Chapter 3 The weight of an Heir
••Roman••
Power never looks the same from the front row as it does from the shadows. From the shadows, power feels honest. It breathes with a man, stretches with him, coils when needed. The limelight forces one into stiff poses.
I have always preferred the shadows.
They give me room to think, calculate, and sharpen the parts of myself the world doesn’t deserve to see. Andrian carries the spotlight with a politician’s grace; he enjoys the chessboard that requires smiling at enemies. I handle the problems no one dares name out loud.
Yet tonight, I was seated in his stead.
Not by my choice.
The heir’s chair never fits me right, but Father doesn’t care. To him Duty is duty, and an Orlov learns early that preference is a luxury we do not possess.
I was forced to endure this lengthy conference, where they strategize on how to collaborate for control over the ports crucial to underworld trade. While this alliance would certainly benefit my family, I can’t grasp why Father chose to ally with the Sicilians in particular.
My focus shifted from the balcony railing to my father conversing with Don Vittorio Moretti near the car below. Their hushed tones kept my ears pricked even though I couldn't catch their words. Yet, I knew their discussion revolved around the alliance.
Don Vittorio Moretti is the oss of the Sicilian Mafia. Father of that formidable princess, Luciana.
The Valerio family still clings to the Las Vegas port like an aging wolf with one functional fang. A pitiful situation, but I’m convinced that given more time, Andrian and I could seize it entirely. But alliances complicate simple conquests, and Father has a taste for diplomacy these days.
As I turned to step inside, my gaze landed on her by their car.
Luciana Moretti.
She stood by the marble fountain, radiating an aura that seemed to command the world’s attention. A stylish coat draped elegantly around her shoulders, her stature exuded regal confidence, with her chin raised defiantly, as the wind playfully tousled her hair.
She was undeniably stunning - captivating, even. However, her sharp tongue could easily cut through stone.
Most people wouldn’t address me the way she did, especially in my father’s house, using that tone. But she looked at me unwaveringly, delivering her words like they were bullets she crafted herself.
I still can’t decide what bothers me more: her audacity to challenge me or the fact that I found it interesting.
“Rian will arrive tomorrow, Roman. He just called me.”
Mildred’s voice drifted into my thoughts, gentle yet deceptively sweet.
I didn't respond immediately. Instead, I kept my gaze fixed on the guards changing shifts below the balcony. “I see he prefers to reach out to you first,” I replied evenly. “Unlike someone whose calls he should be returning.”
Mildred joined me, placing a hand on my shoulder, warm, teasing, and annoying all at once.
“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, brother.”
Her tone waltzed between teasing and warning. Typical of her.
Mildred Orlov, eighteen years old. Our family’s cherished diamond…and its most persistent headache.
People think Andrian and I are cold kings of different thrones. Yes, they aren’t wrong.
But Mildred?
She’s the only one who makes our hearts race for reasons beyond mere calculations.
I fully turned to her. Her triumphant grin and glimmering eyes spoke of mischief. If she weren't an Orlov, guarded by our bloodline, she'd likely have found herself in serious trouble by now. She attracts trouble like a flame attract moths.
“You ought to be in your room, especially since you’re still grounded,” I chided her.
She tilted her head, a defiant smile forming on her lips, full of rebellious spirit.
“She says that every time,” I thought. “Right before she disappears again.”
My jaw clenched as a memory floated to the forefront of my mind. There was that one time she snuck out to a club under the guise of being sound asleep, getting tangled up with some mysterious guy. I can still vividly recall that jerk’s hand wrapped around her delicate wrist. If it hadn’t been for the maid who checked on her and discovered her absence, I might not have made it in time to prevent her from becoming some sort of trophy for someone.
I pushed the thought aside.
“I don’t need babysitters,” she said lightly. “You and Andrian suffocate me.”
“You call it suffocation.”
I stepped past her, my voice cool as winter ice.
“I call it keeping you alive.”
Her sigh followed me, theatrical enough to echo across the balcony. I ignored it, letting the quiet settle back into place.
A moment later, my phone buzzed. It was a message from Andrian.
“Caught a glimpse of Father’s meeting. The Morettis are pushing for something…hard. Keep your ears down and your guard higher.”
I gripped the phone tighter.
As if I’d ever let my guard down.