The study was cloaked in silence, broken only by the slow, deliberate ticking of an antique clock. Shadows pooled beneath the velvet curtains that shut out the night, and the amber glow of a brass lamp washed the mahogany desk in gold. The air was thick with cigar smoke and aged whiskey, scents that defined Pasquale's nights.

He leaned back in his leather chair, one hand curled around his glass, the other resting loosely on the armrest, eyes tracing the skyline of New Vesuvia beyond the bulletproof windows. The city was his, from the casino floors to the gilded chambers of the senate. Yet tonight, his thoughts were not on territory or rivals, they circled around the woman seated across from him.

She should never have been allowed this close: decades younger, with the gulf between them evident in years, power, and experience. An investigative reporter known for dragging skeletons from closets and bleeding the truth onto paper, she had the city's politicians on edge. Senators feared her questions, police chiefs dreaded her columns and now she was here, in his home, in the lion's den, because he had called her. Her presence was a disruption, her presence felt like an intrusion, not because she was unwelcome, but because she was dangerous. Not dangerous in the way of guns or knives, but in the way she looked at him.

She unsettled him more than any senator or rival ever had. Her presence pulled him from cold calculation into thoughts he had long buried with his wife. He told himself he had summoned her for one reason: to secure the Luciani family's image. The empire thrived on shadows, but shadows meant little when the press could turn them into headlines. An unflattering story could crack the mask he had worn for decades, the philanthropist, the cultural benefactor, the man whose money built hospitals and opera houses. He needed her pen restrained, redirected, guided without appearing bought. That was why she was here, that was the justification.

The clock ticked on, unnoticed, as he set down his glass and rose, each step across the hardwood deliberate, the sound of his shoes filling the silence. His voice followed, low and weighted, each word sharpened with intent.

"You understand the position you are in," he said, eyes fixed on her, unblinking. "Your work has power. You can ruin reputations, topple careers, shift the balance of this city with a single report." He paused, jaw tightening slightly. "...And I intend for the Luciani name to remain untouchable." His gaze narrowed with intent, then softened imperceptibly, betraying a flicker of something long buried. "...But I want you to see it my way."

He let the weight of his presence press down, voice dropping into something more dangerous than mere threat, a temptation. "This is an opportunity," he murmured. "You could keep chasing scraps, crooked senators, bought cops, the same tired stories. Or you could have more. Access. Protection. A hand guiding you into the places no reporter has ever stood. You could shape how this city remembers me... remembers us. That is not a chance you'll be offered twice."