Chapter 2 — A Dangerous Proposition

Ream

The Velvet Room pulsed with its usual haze of decadence and secrecy, the low hum of jazz threading through the murmur of conversations and the clink of crystal glasses. Blood-red walls shimmered faintly under golden light, while patrons nestled in shadowed corners, their faces obscured by flickering candlelight. The scent of cigars, aged whiskey, and something faintly floral—desperation—hung heavy in the air, mingling with the subtle undercurrent of danger that never truly left this place.

Ream Altieri adjusted the cuffs of his tailored suit as he descended the staircase leading from the VIP balcony. His movements were deliberate, each step exuding control as his sharp gray eyes combed the room below. The weight of the Altieri Signet Ring on his finger felt heavier tonight, a coiled serpent biting into his skin, a reminder of the fragile chessboard he now ruled. Every piece, every person in this room, held the potential to betray or be sacrificed.

Near the farthest corner of the club, two men sat waiting at a table chosen for its privacy and its clear view of all entrances and exits. One was an imposing figure with a shaved head and a tattoo crawling up his neck, his bulk a wordless promise of violence. The other, wiry and jittery, was tapping an uneven rhythm against his glass. The smuggler.

Ream’s expression betrayed nothing as he approached, his mind already dissecting the situation. The smuggler’s clothes were slightly rumpled, his tie askew—a man who barely kept himself together. His fingers—scraped raw at the knuckles—twitched like they sought escape, and his shifting gaze screamed of paranoia. Desperation clung to him like a second skin, both a tool and a liability.

As Ream neared, the guard rose silently, his posture coiled and watchful. Ream swept past him without acknowledgment and slid into the chair opposite the smuggler. He adjusted the slight skew of his seat, letting the silence stretch. It wasn’t just power—it was a test. The smuggler’s nervous breathing filled the gap, the rhythm of his fingers faltering.

“You’re late,” Ream said at last, his tone quiet but sharp, like the edge of a blade. Each syllable carried weight, the kind that could crush.

The smuggler’s breath hitched. “There was... a complication,” he stammered, his words tumbling over one another. “I had to make sure I wasn’t followed—”

Ream raised a hand, cutting him off. The movement was precise, almost dismissive. “If you were followed, you wouldn’t be sitting here,” he said, his voice silk over steel. “Now, tell me why you’re worth my time.”

The smuggler swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing like a trapped bird. “I have access to a shipment coming in from Rotterdam. High-grade product, no flags, no attention. It’ll pass through customs like air. But I need—”

“You need protection,” Ream finished for him, his voice sharper now. The smuggler flinched, but Ream pressed on, leaning forward just enough to narrow the space between them. “And you think aligning with the Altieri name will provide it.”

The smuggler nodded quickly, his fingers resuming their nervous drumming. “Yes, exactly. Your reputation still carries weight, Mr. Altieri, even with... recent changes.”

The man’s words hovered precariously, dangerously close to insult. Ream’s gray eyes fixed on him, dissecting the tremor in his voice, the sweat pooling at his temple, the way his fingers tightened defensively around his glass. This man was a gamble—and not a particularly good one.

“Let me make one thing very clear,” Ream said, his voice dropping into a lower, more dangerous register. He leaned forward just enough to loom without seeming rushed, his presence swallowing the space between them. “You don’t bring up recent changes. You don’t question my strength. And you certainly don’t test my patience.”

The smuggler froze, his gaze darting like a cornered animal. The drumming of his fingers stopped abruptly, as if even his body understood the thin ice he stood on.

The tension broke with the faint chime of glass shattering. Ream’s gaze flicked upward instantly, his senses sharpening as the noise rippled through the club. Near the bar, a man stumbled backward, his white shirt blooming red with a sudden, violent stain. The silence that followed was immediate, oppressive, broken only by the dull thud of the body crumpling to the floor.

“Get down,” Ream ordered, his voice slicing through the stunned stillness. The smuggler scrambled from his chair, nearly tipping it in his haste. Ream’s movements were sharp but composed as he stood, his gaze sweeping the room. Chaos rippled outward as patrons ducked for cover or bolted for the exits, their collective panic a cacophony of shouts and shuffling feet.

A flicker of motion caught Ream’s eye—a shadow retreating toward the side exit, purposeful in its movements.

“Stay here,” Ream commanded, though he doubted the smuggler had the spine to disobey. Without hesitation, he moved through the shifting crowd, his every step calculated and deliberate.

The narrow alley behind the club was drenched in rain, the slick pavement shimmering under the fractured light of neon signs. The air was thick with the acrid tang of oil and damp concrete, mingling with the faint, sour stench of decay. Ream’s footsteps echoed softly as he trailed the retreating figure, his pulse steady, his mind focused.

The assailant paused, glancing over his shoulder. It was all the confirmation Ream needed. In a swift, practiced motion, he closed the distance, slamming the man against the rough brick wall. The impact reverberated through the alley, a dull thud swallowed by the rain.

“Who sent you?” Ream demanded, his voice icy and precise. His grip on the man’s collar tightened, the pressure unrelenting.

The man coughed, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His eyes shifted—past Ream, focusing on something behind him.

Ream turned sharply, his senses honed. A second figure emerged from the shadows, his movements unhurried, almost languid. He wore a leather jacket, his hands tucked casually into its pockets. Hazel eyes gleamed under the neon light, their calm unsettling in its depth. A faint smile played at his lips, enigmatic and deliberate.

“Interesting night, isn’t it?” the newcomer said, his voice smooth, low, and laced with quiet amusement.

Ream’s gaze narrowed, his mind already dissecting this new player. “And you are?” he asked, his voice sharp and clipped, a blade honed to cut through ambiguity.

“George,” the man replied simply. His smile widened, though it never quite reached his eyes. “Let’s just say I’m someone who knows when to show up.”

Ream’s jaw tightened. “You expect me to believe you’re here by coincidence?”

George tilted his head slightly, a gesture that balanced innocence with mischief. “Coincidence is just what we call timing we don’t understand. But no, I’m not here by chance.”

The unconscious man at Ream’s feet groaned faintly, drawing his gaze for a fraction of a second. When he looked back, George had taken a step closer, his hands still in his pockets.

“There’s a storm gathering around you, Mr. Altieri,” George continued, his tone soft but deliberate. “And storms don’t just expose the loyal. They uproot the weak.”

The words lingered, heavy with unspoken implications. Ream held his gaze, searching for cracks in George’s calm. None appeared.

The distant wail of sirens cut through the damp night air, growing louder with every second. George’s expression shifted, a flicker of urgency breaking his composure.

“You’ll want to leave before they arrive,” he said, his voice dropping slightly. “Trust me on that.”

Ream hesitated, his hand tightening briefly on the unconscious man’s collar. Finally, he let the body slump to the ground. He turned back to George, his gray eyes narrowing in calculated curiosity.

George’s smile returned, enigmatic and charged with meaning. “You’ll see me again,” he said before stepping back into the shadows, vanishing with practiced ease.

Ream stood motionless for a moment, the rain soaking through his suit as his thoughts churned. The chessboard had shifted again, and a new piece had entered the game. Whether George was a pawn, a knight, or something far more dangerous remained to be seen.

He exhaled sharply and turned back toward The Velvet Room, the weight of the Altieri Signet Ring pressing heavily against his finger. The storm George spoke of was coming. And Ream would be ready.