The Serpent's Venom

The stale air of the Bellandi headquarters, a mausoleum of mahogany and whispered threats, felt heavier than usual. Adrian Vale, clad in a charcoal suit that seemed to absorb the dim light, stood before the ornate desk that had once belonged to his uncle. The scent of expensive cigar smoke, a lingering ghost of the old boss, still clung to the heavy velvet curtains. Silas Bellandi, a man whose face was a roadmap of hard living and harder decisions, watched him from the shadows of a plush armchair. His eyes, like chips of obsidian, held a glint that Adrian had learned to interpret as a veiled challenge.