Old Names, New Shadows
The soft cackle of firewood echoed faintly through the vast halls of the Vexley Estate’s upper floors. In the biggest room of the third story, past the double mahogany doors, sat a man whose presence involuntarily made people stiffen up.
The room was minimal but arranged to fit his taste: marble floors, leather armchairs, a tall bookshelf crammed with first editions and sealed files, floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the London skyline.
Behind the desk, sat Sulien Vexley, the man feared by kings and criminals alike. He leaned back in the leather wingback chair while unhurriedly striking a match. The flame danced briefly, lighting up a part of his face before touching the edge of a cigar.
The hand rolled, Cuban cigar burned slow between his fingers, ash collecting at the edge.
He wore an ironed black shirt, cuffs unbuttoned, collar open, and trousers that folded in straight lines. His sharp jawline was framed with a five o'clock shadow, eyes half-lidded, unreadable.
The halls of the Vexley Estate felt less like a place of business and more like a chapel where power was worshipped, and Sulien just so happened to be at the very top of the pyramid. In the room, every surface gleamed, every book on the shelf had been read, every weapon displayed had been used.
Sulien inhaled deeply, letting the Cuban smoke curl between his lips. Across the desk, thick folders lay unopened beside a bronze paperweight shaped like a coiled viper. The scent of cedar and tobacco lingered in the air.
The quiet was broken by the heavy knocks that echoed through the room. Three sharp raps on the door, then back to silence.
“Enter”
The door opened with a groan after the command had been ordered. The man who entered was none other than Grayson Vale, formally known as Grimm in the mafia world, Sulien’s right hand, and one of the few men in the Vexley ring whose loyalty was forged in war, not fear.
He was tall and had narrowed eyes which held no softness. He was sporting a buzz cut and had a scar that ran from temple to cheekbone— a reminder that he survived what most couldn't even imagine.
"Report," Sulien said without looking at him.
Grimm walked to the desk and placed a folder before his boss. The crest on the front was gilded, ornamental.
“Advance notice,” he murmured “There’s an upcoming gala, hosted by the Ainsworth foundation in three days”
Sulien finally looked up. He took the folder, flicked it open, and scanned it, his eyes narrowing.
“The gala’s still under the Hydemoor’s jurisdiction?” Sulien asked calmly while still flicking the pages.
"Yes, but compromised.”
Sulien exhaled slowly through his nose, then stubbed the cigar out in a glass dish. “And the list?”
“The usual suspects, politicians, oil heirs, tech princes. At least two clan families are already laying groundwork to slip in, The Yaheers and Orlovs.” Grimm paused. “There's also rumor that some of the Continental Houses will send representatives."
Sulien’s brow raised slightly in interest then leaned back, letting the chair creak quietly beneath him. “Are the Ainsworths aware of this?”
“Unaware, as always. But bought off. They claim being neutral”
Sulien hummed. A low, thoughtful sound — the sound a snake might make, if it had a voice.
"We'll attend."
Grimm gave a curt nod. He didn’t question the decision.
“You’ll want the Orlovs kept away from the South wing, sir. Their dogs will be sniffing for intel.”
“Let them sniff,” Sulien said, voice like smooth obsidian. “As long as they don’t piss on my shoes.” He tapped ash into a tray carved from obsidian and bone. A gift from a dead man.
Grimm nodded, he turned around to leave but paused. Turning back around, he looked at Sulien who had at some point lit another cigar, and was still going through the list of names he had given him. “Do we need a cover?”
"None," Sulien replied without looking up. "Prep the formal fleet and vet the guest list. There should be no blind spots. Silent weapons only"
"Understood."
Grimm turned and left without another word. The door shutting with a clean click.
Sulien continued to skim through the folder, lazily flipping through the contents. Pictures. Names. Notable alliances. It was filled with the profiles of smiling snakes and expensive gowns. Businessmen and killers shaking hands, it was the world without the protective coverings. The world of the underground rings.
Near the end of the folder, something else caught his eye. It was a piece of wheat coloured paper which had slipped out of the files, a letter. It was unlike other files or letters he had seen, it had a faint smell of lavender and white tea, almost made one wonder if it was made in a place for quiet meditation.
There was a red tab on it. A confidential seal. It was a crest that felt both familiar and unfamiliar at the same time.
Curious, Sulien picked it up and tore open the seal.
When Sulien peeled open the letter, the Donovan name bled across the wheat coloured paper like a bad omen.
He paused. The Donovan clan. A legacy just as big as the Vexley clan. While most clans made their power loud, showing off guns, cars, women, and operations, the Donovans moved like phantoms and were more brutal and efficient. Irish by name, they mostly operate from the shadows and their stronghold in nothern England was a myth many could attest to.
Few knew who really ran it and even fewer survived if they ever got close. The only public face of the Donovan clan was Cormac Donovan, the patriarch himself who built the clan from blood and fire. But he had gone silent in the recent years, rumours have it that Cormac had stepped down due to age, others said that the Donovan clan was finished.
But Sulien knew better. His father had locked heads with Cormac in an all out war twenty years ago, and Sulien, as a boy, had seen what Cormac was capable of. If anything, Cormac Donovan had gone underground. He was gathering his inner circle and making his clan stronger than ever. He was restructuring his family, probably grooming someone in the shadows.
So what did the Vexley’s old nemesis want with them?
He flipped the letter open and raised a brow in amusement. He would admit that he never expected the next words he read to come from the Donovan clan of all people.
It was a proposal, the writings on it were very elegant, the information straight to the point.
Negotiation Offer:
A cooperative port-share agreement. Limited access to Donovan-controlled freight routes along Northern Ireland. In exchange: data flow protection across Vexley-controlled UK networks. Two-year contract. Mutual benefit. Should be kept under wraps.
Sulien’s lips curved to a grin. It was smart. The deal was tempting but only fools would readily jump into deals that had so many loopholes as this. This agreement didn’t mean peace, it was a smokescreen for easy manipulation.
But if Sulien didn’t accept the terms it could be used as a stepping stone for another war between the Donovan clan and the Vexley clan. They had made themselves known, their clan wasn’t dying, it was reviving from its ashes and they were using the Vexley clan to their advantage.
But then again this deal was still highly beneficial to the Vexleys. Sulien ran the words over again, his chin resting on his fist.
His eyes caught something at the bottom of the page, the last words were written in fine black ink.
Primary Negotiator: XL
Sulien narrowed his eyes. "XL…?"
The Author Has Something To Say
Sulien: (Cocks head in confusion) XL?... As in... extra large?
XL:...
XL: You're extra large. Your whole family is extra large.