The sealed room in the Grand Meridian Club had grown colder since the last time they spoke.
Reginald Voss sat at the head of the oval table now, the position of command passed to him without ceremony. The crystal chandelier still cast fractured light across their faces, but the mood had shifted. The decanter of single-malt remained untouched. No one had touched their glasses in the last twenty minutes.
Hawthorne was the first to break the silence again.
"That fool Alessandro authorized the transfer," he said, staring at the empty space. "That idiot moved him outside. Into the open. Into the cameras. While our plan. the precinct is rubble and the witness is as but not vincezho."
Hawthorne said, voice tight with barely contained anger.
They had phone call with Alessandro verne, who had revealed the transfer. They almost thought verne was with Vincezho.
Before he announced he is going to hide in another city after ruining their perfect plans. Hearing this made them vomit blood in anger.
Lang slammed a palm on the table, jowls quivering. "Vincenzo was contained. One building. One night. And that son of bitch handed him the perfect stage."
Reinhart's ferret eyes darted between them. "Verne used someone, who was in that precinct. Though public doesn't know this, they think it was corruption or threat to cops." His laugh was bitter. "And now the witness is dead and instead of the blast killing him. The whole country thinks Moretti lit the fuse himself."
Markham dabbed his forehead, handkerchief already soaked. "We all signed off on it. We all wanted him gone quietly."
Voss raised a hand. The room quieted.
The financier took a slow drag from his cigar, letting the smoke curl upward before he spoke. His voice was smooth, but the edge beneath it was new.
"Verne is a fool. We knew that. But the real problem is simpler." He tapped ash into the crystal tray with deliberate care. " This isn't coincidence. We have heard Vincenzo works like this. He doesn't lift a finger. He just waited for us to do exactly what we always do—protect ourselves. And we gave him what he needed. The blast on camera. He drops a line like actor. Untouched. While the building behind him burned."
The silence that followed was heavier than any shout.
Crowe leaned forward, pharmaceutical calm cracking. "He predicted it. The transfer. The timing. The live feed. He let us set the stage and then walked out before the curtain fell."
Drake's gravel voice was low. "He didn't plant the bomb. He didn't need to. We did the work for him."
Hawthorne's avian eyes narrowed. "We thought we were removing a liability. Instead we gave him a coronation."
Voss exhaled smoke slowly, the haze veiling his face. "He is still in the city. Still breathing. Still silent. And now the entire country believes he orchestrated a terrorist attack on live television. The witness is gone. The evidence is gone. And in a sense they are not wrong."
Reinhart's fingers drummed the table, the sound too loud in the quiet room. "The public doesn't know we did it. Neither about verne. They see him walk out, then the blast. They see him calm. They see him untouchable. Some already call him the new kingpin."
Hearing the word "kingpin" lang snorted. "Kingpin? In Portovello? This city is nothing. No borders. No major ports worth fighting for. No cartel pipelines. Just small-time operations and rumors. And don't compare this vincezho to kingpin. Vincenzo is smart i agree but not compared to those people."
Markham nodded in aproval "Yeah cartel Kakeri, triple a, Black Serpent and many more as for this? This is loud. This is public. This is indeed something new."
Crowe nodded. "And we helped creating it. Verne moved him outside. We gave him the special effects."
Reinhart rubbed his tample, sensing a headache. "So what now, what should we do. We can't stay here, vincezho will reveal everything once he is caught, if not he will kill us for betrayal."
Everyone went silent for a minute.
Voss sighing finally spoke, voice low. "We cannot stay here. Not now. The eyes are on us. The public believes Vincenzo did it. The authorities will hunt him, nothing can save him now. but we are also in denger. If vincezho is caught he will speak about us, and if by some godly miracle he stays outside. He will kill us."
Hawthorne's fingers tightened around his glass. "Then what? Run?"
"Not running, hiding."Voss corrected. "Relocate. Temporarily. In kakeri city controlled by kakeri cartel. And don't worry they have offered protection before. They have no interest in our local mess, but they understand mutual benefit. We go there. Quietly. Hoping vincezho dies resisting goverment. Or we become know to public."
Markham's plump face paled. "Kakeri territory? That's… that's very dengerous. We wouldn't have much control. We could only be guests there. Small guests."
"Better small guests than targets here," Drake said flatly. "We leave tonight. Separate routes. No announcements. The public will hear nothing. Officially, we are on vacation. Business retreats. Family matters. Get away from here as soon as possible even if it costs our power."
The room fell quiet again. Each person knew this: they were small city-level players. Influential here, yes. Rich here. Connected here. But beyond Portovello's limits, they were small. The Kakeri Cartel operated in richer, more strategic cities with real pipelines and real armies. Virello had old-money roots that stretched across borders. The others—Black Serpent, triple a, black eyes and the top 10 families—played on scales these men could only dream of. Portovello was a backwater by comparison. A place where power was quiet, contained, manageable.
Until tonight.
Reinhart looked around the table, the reality settling in. "We tried to erase him. Instead we made him untouchable. And now we're the ones who have to hide."
Voss crushed the remainder of his cigar. "We leave. We regroup. And we remember that in this city, we were the ceiling. In Kakeri's city, we will be careful not to offend them."
One by one, the men stood. No grand speeches. No final toasts. Just the quiet acceptance that the game had changed and they were no longer the ones writing the rules.
Outside the sealed room, the city continued to burn with belief.
Inside, seven men who had once believed themselves untouchable began packing for exile in a place where even they would be small.
The war had not ended.
Vincenzo's who was not known much outside the city had become the attantion on internet.