“Montavi household?” Roccano’s voice was a low rumble, the sound echoing the sudden shift in the room's atmosphere. His eyes, usually dark and impenetrable, now held a sharp, calculating glint. He stared at the handset as if it held the secrets of the cosmos, then slowly set it down on the polished black desk. The soft click resonated in the sudden quiet.
Corelia, still comfortably draped across the opulent chaise, pushed a stray curl from her face. The tension radiating from Roccano prickled against her skin. It was fascinating, watching the man who had so easily dismantled her ex-fiancé now confront something that genuinely intrigued him.
“The Montavi household owns a shell company?” she asked, her voice a little sleepy. “That sounds… complicated. And rather a lot of work for Cervan.” Her brow furrowed slightly. “He preferred simpler schemes. Like using my inheritance as collateral for his poor investments.”
“Indeed.” Roccano walked over to a bank of screens that displayed intricate financial graphs and ledgers. He gestured to a plush armchair beside the desk. “Come. Your insight might prove… illuminating.”
Corelia sighed, the effort of moving a minor inconvenience. But curiosity, a rare feeling these days, tugged at her. She drifted from the chaise, her silken robe whispering against the marble, and settled into the chair. Roccano had already pulled up the raw data stream from Cervan’s financial accounts.
The screen glowed, displaying a labyrinthine web of transactions. Corelia leaned closer, her lethargy momentarily forgotten. Her gaze, usually soft-focused, sharpened with an innate brilliance for numbers and patterns. “This isn’t Cervan’s usual style,” she murmured, tracing a complex transfer with her finger on the screen. “Too many layers. Too many intermediaries. He’s a peacock, not a spider.”
Roccano leaned over her, his presence a warm, solid wall at her back. “Precisely. These transfers lead to a shell corporation registered under the name ‘Aetheron Holdings’. It’s new, barely six months old, but its capital influx is staggering.”
Corelia’s eyes narrowed. “Aetheron… that name isn’t familiar. But look here.” She pointed to a series of smaller, almost negligible deposits. “These aren’t embezzled funds. These are… seed investments. From various minor enterprises, all linked by their ownership of small, almost insignificant shares in the enterprise.”
Roccano’s hand moved, his fingers flying across a holographic keyboard. More data unfurled across the screens. “These enterprises are all owned by secondary branches of houses allied with the Delamere family. A rival syndicate.”
A cold realization settled in Corelia’s chest. “He wasn’t just embezzling for himself,” she whispered. “Cervan was a disposable mule. He was siphoning funds, yes, but more importantly, he was creating a backdoor. Each small share, each investment, was chipping away at your Consortium’s foundation, preparing for a hostile takeover.”
Roccano’s jaw tightened. “A slow bleed. An insidious attempt to destabilize our market value before moving in for the kill.” His gaze met hers, a silent understanding passing between them. “And the Montavi household shell company? A convenient conduit, untraceable to Delamere, but easily blamed on a disgraced Montavi member, should the plot unravel prematurely.”
“Madama Celli,” Corelia stated, the name a sour taste in her mouth. “It has to be her. She handles all the Montavi family’s financial dealings, especially the discreet ones. She would know the perfect shell company to use.” The pieces clicked into place. Cervan was a pawn, Madama Celli the hand moving him, and the Delamere syndicate the ultimate beneficiary. The thought of her childhood mentor orchestrating such a betrayal left a peculiar emptiness in her. Not anger, just a tired sense of confirmation.
“It would seem,” Roccano said, his voice laced with a dangerous quiet, “that your former mentor has designs beyond a mere familial squabble.”
—
Hours later, the grand dining hall hummed with the soft clink of silverware and hushed conversation. Corelia, elegant in a gown of midnight blue silk, savored a particularly delicate truffle pasta. Tavio, across from her, chatted animatedly about a new historical text he’d found in the estate's library, his face alight with intellectual curiosity. Roccano sat at the head of the long table, his presence commanding but unobtrusive, occasionally interjecting with a quiet word or a knowing glance at Corelia.
The double doors to the dining hall burst open with a jarring crash. All conversation ceased. Heads turned. Cervan Loxari stood framed in the doorway, his finely tailored suit rumpled, his face a mottled mask of fury and desperation. He looked as if he hadn't slept, his eyes bloodshot, his movements jerky. The attendants, usually impassive, looked surprised by his sudden appearance. He must have made bail, Corelia realized, with a faint internal sigh. So much for peace.
“Corelia!” he shrieked, his voice raw, tearing through the refined atmosphere. “What have you done?! My accounts are frozen! My businesses are seized! They wouldn’t even let me retrieve my personal effects!” He staggered forward, his eyes wild, sweeping past the stunned diners until they landed on Corelia.
Corelia slowly lowered her fork, placing it neatly beside her plate. She met his furious gaze with a placid, almost bored expression. She took a slow sip of her citrus-infused water. The rich, sweet pasta still tasted delightful. There was no argument to be had, no explanation to be given. Just a tired recognition of his self-inflicted ruin.
“Fix this, Corelia!” Cervan demanded, pointing a trembling finger at her. “You always fix things! You always cleaned up my messes! Now fix this! Undo whatever you did to Roccano! Tell him this is all a misunderstanding!” He looked desperately at Roccano, then back at Corelia, his voice cracking. “You loved me! You wouldn’t do this to me!”
Corelia merely blinked. The thought of having loved this pathetic, self-absorbed man felt like a distant, unpleasant dream. She lifted her chin, her gaze drifting to Roccano. Her subtle nod was barely perceptible, a flicker of movement acknowledged only by the man who watched her every subtle gesture.
Roccano rose from his chair, his movement fluid and deliberate. His dark eyes, which had been resting on Cervan with an expression of mild disgust, now sharpened. He didn’t raise his voice, yet the authority in his tone silenced any lingering murmurs in the hall. “Gorvan. Teren. Escort this individual.”
Two burly security officers, their uniforms impeccable, stepped out from the shadows near the entrance. They moved with practiced efficiency towards Cervan, who finally seemed to register the gravity of the situation.
“Wait! What? No! You can’t!” Cervan stammered, backing away, a hint of fear finally creeping into his features. “I am Cervan Loxari! A member of the Obsidian Crest! You can’t just—”
The chief officer, a man with a scarred cheekbone named Gorvan, grabbed Cervan’s arm with an iron grip. With a swift, practiced motion, he reached for Cervan’s lapel. There, pinned prominently, was the crest of black volcanic glass, the symbol of the highest tier of Orolucce society, granted only to those who held immense power and influence within the merchant syndicates. It was a stylized, highly polished shard of dark stone, set in silver filigree.
Cervan cried out as the chief unceremoniously ripped the badge from his jacket, tearing the fabric. The sound echoed through the silent hall. The officer held the emblem aloft for a moment, letting every eye in the room witness its removal, then dropped it to the marble floor. The dark stone clattered, a tiny sound with devastating implications.
“No! My Crest! You can’t do that!” Cervan shrieked, struggling against the men, his face now a mask of pure terror. “My status! My honor!”
“Your status is forfeit,” Roccano stated, his voice devoid of emotion. “Your honor, a fantasy you spun for yourself.”
The men dragged the flailing Cervan, still screaming protests, out of the dining hall. The heavy doors swung shut behind them, muffling his desperate cries. A few moments later, a loud, resounding splash echoed from the courtyard. Corelia imagined Cervan landing in the chilled waters of the Grand Fountain, a fittingly ignominious end to his public performance.
Silence descended again, heavier this time. Then, almost in unison, the diners picked up their forks, the soft clink resuming as if nothing untoward had happened. Corelia took another bite of her pasta. It still tasted good. Tavio, wide-eyed, looked at her, then at Roccano, a new understanding dawning in his innocent gaze.
Just as Corelia was reaching for her water, her phone vibrated in the small pocket sewn into her gown. She retrieved it, a message from Tavio flashing on the screen. Her posture stiffened, her languid composure shattering into fragments.
‘I found a hidden safe in Madama Celli’s room. Someone’s coming.’