Sheri's graduation event, or matchmaking event, depending on how one wanted to look at it, had been in the works for some time. Sanna, after all, had a reputation for putting on extravagant shows. Her charity gala not long ago was still fresh in the minds of those who attended, a display of opulence and careful planning. Something of this scale wasn't put together overnight.
Lists had to be made. Invitations had to be sent to influential families. Preparations required weeks of notice. Sanna knew well enough that the true power players, the heads of companies, the seasoned patriarchs and matriarchs, would never come to such a gathering personally. Instead, they would send representatives, usually one of two kinds.
Either it would be a younger heir of the family, someone who could navigate delicate social situations while still being of an age appropriate to Sheri, or it would be a trusted associate, someone close enough to the family to represent them without offense. Either way, Sanna's intent was clear: this was her attempt to put well-respected individuals in front of her daughter. The goal was that one of them, someday, might sweep Sheri off her feet.
Among those invitations had been one carefully addressed to the Bloodline Group. It had been sent weeks prior, sealed in red wax, marked with the same dignity as the ones for government officials and business dynasties. And when that invitation arrived, the one who opened it wasn't Sheri or Sanna, but Warma.
After all, the Bloodline Group's operations ran through him.
Since stepping into his role as Max's financial advisor, Warma had been paid handsomely enough to rent out an entire floor beneath his old workplace. The space was quieter than most offices, staffed only by a single assistant, but it gave Warma something precious: privacy and a floor he could call his own. His office, a glass booth with a view of both the city skyline and the rolling sea beyond, had become the unofficial headquarters of many of the group's more legitimate dealings.
It was here that Max now sat, opposite Warma, with Aron looming silently by his side.
That, too, was a change. With Max finished with school, Aron was present more than ever. During the weekdays, Max still had some breathing room, but the gap was shrinking. Aron was cautious now, always near, rarely giving Max a chance to slip away unnoticed. And when it came to matters concerning the Bloodline Group, whether gang business or corporate meetings, Aron insisted on accompanying him, as he did today.
Warma leaned back in his chair, turning the red-sealed invitation between his fingers like a magician playing with a card trick. The glossy surface caught the light as he spoke.
"Look, Max, I know the Curts family has a… complicated history with you. But keeping things friendly with them is in your best interest." Warma's tone was smooth, the cadence of a man used to persuasion. "Despite their troubles, they have excellent connections. Good enough, in fact, to maintain ties with the Stern family. That kind of bridge is one you'll want intact. Connections are just as valuable as cash."
He gestured with the card, tapping it against the desk for emphasis. "Wealth can get you far, but wealth alone won't tell you who to call when you need something specific. Even if you're ready to pay, doors won't open unless you already have a foot in. Think about it, mercenaries, information brokers, private contacts. Aron's books might be extensive, but not even he has the breadth that your grandfather commands. If you want to build your empire, you need to start creating those contacts yourself."
By "books," Warma didn't mean ledgers. He meant the contact sheets, the hidden networks of names and numbers, the real currency of the underworld elite. Max understood immediately. He thought back to Aron's ability to reach mercenaries with a single call. That kind of thing wasn't available on the internet. You couldn't simply Google "criminal syndicate for hire" and expect to get anywhere. One needed introductions, trust, reputation.
"I think the first step," Warma continued smoothly, "is to send the young miss a gift. Something unforgettable. There's a beautiful gem I can suggest, though it is on the pricier side."
Warma rambled on, describing designers, pieces, and provenance as though he were reciting a catalogue. Max, however, tuned most of it out. He didn't know the names of famous jewelers, nor did he care. In his old world, the White Tiger Gang valued gems only for their resale price, a way to turn beauty into hard currency. Names and artistry meant little.
But when Warma finally mentioned the cost, Max agreed almost instantly.
"What, are you certain?" Warma blinked in surprise. "I only suggested it. Don't get me wrong, it will definitely put us in their good graces. I imagine she'll be praising the Bloodline Group to everyone she knows, and that could open doors to remarkable investment opportunities. But still, I didn't expect you to decide so quickly."
Max shrugged lightly. To him, the reasoning was simple. Sheri had helped him more than she realized. She had filled in pieces of puzzles he hadn't understood, guided him at moments he needed clarity. Even though he had technically saved her business, turning it into a steady stream of profit, he believed she deserved something in return. And more importantly, Warma's argument was practical: the move could bring in more money in the long run.
"So," Max asked, finally cutting into Warma's rambling, "do you think I should attend this event personally? Should I reveal myself as part of the Bloodline Group? Wouldn't that sour the relationship if the truth came out?"
"You're right to hesitate," Warma said, his fingers steepling. He leaned back, humming in thought. "Perhaps I should go as the representative instead. That way, the Group's presence is acknowledged, but your identity remains safe. Still…" He tilted his head, "I do think it would be beneficial for you to be there, one way or another."
A deliberate cough interrupted the flow. Aron, silent until now, finally spoke up.
"About that," he said, his voice carrying the kind of weight that made both Max and Warma turn their eyes to him. Slowly, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out another card, red, with the same wax seal glinting faintly in the light. He set it down on the desk with a quiet tap.
"It appears," Aron said calmly, "that you've also received an invitation."