Vincent Mansion, War Room
The Vincent mansion wasn't just a home—it was a fortress.
Cameras in every corridor. Marble floors that echoed with legacy. Guards stationed like statues at every turn. And at the heart of it all: the War Room—where the triplets, their father Robert, and sometimes their mother, planned the future of their empire.
Tonight, the air inside crackled with heat and smoke.
Weapons lined the walls. A map of rival territory glowed red against a digital screen. On the center table sat files marked with cartel names and enemy syndicates.
Max sat with sharp focus, his jaw clenched.
Silas leaned back in his chair, flipping a knife between his fingers, bored but listening.
Sam stood beside the door, tense and silent—his presence more tolerated than welcomed.
Robert Vincent's voice cut through the room like a blade.
"Shipment from the Blackwater docks was intercepted again. We're losing ground on the east route."
"Should we hit back?" Silas asked.
Robert nodded slowly. "Not yet. We'll bleed them first—silently."
Sam shifted slightly. Max noticed, eyes narrowing.
"And the new drug line?" Max asked.
Robert tossed a folder toward them. "Clean. Lab-tested. Stronger than Feral Dust. We'll push it through DeMarco's boys."
Before Sam could speak, Robert's eyes flicked to him. Cold. Final.
"Sam, go upstairs."
Sam blinked. "What?"
"You heard me."
Max and Silas both looked at their father sharply.
He never dismissed them like that. Not during a meeting. Not unless something was being kept from one of them.
Sam's jaw tightened. He glanced at Max, then Silas. No one said anything.
So he left.
The door shut quietly behind him.
The silence stretched for a beat.
"You're hiding something," Max said flatly.
Robert didn't respond.
Silas leaned forward. "Is it about him?"
Their father finally looked up. "You ask too many questions."
---
Before the tension could break, the door opened again. This time, Papa Leo stepped in, all calm elegance and quiet fire.
Silk suit. Immaculate hair. And eyes that could freeze oceans.
"Good evening, boys."
Even Robert—the most feared mafia lord alive—straightened his posture.
"Leo," he greeted carefully.
"I have news," Leo said smoothly. "The royal family's eldest son is hosting a birthday gala in two weeks. You're all expected to attend."
Silas groaned. "Pass."
Max followed. "We're not children. We don't do parties."
Leo didn't raise his voice. Didn't flinch.
But when he turned his gaze on them, the room dropped ten degrees.
"You will go."
Silas's jaw locked.
Max stayed silent.
Robert looked down, quietly retreating into his glass of whiskey.
Because everyone in the Vincent household—even the mafia king himself—knew:
When Leo made a demand, no one disobeyed.
---