The Palazzo Branciforte ballroom was filled with men pretending not to be afraid.
Politicians, businessmen, judges. All sat in a perfect circle, all with the same rehearsed smile and the same way of avoiding looking at the Santorini family for too long. The kind of meeting where no one tells the truth out loud, because doing so would be an elegant form of suicide.
Viktor Skargard stood near one of the marble columns, glass in hand, impeccable dark suit. He listened without truly hearing. His mind had already classified every person in the room: useful, expendable, or inevitable delays.
His father, Don Viktor Skargard, presided over the main table as if the place had belonged to him before it was even built.
And it probably did.
Then, Viktor saw him.
Not at the table. Not among the politicians. Further away, almost outside the center of power, where the ballroom light softened and conversations became more guarded.
A young man.
He didn't fit in there. Not because of his clothes, or his posture, but because of something harder to name. A kind of strange calm, as if the noise of the world didn't quite reach him. He was in profile, listening to someone talking about something trivial, yet even doing nothing, he stood out.
Viktor tilted his head slightly.
It was unusual for anything to catch his attention in a room full of people trying not to die socially.
He took a step.
Then another.
No one stopped him. No one does when a Santorini heir decides to move.
When he got close enough, the young man looked up.
And for the first time all night, Lorenzo stopped thinking about politics.
He smiled, polite, perfectly controlled.
"Excuse me," he said calmly. "I couldn't help but notice you."
A brief pause.
The kind of pause that in this world could mean interest… or a sentence.
"You don't look like someone who fits into these kinds of meetings."
