While Dante prepared for the psychological warfare of the upcoming gala, the atmosphere inside the Ricci mansion was thick with the scent of ozone and expensive medicine. In the west wing, the "virus" was beginning to move.Isabella Conner sat at her vanity, staring at her reflection. She looked every bit the devoted assistant, sharp, efficient, and grieving. But inside, her mind was a battlefield. The phone call with the mysterious blackmailer had left her on edge. They wanted Ryan Ricci gone, and they wanted it done before he could solidify his claim."He's just a man," she whispered to the mirror, applying a layer of deep crimson lipstick. "A man who's been playing at being a commoner for too long. He’ll have a weakness."She checked her hidden compartment in her Louis Vuitton bag. Inside was a small, unmarked vial of clear liquid—a potent neurotoxin that simulated a heart attack. It was untraceable in a standard autopsy, especially if the victim was under "high stress.""Bella?

Leonardo Greco’s office at Golden Fingers Inc. usually felt like a sanctuary of power. Today, it felt like a cage. The air conditioner hummed at a crisp sixty-eight degrees, but Leonardo was sweating. He had spent the last three hours watching his digital empire flicker like a dying candle.Every time he moved to seize a subsidiary or trigger a debt collection against a rival, a silent, invisible force parried his strike. It was more than just money; it was surgical expertise. The entity known as "Veritas Strategic" didn't just have capital—they had the proprietary algorithms that Leonardo had spent years and millions developing."They're inside our servers, Leo," Miller, the head of IT, stammered. He pointed at a monitor displaying a chaotic flow of data. "Look at the traffic. It’s coming from an encrypted node. Every time we try to trace the IP, it bounces through thirty different countries. But the signature... it’s mocking us."On the screen, a small window popped up. It wasn't a

The marble floors of ‘Vane & Vogue’ were polished to a mirror shine, reflecting the crystalline glow of three-tiered chandeliers that hung like frozen rain from the ceiling. This was the city’s most exclusive boutique for the elite, a place where a single necktie cost more than a retail manager’s monthly salary. The scent of sandalwood and expensive leather hung in the air, specifically chosen to make those with empty pockets feel like intruders. Dante stood near the mahogany reception counter, his hands tucked into the pockets of his off-the-rack trainee suit. The fabric was slightly pilled at the elbows, a glaring defect under the unforgiving halogen spotlights, and his shoes, although polished with desperate care that morning, bore the unmistakable creases of a man who had walked for a few miles as his daily exercise. He looked like a normal passerby on the street, but inside the store, he stood out like a smudge of charcoal on a pristine white canvas. "Can I help you...

Julian Vane’s declaration was followed by an absolute, suffocating silence that felt as if the oxygen had been vacuumed out of the room. The opulent boutique, once filled with the clinking of champagne flutes and the rustle of high-end silk, was now a tomb of frozen expectations. Leonardo Greco’s triumphant smirk didn't just fade; it petrified into a grotesque mask of disbelief. His tanned face drained of color, leaving him looking like a waxwork figure caught in mid-sentence. Beside him, Giulia stood paralyzed. Her jaw hung open, her composure shattered so completely that the white mink fur slipped from her shoulder, pooling on the floor like a dying animal. She didn't even notice it. Enzo, the clerk who had been the primary architect of the morning's mockery, was perhaps the most pathetic sight. His hand, still outstretched and pointing toward the door to ask Dante to get out, began to tremble violently. He felt as if his whole nervous system was collapsing under the weight

The roar of a high-compression V12 engine shattered the afternoon quiet of the Bronson estate long before the car actually crested the driveway. It was a sound designed to be noticed: aggressive, expensive, and desperate for validation.Dante stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of the library, a book in his hand that he wasn’t actually reading. He watched as a custom-painted, iridescent purple Lamborghini skidded to a halt, kicking up gravel onto the pristine manicured lawn. Out stepped Ken Lawrence.Ken was the heir to Lawrence Micro-Tech, a company that occupied a comfortable, if uninspiring, middle-tier slot in the city’s tech hierarchy. He emerged from the car wearing a white linen suit that cost more than a schoolteacher’s annual salary and a pair of gold-rimmed aviators that hid eyes perpetually searching for the next person to impress. He didn't just walk; he strutted, radiating an aura of "B-tier" elitism that Dante found more exhausting than offensive.In the foyer, the Bro