The Winter Table

[Legione Sumus]

Konstantin Vasiliev

Kostya watched the show with unsmiling attention, a mild look that most would presume simply cold. It was a carefully orchestrated spectacle, and for now he was prepared to observe and let his presence stand in for consent. Zixin Kao had been pulling strings since his arrival, fabricating alliances that relied on his interventions, and consequently stirring up the families before mending them back together in his own design. Kostya had been at least a little curious to witness where it was all going, for had Zixin had a different face, his gall and appetite for risk might have been the sort he’d have ushered in and nurtured amongst his own. There was little more important to Kostya than family. Instead, Zixin was an ally who needed careful management, or perhaps an enemy to keep close.

It became clear tonight that he had already carefully nurtured the Yakuza’s involvement – indeed, that they had been prioritised at this table of equals with foreknowledge. Kostya barely looked at Hayashi, beyond the slim civility accorded from respect of position, and only that when he had entered to find the Japanese first to arrive in his stead. He did not believe they should be here at all, and by their slim smiles of victory, they knew it. Kostya adapted to the many changes the growth of the Custody had brought to his country, but he did not relish foreigners believing they could take what did not belong to them. He did not glance at the healed face of Hayashi's lieutenant at all, not once the entire evening.

When the speeches eased and the room broke into the murmur of conversation, he remained comfortably silent. There was nothing for him to discuss with the men he had brought, and he refused to play the hand dealt to him, which was one of forced ignorance. Let the others make of his reaction what they would; let them conjecture for themselves what he may or may not have known before he walked into this room. For all appearances, Zixin was already a fledgling ally of the Vasiliev family, ushered in and accepted publicly on a daughter’s arm the night of the anniversary party. Yet despite Kostya's quiet, unmoved exterior now, this would not be a memory he replayed favourably when it came time for loyalties to be tallied. He built his empire in sweat and blood, but he was under no illusions that while he did not answer to the law, he still answered to the Ascendancy, as they all must. The sanction was unspoken and longstanding, ensuring the Vasilievs survived where other families had fallen over the years. There was a good reason his children had grown up affectionately calling Myshelov their uncle. A reason he had married the niece of a Privilege in the first place.

Zixin's welcome had been a deliberate spectacle, a familial claiming – the Vasiliev’s strongest currency, and what they were famed for; their territorial, close ranked nature. Zixin would be embraced among them or destroyed by them, but not ignored; he was already too large for that. Sofka was a good daughter and never refused her father’s requests; she'd sent the invitation herself. As it happened, her obedience was also the reason she wasn’t here tonight, though his decision had darkened venom into her eyes before she’d kissed his cheek and set about what he had asked her to do instead. Even before the ball, Pasha had made it known he did not like this man, who he believed only played the game of honour and justice while he laughed at them behind his hand. Kostya respected his judgement; he was a good son who’d made sacrifices being the eldest and most trusted of Kostya’s children. But he was wrong in his belief that shunning the Syndicate’s inroads in Moscow was the answer. Which was the reason he was not here, either.

It seemed clear to Kostya’s age and experience that Zixin was a ringmaster so assured of his own charm and cleverness he was oblivious to his own strings. Pasha’s informant shared curious pieces of information in addition. Yet he watched Zixin only briefly. It was Adrian Kane he watched most closely, an act he made no secret of, as Adrian himself did not either. Kostya wasn’t the sort of man to look away even if caught, and Adrian had positioned himself to be seen. His face was familiar, and Kostya recalled him having been in Sofia’s periphery at the anniversary celebrations. No other reaction penetrated his stoic expression, just the lengthy moment of his consideration. The Japanese received no such consideration – a fly in the ointment to be tolerated for now – and he could predict the various reactions of the other Russians. Kostya rarely made waves with the other families. He had no need. His affability was assured so long as he was not crossed or betrayed, and his empire had little reason to tread on the toes of others; let the Stoyas and Mordinov’s battle out for superiority. His ambitions were no longer reaching for the stars; he’d already reached them. All his ambitions lay in legacy.

Vasiliev Family

[Carter de Volthström]

Carter entered like a prince striding into the midst of vagrants.

Not that they were without power. He wasn’t naive enough to think that. But even here, with their wolfish eyes and blood-soaked pedigrees, he was above them. Their wealth was transient, born of liquor, drugs, knives, and flesh. His was eternal. Generational. Written into the ledgers of nations that stretched centuries.

Tall and blonde, hair combed into the easy perfection that only old money could produce, he cut a figure as deliberate as his family’s centuries of design. His suit was deep blue, the fabric whispering its expense even in the dim light of the penthouse. He wore no ostentation because Volthström wealth didn’t need it. His very bearing was the luxury. His very existence was proof.

As Ryker’s flat introduction hung in the air, Carter offered a faint smile, nodding toward the soldier as though the man had merely fetched him into the room.

“Carter de Volthström,” he said aloud, his voice refined, each syllable dripping with English aristocracy.

“I know what you’re all thinking,” Carter began, his voice smooth, practiced.  “What could one of my family possibly bring into this room that isn’t already in your grasp?” His smile deepened, just enough to show teeth. He provided no answer. Not yet.

He circled the table, positioning himself behind Zixin's chair like a shark smelling blood in the water. He spread his hands lightly, letting his grip rest naturally behind Zixin's shoulders. The perfect position that he might wring the filthy man's neck, but it was only for a moment before shifting away. He was absolutely above such things, symbolic or not.

“Whatever you believe wealth to be, set it aside. It is pocket change compared to what is about to unfold. The banking system of the future is not about vaults or gold. It is about control. Quiet control. And you,” he inclined his head, gracious, as though bestowing favor “are privileged enough to be the first among the elite to taste it.”

From his pocket, he drew a small velvet case, the kind that might have held jewels in another context. He set it on the walnut table and clicked it open. Inside, resting in neat compartments, lay a row of slim metallic Tiles shimmering with faint circuitry like art in miniature.

“These,” Carter said, “are the future. The Tile system. A mechanism of exchange and storage far beyond currency as you know it. Untraceable, incorruptible, and infinitely flexible. Each one is coded. Each one unique.” The manufacture of such technology was a secret kept to their family and the production line. Suffice to say, the raw materials were extremely important. When every person in the world possessed a Tile, those who provide such materials would be quite blessed indeed.

He took the first and slid it across the table toward Zixin, then another toward the Russians, then Adrian, then the Yakuza, continuing until every man in the room had one before him. Even the independents at the edges received theirs.

“None of you will know what is on the others’ Tiles. Unless you ask each other nicely,” Carter continued, his smile sharpening just enough to suggest he enjoyed the imagery of that. “Each is programmed. Consider it… a friendly competition. A seed of wealth planted in each of your hands, to be nurtured as you see fit. Even the least successful among you will be among the world's elite. Forever.. So long as the program remains coded as such."

"And who deigns to determine the code?" Someone asked. Carter knew not which of them it was. They all looked alike to him.

The Tiles gleamed in the light. "Our Ascendancy," he answered directly.

“But I am merely delivering these prizes. The Volthströms are but humble servants to the Custody. What I offer is opportunity. Play along, and you will find yourselves obscenely rich. Refuse…” His smile turned faintly pitying. “Well. Someday, refusal will not even be an option.”

He let the words settle, the aristocratic gravitas of them filling the space. Then he folded his hands atop the table, utterly at ease, and waited for the weight of his family’s legacy to do the work.

And yet, as his gaze drifted past Adrian, who sat too calmly, and Zixin, who deliberately didn’t meet his eye, Carter felt a pulse of nerves. Guillaume should have been here. Guillaume, the heir, the face of the family. Why not? Why send Carter instead? Was it the same old family game of egos, or something more? In the Volthström world, plans nested inside plans. He could never quite tell if he was the knife or the pawn it was driven through.

So he smiled brighter. Because the show must go on.