm the family's empire after my grandfather's retirement and my mother's untimely death.
Damon, ever the tactician, had already constructed an alibi—immovable, polished like forged steel. He was at home, visibly, verifiably so, and thus they would find no thread to pull him into their noose. But beneath that still façade, it is indeed his orchestra that plays the darker symphony of our operations. Their so-called "evidence" was a patchwork—fragments of data, doctored manifests, a few digital breadcrumbs scattered to mimic proof. I almost pitied their naivety. Almost.
