Vincent Mansion, War Room
The heavy door closed behind Sam.
The silence left in his absence was like a weight pressing against the room's spine.
Max leaned back in his leather chair, arms crossed, his sharp eyes never leaving their father's face.
Silas drummed his fingers on the table.
Tension radiated off both of them.
"You sent him away," Max said coldly. "Why?"
Robert Vincent, the most feared mafia leader alive, leaned forward with his elbows on the table. His expression unreadable.
"Because he doesn't need to hear this."
Leo stood by the fireplace, far too quiet for the usually flamboyant businessman. His face was tight with something like caution—or dread.
"Cut the cryptic bullshit," Silas snapped, voice laced with dominance. "What's going on?"
Leo turned slowly, holding up a thick envelope.
Royal seal. Wax-pressed.
"The Andersons are hosting a gala in two weeks. For Noah's seventeenth."
Max's lip curled. "You want us to go kiss royal ass now?"
Leo's eyes narrowed.
"You'll attend. All three of you."
Silas stood, heat rising behind his calm face. "We don't deal with Andersons. We rule, we don't bend—"
"ENOUGH."
Leo's voice was ice. Quiet, but lethal. Even Robert stiffened slightly.
"You will go. Not for them—for us. There are things moving beneath the surface. And I won't have my sons walking blind into a storm."
Max and Silas exchanged a look.
They didn't like it.
Didn't like how Robert had avoided Sam's eyes when he dismissed him.
Didn't like the way Leo's fingers trembled slightly when he handed them the invite.
Something was wrong.
And Sam?
He was hiding something.
Max had smelled it on him earlier. Stress. Guilt. Burnt coffee. That scent again—one that didn't belong in their house.
Silas hadn't said anything yet, but he felt it too.
A pull in his chest.
Something foreign. And wrong. And familiar.
Something that started two months ago—and hadn't left.
"Something's happening," Silas muttered.
Max nodded slowly.
"And I think Sam knows what it is."