Chapter 3 — Victor’s Power Play

Third Person

Victor Steele stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse, his back to the opulent room, his sharp gray eyes fixed on the sprawling city below. The skyline glimmered with arrogant brilliance—sleek towers slicing through the clouds, rivers of headlights coursing through the veins of the metropolis. It was his domain, every shimmering light a testament to his reach, every shadow a place where his influence hid. A faint vibration from the city’s hum reached him even at this height, muted but constant, like the pulse of a living creature under his control.

In his hand, Victor swirled a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the faint glow of the recessed lights. It gleamed like liquid gold, a symbol of mastery and indulgence. His other hand rested lightly against the cool glass of the window, fingers drumming a slow, deliberate rhythm—a steady metronome of thought. The faint scent of leather lingered in the air, mingling with the distant, smoky remnants of a cigar extinguished hours ago. The penthouse exuded icy elegance: black marble floors reflected the sharp angles of chrome furniture, and abstract sculptures stood like sentinels of wealth, chosen for their imposing presence rather than their artistry. At the room’s center, a sleek mahogany desk remained pristine, save for one lone fixture—a black marble chessboard, its game mid-play.

A soft chime broke the silence. The door slid open, releasing a whisper of soundproofed air as Dominic, Victor’s lieutenant, stepped inside. Dominic’s tailored suit concealed little of his broad, heavy frame, and his movements were precise, like a predator prowling a familiar territory. The door closed behind him with a faint hiss, sealing the room once more in its suffocating quiet.

Victor spoke without turning, his voice smooth and low, tinged with menace. “Dominic.”

Dominic inclined his head. “The matter has been handled.”

Victor turned at last, his movements unhurried but deliberate. He crossed to the chessboard, setting his whiskey down beside it. The faint clink of glass against wood punctuated the quiet. His long fingers hovered over the black queen, brushing its polished surface with an almost reverent touch. “Details,” he said, his voice razor-sharp and unyielding.

“The witness won’t be testifying,” Dominic replied, his words clipped and precise. “He’s... been removed from the equation.” There was no elaboration offered, nor required. In Victor Steele’s world, certain truths were better left unspoken.

Victor’s lips curved into a faint smile, though it was devoid of warmth. He set the queen back on the board with a deliberate click, the sound reverberating like a gavel’s judgment. “Good,” he murmured, his gray eyes finding Dominic’s with chilling intensity. “Loose ends are unforgivable. They unravel everything.”

For a moment, the room was silent save for the soft hiss of Victor’s whiskey as he lifted it for a measured sip. Dominic shifted slightly, his broad shoulders betraying a flicker of unease. “There’s more,” he said, his voice steady but careful. “Lydia March has taken the Black case.”

Victor froze mid-sip. The faintest tightening of his jaw betrayed a ripple of irritation before his composure returned. He set the glass down with deliberate precision and turned his attention back to the chessboard. His fingers, long and precise, moved a black pawn forward one square. “Lydia March,” he repeated, savoring the name like the first taste of a rare vintage. “A principled woman who willingly steps into the abyss.”

Dominic hesitated, studying Victor’s expression. “She’s smart,” he offered cautiously. “And Julia Carter is digging for her.”

Victor let out a low chuckle, dark and dismissive. He gestured idly with one hand, the faint clink of his ring against the glass underscoring the weight of his authority. “Julia Carter,” he mused, “is a mouse in a house of traps. She may scurry into something valuable, but she won’t live long enough to savor it.”

Victor’s attention drifted to the chessboard once more. He moved a knight in a predatory arc, the motion fluid yet precise. “And Rowan Black?” he asked, his voice hardening, though his face remained unreadable.

Dominic’s unease deepened, his weight shifting imperceptibly. “He’s proving... persistent.”

Victor’s fingers stilled over the knight, a shadow passing across his features. For a moment, he said nothing, his silhouette cast in sharp relief by the penthouse’s cold, artificial light. “Rowan Black,” he said at last, the name curling off his tongue like venom. “A scavenger who mistook my generosity for weakness. He betrayed me, Dominic. Betrayal cannot go unpunished.”

Victor’s hand dropped the knight back onto the board with a deliberate thud. He turned, pinning Dominic with a steely gaze. “Survival is not victory. Rowan will learn that.” His voice was colder now, its edge honed to a blade.

Dominic inclined his head slightly, a gesture of acknowledgment. “Should I send a message?”

Victor paced slowly to the window, his hands clasped behind his back. The city’s glow reflected faintly in the polished glass, a distorted echo of his empire. He spoke softly, almost to himself, yet his words carried lethal precision. “Yes. But not to him. Not yet.”

He turned back to Dominic, the predator’s smile returning to his lips. “Send it to her.”

Dominic’s brow furrowed in faint confusion. “To Lydia March?”

Victor nodded once, smoothly. “Break into her pristine little fortress. Shatter her illusion of control. Let her understand she is being watched, that she is vulnerable. But do not harm her—yet.” His hand swept across the chessboard, encircling the black queen with pawns. “Fear, Dominic, is far more useful than pain. Let it fester. Let it tighten its grip around her principles until she can barely breathe.”

Dominic hesitated, his discomfort now evident despite his polished exterior. “I’ll handle it,” he said finally, his voice carefully neutral.

Victor’s eyes narrowed slightly, his gaze searing into Dominic. “And, Dominic,” he added, his tone dropping an octave, “make sure she understands whose game she’s playing.”

Dominic offered a measured nod and turned to leave, the soft hiss of the door sealing his exit. Victor remained by the window, his expression contemplative, his thoughts already several steps ahead. He raised his whiskey once more, the amber liquid glinting in the faint light, and took a slow, deliberate sip.

The city stretched endlessly before him, a labyrinth of light and shadow. Victor’s fingers lingered on the chessboard as he picked up the black king, its polished surface cool beneath his touch. To him, the world was simple. A game of strategy, manipulation, and absolute control.

And he, as always, held the board.