LUCIAN CASTELLAN

  I pick up the phone before the second ring ends, my fingers already poised to dial the number I need. The fact that I'm not surprised by the call speaks to the magnitude of the empire I run. Things always seem to go wrong at the worst times.

  Rafael's voice crackles through, low and steady, as usual. "We've got a problem."

  I wait, letting the silence between us stretch for a moment. Rafael isn't one to waste time. Whatever it is, he's already processed it in his mind. He knows the steps. He knows how to handle things. But I don't want to waste time with pleasantries.

  "Go on," I say.

  He doesn't hesitate. "Someone broke into the server. A hacker. They didn't just infiltrate—they've left it stronger than it was before."

  I feel the smallest pulse of irritation, but I tamp it down quickly. This isn't about feeling threatened. This is about control. I hate surprises, and this, however well executed, is a surprise.

  "How serious?" I ask, keeping my voice even.

  "I'm not sure yet. The breach was clean. Too clean. Whoever this is... they know what they're doing."

  I lean back in my chair, resting my eyes for a moment. Xander has worked for me long enough to know how to spot the slightest anomaly, and if he's missed something, it means this isn't just any hacker.

  "Get to the server hub. I'll be there soon," I say, cutting him off before he can say anything else.

  Rafael's voice drops into something more serious, more familiar. "On my way. I'll wait for you."

  I hang up without saying anything more. There's no need for pleasantries between us. Rafael knows his role, and I know mine.

  I set the phone down, staring at the blank screen of my desk. The calm before the storm.

  I'm not sure why I'm irritated. It's just a server breach, after all. A problem I can solve, like any other. But there's something about this—something nagging at me. It's not the breach itself. It's the fact that this hacker did exactly what I would have done. Left no trace. Strengthened the system.

  And that? That's not something you do for money. It's something you do for power. For control.

  I stand up, moving to the window, looking out over the city as I do. The skyline gleams in the distance, a perfect blend of concrete and glass. Everything in my world has been constructed to be just as cold and calculated as I am. Precision is key. But this? This feels different.

  I let out a quiet breath and grab my jacket. There's no room for hesitation. The hacker's playing a game, and I'm always ready for one.

  I make my way to the car, mentally reviewing what little we know. A hacker, leaving nothing but a stronger system behind. No trail. No signature. That's the kind of person who's either incredibly skilled or incredibly arrogant. And I don't like either one of those options. Not when they come at me.

  But whoever they are, they've just made a mistake. I don't lose. And I'll make sure they understand that.

  The drive to my private hangar is a blur of thoughts. My mind is sharp as ever, calculating the steps ahead. I'm not even concerned that this could be a threat to my empire. It's just a game. And I'm always the one who plays to win.

  By the time I settle into the leather seat of my jet, the irritation has morphed into something else entirely—an edge of anticipation, the thrill of a challenge. I'm not interested in some nameless hacker, but whoever this is has made a fatal error..

  They've caught my attention.

  ________

  The descent into Milan is smooth—predictable, like everything I prefer in life. Outside the cabin window, the city unfurls beneath the early evening sky, washed in a gray-gold hue that matches the mood I've carried since the call.

  The moment the wheels touch the runway, I'm already on my feet.

  The jet rolls to a stop at the private airstrip, a black Maserati idling at the base of the steps. No paparazzi. No crowd. Just the way I like it. Quiet, controlled, efficient.

  I descend the staircase and step into the car without breaking pace. The driver, one of mine, says nothing. He knows better.

  "Server hub," I say simply.

  The car glides through Milan's streets, the city humming with life beyond the tinted windows. I should be reviewing data, preparing questions, analyzing possibilities. But I don't. I sit in silence, letting my thoughts settle into something sharper.

  The idea of someone infiltrating my system—my system—is still irritating. Not because of the risk. No. I've dealt with far worse. What unsettles me is the message it sends: that someone out there thought they could touch what's mine without consequence.

  Not just thought it—did it.

  My fingers tap once against the glass.

  This isn't a child playing games. It's someone precise. Intentional. Possibly even brilliant. But brilliance doesn't protect you from consequences. It only makes the fall more ironic.

  When we reach the facility, I don't wait for the driver to open the door. The lights of the hub flicker like nerve endings as I step inside—a fortress of steel and code buried beneath layers of clearance.

  Xander is already waiting. Rafael stands beside him.

  Rafael straightens when he sees me, but I barely glance his way. My eyes are on Xander, who looks like he hasn't slept. Good.

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  "Talk," I say.

  Xander swipes open a panel on the touchscreen table. Code scrolls across the screen like a silent monologue—elegant, clean, almost poetic.

  "Breach was isolated to the Milan branch," Xander begins, voice clipped. "They bypassed the entire firewall, rewrote half our detection systems, then rerouted access logs so it looked like nothing happened."

  "And yet," I say flatly, "you noticed."

  Xander nods, sweat at his temple. "Only because I check the logs manually. This shouldn't have raised a single flag. But I found something... off. Our firewall. It's stronger now—more intelligent. Smarter defenses, more adaptive structure. It's like someone hacked us, fixed our flaws, and left."

  Rafael cuts in, "There's no signature. No trace. Just silence and better code."

  My jaw ticks. "So we're calling it charity now?"

  "No," Rafael says, his voice as cold as mine. "We're calling it a warning."

  I finally turn to him, and our eyes lock. For once, we're in agreement. Whoever did this wasn't trying to steal from us.

  They were sending a message.

  And I don't respond well to messages. I answer with precision.

  "Find them," I say. "I don't care what it takes."

  They both nod, already moving.

  But as I stand there, watching the lines of code still scrolling across the screen, a thought creeps in—quiet, unwanted.

  Who the hell did this?

  Because this isn't just skill. This is art.

  And that is what makes it dangerous.

  The server room empties quickly—Xander chasing threads, Rafael fielding encrypted calls—and I remain.

  I don't like being surprised. I don't like elegance in code unless it's mine. And I don't like the feeling curling low in my gut: the sense that whoever touched my system didn't just enter... they studied it. Admired it. Improved it.

  Like an artist tracing brushstrokes over a masterpiece they didn't sign.

  I move toward one of the secure terminals, not because I need to see what Xander already showed me, but because I need to see it through my lens. Not fear. Not confusion.

  Control.

  The lines of rewritten code flash across the screen—precise, beautiful, with no signs of intrusion or error. Whoever they are, they weren't reckless. They weren't probing for weakness. They knew exactly what they were doing... and what not to leave behind.

  There's no name. No alias. No encrypted signature. But there's something even more dangerous: confidence.

  Whoever did this didn't expect to be found.

  They think they're untouchable.

  A soft sound breaks my focus—the faint beep of a flagged pattern in the archive. I lean in.

  A looped subroutine. One of ours... rewritten, optimized, buried inside a mirrored sequence. No ordinary hacker would waste time on something like this. It offers no reward, no access point, no leverage.

  But this one did it anyway. Why?

  Curiosity? Boredom?

  Or worse—control.

  I sit back in the chair, temples resting against steepled fingers.

  This wasn't about exposure. It was a message cloaked in humility. A demonstration of power without arrogance. That's not how children play games.

  That's how architects work.

  My phone vibrates. I glance at the encrypted message.

  RAFAEL: "We traced the rerouted access bounce. It's a dead-ended. Trail goes cold after that."

  Of course it does.

  I type two words in reply: Keep digging.

  Because now I'm interested—not in revenge, not in punishment.

  In the mind that dared to touch mine.

  Let's see what happens when I reach back.

  ________

  No digital trail.

  No system logs.

  No corrupted backups.

  Nothing.

  Not even anomalies—just improvement.

  It's not just that my system was hacked—it's that whoever did it walked in like it was theirs, rearranged the furniture, dusted the shelves, and left without tripping a single alarm. I should be furious, but all I feel is the slow curl of amusement at the precision. It wasn't an attack. It was a signature. Clean, audacious, and maddeningly elegant.

  By the time I return to Sicily, dusk bleeds across the coast like spilled ink. The estate looms quiet in its pride, familiar and cold. The staff knows better than to ask questions—they offer nods and retreat into silence. Just how I like it.

  I don't stop to eat. I go straight to the study.

  No lights. Just the soft flicker of the fireplace, and the click of glass against polished wood.

  The first sip of my favorite single malt cuts through the haze of travel—peat, smoke, and control.

  I stop thinking like a machine.

  Not because I can't outthink them, but because this isn't a battle of code.

  It's a hunt.

  And hunters don't rely on logic alone.

  So I change my approach.

  I fall back to the streets.

  Underground movements. Encrypted black markets. The kind of shadows that barter in secrets and move data like currency. They would know if someone like this exists. Someone too clean to be noticed. Someone who breaks in and makes your system better.

  A ghost, maybe. But ghosts leave cold air behind.

  This one left heat.

  I take another sip and lean back, staring into the amber of the glass as if it might answer me.

  This wasn't a mistake. Whoever did this wanted me to see it. But they didn't want to be found.

  That's not just confidence.

  That's intentional.

  So I start where pride thrives—in the mouths of those who think they've seen everything.

  And I wait for the first whisper to find me.

  ____________

  By the time dawn cracks against the sky, I've already pushed through forty-five minutes of controlled, focused training. Not the kind of workout made for aesthetics—though I've never had complaints. This one's built for precision. For pain. My fists land on leather with clinical aggression, and by the time I'm done, I'm breathing slow and satisfied.

  After a quick cold shower, I move through my estate like I own time. Because I do. Everything is curated to perfection—from the matte black marble floors to the tailored lines of my morning suit.

  No Tom Ford today. I opted for Attolini—the Neapolitan masters of silence and power. Midnight navy, sharp lapels, fabric that breathes dominance. My shoes, Berluti. Glossed just enough to catch the light, never more. Cufflinks are vintage Patek Philippe, a quiet nod to my father's taste for subtle control.

  I drink my coffee black, no sugar. Anything else is weakness.

  The car waiting outside is a custom black Maserati Quattroporte—sleek, refined, and fast enough to remind anyone tailing me that they'll never keep up. The steel company sits on the eastern edge of Sicily, and by the time I arrive, the sun is finally where it should be—behind me.

  As I enter the building, the effect is immediate.

  Whispers follow me like perfume.

  "That's him." "Lucian Castellan." "God, he looks like sin in a suit."

  I don't respond. I don't have to. Power doesn't explain itself.

  I walk through the halls with calculated ease, eyes catching the flickers of movement, the barely disguised glances. The HR department is already assembled when I arrive—files open, mouths half-stressed, trying to anticipate what I'll say.

  "Report," I say, taking my seat at the head of the long table. The room sharpens instantly.

  Halfway through their nervous summary of internal transitions, expansion proposals, and performance reviews, my phone vibrates once—a discreet tone no one else hears.

  I glance at it.

  One name: Enzo.

  I lift my hand without looking up. "We're done here."

  "But sir, we haven't—"

  "I said we're done." My voice slices through the air like glass. "I don't repeat myself."

  They scatter like leaves in a storm.

  As the door closes behind them, I answer the call.

  "Talk."

  A low chuckle comes through the receiver. "You said find a whisper, not a ghost story. But I might've found both."

  My jaw tightens. "Where?"

  "Southeast Berlin. An encrypted storage bank went silent two weeks ago. No breach records. No alerts. But whoever touched it... left it cleaner. Sharper. Admins thought it was a system update—until I peeled back the logs."

  I rise from my seat slowly, staring out the window. Sunlight glints off steel. The empire I built.

  "You're saying it matches the signature?"

  "No tag, no trail. Just... refinement," Enzo mutters. "Like someone ghosted through the system and polished it as they went."

  I lean back, amused despite myself.

  "That's not a hacker," I murmur. "That's a craftsman."

  A pause.

  "Keep your ears to the ground. And Enzo?"

  "Yes, boss?"

  "Next time you interrupt my day—bring me something worth destroying."