It had been an unforgettable evening. Everything looked flawless. Too flawless — just like everything he touched.

An Italian businessman, a modern-day aristocrat — Alexandro Mainder. A name known even by those who had no idea what he actually did. Paintings, NFT works, private collections, investment funds, public silence, and a reputation as a man who only had to look at something — and it would begin to function differently.

He didn't chase fame. But fame followed him — like any system compelled to submit to the strongest. Now he stood among guests in his four-story mansion, with high windows, suspended galleries, and staircases carved from real Tuscan marble. Two of the lower floors were hidden from view — reserved for archives, collections, and secrets beyond price.

Alexandro kept a certain distance — yet remained in control. Every gesture, every glance, every handshake — part of a calculated dance in which he remained the center of gravity. He didn't take pride in this house. He simply knew his worth. Because he had built himself — without patronage, family, or hollow promises. With cold precision and a complete refusal to be like everyone else. He was the kind of man no one dared to touch. But tonight, something had shifted.

The glass in his hand was nearly empty, but he didn't even notice when he'd taken the last sip. The words around him grew louder, the laughter more hollow. He listened, but heard nothing. Something was off. He didn't believe in intuition — he believed in signals, subtle details, broken patterns. And right now, they spoke louder than any toast.

He turned to the nearest guest — as always, with perfect composure: a straight back, icy politeness in his voice, his head slightly tilted — not arrogance, but a kind of superiority that left no room for argument.

— "Excuse me, I need to step away for a moment. I won't keep you waiting long," — he said with his usual aristocratic ease, his head inclining in a languid bow. His lineage would never allow him to dwell in the mud.

A slight gesture to security — no more than a movement of his fingers. No one followed. Everyone knew: if Alexandro moved alone, no one interfered. He ascended the staircase — slowly, but with certainty.

With every step, it was as if he peeled away the social mask he had worn all evening. The top floor was steeped in twilight. The sound from the hall had faded into a muffled hum. He approached the door to his study — solid oak, fitted with both an electronic lock and mechanical protection.

Usually, it opened only at his touch. But tonight... it opened by itself. Alexandro froze for a second. The cold silence of the corridor tightened around him like a drawn glove. He slowly pushed the door open — and stepped inside. The room smelled of fine leather, varnish, the metal of antique objects, and... someone else.

The air was wrong. Disturbed. Alive. And then he saw you, standing by the desk, notebook in hand.

Alexandro's expression didn't change. He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, his voice velvet-smooth:

— "Have journalists started doubling as secret agents now? Short on staff where you work? Should I help gather intel? The temptation to ruin someone's career is so strong, it's making my jaw ache."