Sunday Night – Walking through Brooklyn
The wind had a bite tonight—cold, clear, and sharp against Ethan Vale's face. He moved through downtown Brooklyn like part of the night itself—no backpack, no music, just a black coat over his calisthenic-hardened frame and thoughts that hummed louder than the traffic.
Every step was measured. His posture, unshakably composed.
Streetlights flashed across his eyes as he crossed a quiet junction near Schermerhorn Street. The world bustled around him: couples laughing outside bakeries, a group of students smoking and talking careers they barely understood, a skateboarder weaving dangerously close.
He was detached. Present, but only on the surface.
He pulled his phone from his coat pocket—not to check it, but because it vibrated. A new notification slid onto the screen with a flick of deep gold and black.
> Marco Valentino 🥂
Sunday. Rooftop. Midnight. Just you.
No entourage. No noise.
We need to talk throne-politics.
Ethan stopped mid-stride.
The word throne wasn't coincidence. Marco never used words carelessly—not in texts, not in rumors, not even when drunk off success. For someone known for rooftop hedonism and women with too much gloss and too little depth, this message was… deliberate. Surgical.
He stood still on the sidewalk. Across the street, a neon sign flickered over a liquor store—half-lit, like a broken smile.
He read the message again. Then once more.
Then he locked the phone and slid it back into his coat.
His face didn't move. But in his eyes, something shifted. A deeper silence entered him. The kind that warns the air before lightning strikes.
---
Meanwhile – Leona Joey's Apartment, Upper Manhattan
The steam of her freshly poured Birch coffee curled in the golden light of her reading lamp. Leona sat on the edge of her velvet armchair, wearing a pale gray cardigan, hair let loose. She stared at her phone screen long after the text window had gone blank.
She'd typed a message to Ethan.
Deleted it.
Typed another.
Deleted that, too.
She wasn't used to this feeling—not being in control. Not knowing where she stood with someone. Especially not someone like him.
She thought back to what he said—"Position commands power."
Leona had dated senators' sons. She knew charm. She understood ambition. But Ethan? He was a quiet war, slowly advancing. The more you tried to predict him, the more lost you became.
She closed her eyes for a second.
Then smiled faintly to herself.
"Designing the throne…" she whispered.
She wasn't sure if she wanted to sit on it… or challenge him for it.
---
Elsewhere — A Rooftop Party Already Being Built
A staffer pinned silver lighting cables to the railings. A security man checked the guest list. Imported drinks were wheeled up in silent crates.
And at the edge of the infinity pool, Marco Valentino—30s, chiseled, barefoot in Italian linen—stood with a cigar and phone in hand, watching the city stretch beneath him like prey.
"He'll come," he murmured.
Behind him, a model laughed too loud. Someone popped champagne too early. But Marco remained still.
Eyes on the skyline.
Because he'd just cast the bait.
And the one man who hadn't bitten anything yet… had just been given a reason.