The dimly lit study smelled of aged whiskey and cigars, the air thick with tension. Philip stood near the grand mahogany desk, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass, his expression cold and unreadable. Across from him, his most trusted man, Victor, leaned against the bookshelf, arms crossed, waiting for instructions.
"We need to get Stefania out of the way," Philip said, his voice low but firm. "She's becoming a problem."
Victor tilted his head slightly, studying his boss. "You think she has the evidence?"
Philip exhaled sharply, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "I don't know. If she did, she would have told her brothers by now. And I would have known about it, she also doesn't remember anything from the past," His jaw tightened. "But I can't take that risk. If she starts digging into things—if she becomes like her mother—"
His voice trailed off, but the weight of the unspoken words hung between them.
