Chapter 31
The spring morning brought a breathtaking, cinematic brilliance to the Falcone estate. Crisp, natural sunlight poured through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the grand dining room, completely devoid of any dull, yellow tint. The bright, vivid colors of the manicured lawns outside contrasted beautifully with the pristine white marble floors. Domenico Falcone stood near the window, a monument of lethal, masculine power. At thirty-four, he remained as handsome as a classic movie star. His thick, slightly wavy dark hair was naturally slicked back, with a few loose strands falling effortlessly over his forehead, creating a charming, romantic illusion. His angular face, high-bridged nose, and sharply defined jawline were shadowed by an extremely short, neatly trimmed layer of stubble on his fair, rosy skin. He wore a tailored dark three-piece suit, his crisp dress shirt unbuttoned at the chest to reveal the edge of his artistic, refined tattoos. The designs crept up his neck and extended across his hands, utilizing enough negative space to look elegant rather than dense. He held a crystal glass of water, his cold, sharp eyes scanning the horizon. The peace he had secured for his four-year-old daughter, Ruby, was absolute, but in the underworld, absolute peace was merely a countdown to the next war. A soft knock echoed from the heavy oak doors. Tony, his head of security, stepped into the bright room. "Boss," Tony said, his crisp American accent laced with tension. "We have a situation at the eastern ports. An unauthorized freighter just dropped anchor. They are ignoring the harbor master." Domenico slowly turned his head. His voice, when he spoke, was a deep, slightly raspy rumble, measured with controlled, deliberate pauses. "Whose flag. Are they flying?"
