Chapter 174 Lucien And His Woman

• The Don had stepped into the dim, echoing vestibule of the old Montenegrin house, his boots heavy on the stone floor. Dust motes swirled in the shafts of early morning light filtering through high windows. His men lingered behind, instinctively holding back, sensing something strange in the silence.
• The floor was dark, aged wood — polished but creaking — covered in places by thick, hand-woven kilim rugs in deep reds and indigos, their patterns Balkan and Ottoman in origin. Against the walls stod solid oak cabinets and sideboards, intricately carved, some with glass doors revealing porcelain sets, crystal decanters, or family heirlooms.
• The atmosphere was hushed, rich with time and stories. There was a sense of dignity clinging to the room — faded, but proud — as if the house remembered when it was full of life, music, and the rustle of silk skirts and polished boots.