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“Yeah,” I admit softly. “It was pure fucking torture.”

Anton looks at me for a few beats, the irritation on his face slowly giving way to a quiet, resigned understanding. He exhales a plume of white breath into the freezing evening air and shakes his head.

“Next time you decide to play the martyr, remember who your allies are,” Anton says, his voice losing its harsh edge. “You’re family, Tristan. Even if my little brother drives you completely insane, you don’t fight our battles alone.”

“Noted,” I murmur, a small, genuine relief settling in my chest. “I won’t make that mistake again.”

Anton runs a hand over the back of his neck, his posture shifting. The personal air between us dissolves, replaced by the calculating weight of business and the reality of the empire we operate in.

“Speaking of complicated family politics,” Anton says, casting a quick glance back toward the towering silhouette of the mansion, “there’s something else you need to know. Strictly off the record for now.”

I narrow my eyes slightly, stepping closer. “What is it?”

“My grandfather is arranging a marriage for me.”

The words are delivered evenly.

Too evenly.

I look at him.

“To whom?”

“A woman from an Italian family,” he replies, glancing back at me. “The Romano family. They control a significant share of the southern European routes we have been contesting.”

“The Italian organization your family has been fighting over port access.”

“Not openly,” Anton says. “Not yet. But we are close enough that one bad shipment, one intercepted deal, or one man with too much pride could turn a business dispute into a war.”

“And your grandfather thinks marriage will stop that.”

“He thinks it will make war inconvenient.”

That is a more honest answer.

Anton folds his arms against the cold.

“The Romanos have ports, shipping channels, and political connections across Italy. We have infrastructure in the States, capital, and supply lines they cannot replace easily. A marriage gives both families an incentive to cooperate rather than destroy each other.”

“It creates a binding agreement.”

“Exactly.”

“A treaty with wedding photographs.”

Anton’s mouth tightens.

“That is one way to put it.”

“Is that what you want?” I ask.

Anton shrugs. “In our world, what I want doesn’t write the contracts. It’s duty, Tristan. You know how this works.”

“I assume your grandfather has already agreed to the terms,” I say.

“Most of them. The formal negotiations are still ongoing. Territory, investments, operational boundaries, inheritance protections. The marriage is the public part. The business agreement is the real point.”

“And the woman?”