Kyle smiled at the accusation, the expression calm and measured despite the trap closing around him. He knew he had to remain cool, that losing composure now would be admitting guilt. The evidence was damning—surveillance footage, financial ties, Nakamura’s name hanging in the air like a noose. But panic was a luxury he couldn’t afford, not in this room, not surrounded by predators who could smell fear like blood in water.

He sighed, letting the breath out slowly, buying himself precious seconds to think. His eyes drifted across the table, landing on Isabeau. She wore a smirk, subtle but unmistakable, her gaze locked directly onto his with a knowing gleam. It said everything: "I knew this would happen. This was always the plan."

She’d played him perfectly. Never mentioned Viktor’s dual personality—the switch between brutal enforcer and calculating genius. Never warned him that Viktor wasn’t just Marcello’s most ruthless enforcer but potentially the smartest person in the room. She’d sent Kyle in blind, armed with a lie that had been dissected and discarded before he’d even opened his mouth.

Viktor stared at him from across the table, those intelligent eyes devoid of the madness Kyle had expected. This wasn’t the metal-toothed butcher who laughed at violence. This was the other one—the one who planned, who documented, who knew exactly what game was being played and how to win it.

Kyle understood now. This had been Isabeau’s plan all along. Not to frame Viktor, but to expose him. To force him to reveal his hand, his connections, his knowledge. And with all the evidence pointing directly at him—the surveillance footage, the financial records, the gala photographs, Nakamura’s fingerprints all over their shared business ventures—he was trapped. Completely and utterly trapped.

Lying was pointless. Viktor had done his homework too thoroughly. Any denial would only make things worse, make him look desperate and foolish. Kyle opened his mouth, preparing to address Marcello directly, to at least go down with dignity if not victory—

The door opened.

Every head in the room turned toward the interruption. A young woman stepped through, early twenties, striking features, dressed casually as if she’d just been wandering the mansion. She froze when she saw the assembled family heads, her expression shifting from casual indifference to mild embarrassment as she wasn’t aware there was a meeting.

Kyle’s blood went cold. He knew that face.

It was her. The "bitchy girl" from before, the one who’d tried to have him killed, the one Nakamura wanted him to kidnap in England. But she was supposed to be abroad. There was no way she could be here unless—

"What are you doing here?" Kyle asked, the words escaping before he could stop them. 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝘦𝘸𝑒𝒷𝓃ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝒸ℴ𝘮

The room went silent. Every family head’s eyebrow rose in synchronized confusion. Lucius Moretti exchanged a glance with O’Rourke. Viktor’s expression remained neutral, but there was a flicker of interest in his eyes. Isabeau’s smirk deepened.

The girl looked at Kyle like he was an idiot, that same bratty attitude radiating off her. She didn’t answer, just rolled her eyes and started to turn away.

But Kyle wasn’t looking at her anymore. He was looking at Marcello.

"Who is that?" Kyle asked, his voice calm, direct. A simple question. He’d seen her before, after all. Should be easy to answer.

One of the family heads—Lucius, voice dripping with condescension—scoffed.

"Why are you asking such a stupid question? That’s Marcello’s daughter, you fool."

But Kyle saw it.

For the briefest fraction of a second—a microsecond that most people would have missed—Marcello’s composure cracked. The Don who had maintained perfect control from the moment Kyle entered, who had weathered Viktor’s accusations without flinching, who ruled five families through sheer force of will... panicked.

His eyes widened just slightly. His jaw tightened imperceptibly. His fingers, previously relaxed on the table, tensed. It was there and gone in an instant, his mask of control slamming back into place so quickly that Kyle almost questioned whether he’d seen it at all.

But he had. And Marcello knew he had.

The Don’s dark eyes locked onto Kyle’s, reading him, assessing exactly what Kyle understood and how much of a threat that made him. This wasn’t just about Nakamura anymore. This was about something deeper, something more dangerous.

Marcello raised one hand, a simple gesture. "Leave us," he said quietly to the girl, not even looking at her.

She opened her mouth to protest—that bratty attitude flaring—but something in Marcello’s tone made her think better of it. She turned and left without another word, the door closing softly behind her.

The family heads shifted in their seats, confusion rippling through the room. Viktor remained motionless, watching the exchange with clinical interest. Isabeau’s smirk had faded slightly, replaced by uncertainty. This wasn’t part of her script.

Marcello stood slowly, his chair scraping back with deliberate weight. When he spoke, his voice carried absolute authority.

"I need to speak with Kyle alone." He paused, letting that sink in. "All of you. Leave. Now."

"Marcello—" Lucius began, but the Don’s gaze cut him off mid-sentence.

"This is not a request." Marcello’s tone was ice wrapped in steel. "Leave my estate. Return to your territories. I will contact you when this matter is resolved."

The family heads exchanged glances, uncertainty and suspicion written across their faces. Viktor rose first, that scholarly version of the Russian giant gathering his tablet with methodical precision. He nodded once to Marcello, then to Kyle—acknowledgment of something unspoken—before heading for the door.

Isabeau remained seated a moment longer, her eyes flicking between Kyle and Marcello, trying to understand what had just shifted. But Marcello’s stare turned on her, and even she couldn’t withstand it. She rose gracefully and followed Viktor out.

One by one, the family heads departed until only Kyle and Marcello remained in the vast conference room, the silence between them heavy with unspoken truths.

Marcello’s hand went to his temple, a rare gesture of weariness. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost tired.

"Tell me, Kyle. How much do you know about my daughter?"