To the world Vincenzo ran El Viento Securities.
The real story was that it was just part of a bigger machine.
El Viento’s subsidiaries obeyed him. Markets reacted to his silences. Governments took his opinions as policies. His “spiritual sabbatical” was a courtesy extended to the world, not an abdication. From the outside, El Viento Securities appeared to be under Vincenzo’s command. Securities wore Vincenzo’s face. Heavy Industries wore Ernesto’s.
Ernesto’s penthouse office was minimalism at its most arrogant: glass, marble, a single desk, and a skyline treated like inventory. No art. No photos. Nothing that suggested memory.
Ernesto did not look up when Vincenzo entered.
“You’re late,” he said mildly.
Vincenzo smiled. “Traffic.”
“There is no traffic between my summons and this room.”
It wasn’t a rebuke. It was a correction of reality.
Ernesto set his tablet aside and folded his hands.
“The Gunther situation has concluded,” he said.
Vincenzo paused a half-step into the room. Just enough.
“Concluded…why? How?” he asked, half upset at the unexpected intrusion.
Ernesto regarded him with faint curiosity, as if the questions were slightly unnecessary. “You were slow to react. It was handled…”
“Quietly,” he punctuated. “He is no longer in a position to confuse anyone.”
Ernesto’s eyes returned to the tablet.
“The firm he worked with,” he continued. “Michael & Cole. What is their exposure?”
Vincenzo exhaled slowly, relieved he hadn’t had to raise the subject himself.
“They didn’t instigate it,” he said. “But they didn’t contain it either. Gunther operated too freely. Too much latitude. Too little supervision.”
“Incompetence,” Ernesto said.
“Or misplaced trust,” Vincenzo replied. “Either way, it reflects poorly. They’re already being associated with conspiracy theory nonsense.”
Ernesto’s fingers tapped once against the glass surface of the desk.
“I don’t like nonsense,” he said.
“Nonesense does rustle the cattle,” Vincenzo agreed. “It may be wise to distance El Viento Securities from them. Treat the firm as damage containment rather than a partner.”
Ernesto studied him.
“You’re recommending replacement.”
“I’m recommending stability,” Vincenzo said smoothly. “A firm that understands discretion as a prerequisite, not a courtesy.”
Chase Wright would feel it immediately.
The firm’s wobble. The phones going quiet.
Pressure without fingerprints.
Ernesto nodded once.
“And this media initiative,” he said. “VIM.”
“It gives us leverage outside our normal scope,” Vincenzo said. “Narrative control. Visibility without accountability. If belief is going to spread, we decide what to believe.”
Ernesto leaned back slightly.
“Misdirected belief is not something I indulge,” he said.
“Neither do I,” Vincenzo replied. “But ‘human resources’ do. VIM gives them a place to put it where it can’t metastasize.”
The room went quiet.
“You’ve also authorized an acquisition for El Viento Securities,” Ernesto said, glancing at his tablet again. “PawsCity Vibes.”
“Yes,” Vincenzo said. “It fits the current expansion profile. Small. Local. Low volatility. Community-facing.”
“An animal clinic,” Ernesto said. “Unusual.”
“Harmless,” Vincenzo said. “And useful.”
Useful because Amelia Winters needed hours to survive.
Useful because desperation was quieter than force.
Useful because honey leaks when the hive is damaged.
Ernesto considered this, gaze drifting briefly to the skyline.
“As long as it remains harmless,” he said.
“It will,” Vincenzo replied.
The lights dimmed subtly as the building adjusted itself around Ernesto’s presence.
“Proceed with VIM,” Ernesto said. “Replace the firm. Clean the edges. I don’t want to hear about Sparks or Tartaria from the public again.”
“You won’t,” Vincenzo said.
Ernesto stood, already done with the conversation.
“Human resources with stories are cheaper than prisons,” he said. “Just make sure they stay stories.”