The Rivera Center’s construction began with the swift, decisive efficiency that was becoming Alexander’s trademark. The old student union was now a skeleton of steel beams and promise, a physical manifestation of his new authority. The campus had largely fallen into a peaceful, productive rhythm. But true power, Alexander was learning, was a magnet for challenges, and the next one arrived not with a shout, but with a whisper.He was in the library, reviewing a proposal to expand his innovation center’s mentorship program, when a shadow fell over his table. He looked up to find a man he’d never seen before. He was in his early thirties, dressed in a sharp, European-cut suit that screamed old money louder than Steven Cooper’s entire family history. He had an air of casual, unshakeable confidence, and his smile was a razor blade dipped in honey.“Alexander Rivera,” the man said, his voice a smooth, cultured baritone with a faint Italian accent. “I’ve been so looking forward to this. I’m

The victory over Donato Valenti was pyrrhic. The high of acquiring the Ferrari and publicly humiliating a rival prince faded, replaced by the grim reality Vincent had warned him of: the crown was also a target. The Valenti family, stung and furious, began a quiet, surgical counter-offensive. A key Benedetti supplier in Germany suddenly faced "regulatory hurdles." A promising joint venture in Singapore began to mysteriously unravel. The attacks weren't loud or public; they were precise, costly, and deniable.Alexander was in the midst of managing this first corporate crisis from his dorm room when his phone buzzed with an unknown number. He almost ignored it, assuming it was another journalist or a panicked executive, but something made him answer."Alexander Rivera?" a woman's voice asked. It was strained, older, and etched with a grief so profound it was palpable even through the phone."Who is this?""This is Eleanor Shaw." The name took a moment to register—the steely chair of the

The meeting with Agent Miller was a carefully choreographed dance. Alexander, with Vincent at his side, presented a wall of pristine legal documentation and corporate logic. The "Nightfall" protocol, while brutal, was a legal masterpiece crafted by Lorenzo's most ruthless lawyers. The agent left two hours later, frustrated but empty-handed. The system, for now, was something Alexander could still manipulate.But the encounter left a residue. The world was closing in, and the gilded cage of his new life felt increasingly cramped. The pressure was a constant, humming note beneath everything—the boardroom battles, the corporate strategy sessions, the endless security briefings.He was returning to his dorm after a late meeting, the campus quiet under a blanket of stars, when the scent of cheap perfume and french fries hit him. He looked up. Elena Rodriguez stood under a lamppost, blocking his path. She was dressed in the same tight jeans and jacket she’d worn at Café Luna, but the cruel

The dinner was held at the eldest son’s palatial estate, a place of cold marble and even colder smiles. Lorenzo’s five children—three sons and two daughters, ranging from their forties to fifties—were there with their spouses. They were polished, elegant, and their eyes held a unified, simmering resentment barely concealed by impeccable manners.The eldest, Marco, a man with his father’s sharp eyes but none of his warmth, offered a tight smile as Alexander entered with Vincent and Samuel. “Alexander. We’re so pleased you could come. We felt it was past time to… reconcile.”The dinner was a masterpiece of passive aggression. They asked polite questions about his “plans,” their tones dripping with condescension. They spoke of their father in hushed, reverent tones, a not-so-subtle reminder that Alexander was an outsider.“Father was so… particular,” said Isabella, the youngest daughter, over dessert. “It’s just astonishing that he would place his entire life’s work in the hands of someo

The flight was a tense, silent affair. Alexander spent it reviewing the dossiers Grace had compiled. The leader of the Sons of the Desert was a man named Jabari Okeke, a brutal but pragmatic warlord. The file included a grainy photo of a man with a scarred face and cold eyes, and a note from Grace: Source indicates Okeke has a son, Kofi, attending a prestigious boarding school in Switzerland. The son is his weak spot.Alexander filed that away. A tool for later.They landed under cover of darkness at a friendly airstrip and transferred to silent, electric-powered all-terrain vehicles for the final push to the compound. The desert night was cold and vast, the stars blotted out by the operational blackout.They reached the ridge overlooking the compound just before dawn. It was a dusty, walled fortress, bristling with armed guards.“Thermal shows twenty-five hostiles,” the Aegis team leader, a man named Cruz, whispered. “Dr. Fletcher’s heat signature is in the central building. We go in