‡•|Alastor Blakburn|•‡

Alastor stared at the trembling traitor, and in his eyes there was neither rage nor compassion; only an infinite and terrifying emptiness that chilled him to the bone. "Death is too merciful for one who betrayed the trust of his family," he thought as he slowly adjusted the cuff of his immaculate jacket.

"You should have realized that your life would end the moment you decided to play at another table. What a shame."

Her voice sounded low, almost bored, but it was that faint whisper that made the man in the chair sigh in fear.

Alastor rose slowly from his chair, the shadow of his enormous figure appearing inhumanly terrifying in the traitor's frightened eyes. He didn't even glance at the Consigliere, who had already given the signal to the Faceless Ones behind the traitor's back; for him, the man had ceased to exist the moment the sentence was pronounced. "Get that trash out of here," he ordered curtly, without any emotion, and without waiting for a reply, he headed for the office exit. His steps on the marble floor were measured and sharp, until he found himself in the stillness of his car, where he could rest his head on the seat and close his eyes for a moment.

Alastor finally exhaled. The tension in his jaw eased, but his gaze remained heavy. He pulled his phone from his pocket, and for a moment, his fingers paused on the screen. Don's cold calculation collided with something much deeper, something he only allowed himself to feel there, behind closed doors.

He pressed the contact button and, a second later, a soft, familiar voice came through the line. His face, which a moment ago had resembled a death mask, suddenly softened, and his eyes acquired a tenderness no enemy would ever see.

"Hello darling..."

He whispered into the loudspeaker, forgetting all his problems.