Page 77 of Twisted Devotion

I don’t know what to make of that.

Nicolas starts the meeting with a simple, direct introduction.

“Before we begin, I want you to meet my wife, Aria.” His voice is calm, measured—but it carriesweight.

“She’s here because I trust her. You will treat her with the same respect you give me.”

His gaze sweeps over the room, his next words sharp, final.

“Is that understood?”

A murmur of agreement ripples through the room.

Nicolas wastes no time. The moment business begins, the air shifts—charged, focused.

One of the men—a broad-shouldered figure with salt-and-pepper hair—speaks first. “Shipment arrived last night. Two crates short.”

Nicolas leans back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. His expression doesn’t change, but the energy in the room tightens.

“Where’s it missing from?”

“The docks near Venice,” The man replies. “Could be Caldarone interference… or just sloppy work.”

Nicolas’s gaze sharpens. His voice, when he speaks, is cool and razor-edged.

“Sloppy work doesn’t happen under me.”

The statement lands heavily in the room, final.

“Find out who’s responsible. If it’s a local screw-up, handle it. If it’s the Caldarones, I want confirmationwithin the hour.”

The man nods in understanding.

Across the table, another voice cuts in. This one belongs to a lean, wiry man tapping a pen against the polished wood. “We’ve got a problem with the Turkish connection. They’re asking for a bigger cut. Forty percent.”

Nicolas’s lips curl into something thatalmostresembles a smile—cold, sharp,merciless.

“Cut what we were originally giving them by half.”

Silence. A flicker of unease passes through the room, but no one dares question him.

And just like that, the conversation moves on.

Weapons shipments to the Balkans. Cash flow from underground gambling dens. New smuggling routes. Words likeprotection,payoffs, andcleaning up loose endsfloat through the air, each one sketching a clearer picture of the empire Nicolas commands.

I try to keep up.Really, I do. But the sheer volume of information is relentless, shifting faster than I can process.

The scent of coffee and leather lingers in the room, grounding me, but even that isn’t enough.

My eyes grow heavier with each passing minute, exhaustion creeping in, warm and insistent.

I forgot how thoroughly hewreckedme last night.

Shifting in my seat, I rest my elbow on the table, propping my head in my hand.

The voices around me blur, fading into a low hum—background noise I can’t quite focus on.

I know Nicolas is speaking, issuing orders, but the words slip past me, lost in a haze of exhaustion.

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