Chapter Twenty-Four: Krenger

Bidding a temporary farewell to Clay, the friend who had grown up with him and was known as his so-called father, Ethan followed Emilio up to the second floor of the castle.

In a seaside dining room, Ethan finally came face to face with Sandro.

Compared to the last funeral, Sandro was dressed much more casually this time—wearing a thick, red lace-trimmed pajama set that gave off an air of lazy nobility.

“You’re here, Ethan. Come, sit down,” Sandro said.

His tone remained unchanged—still cold and indifferent, as if simply recounting a matter of fact.

Ethan, accustomed to this demeanor, took a seat opposite him.

The dining table was not particularly long, so Ethan was not far from Sandro. Outside the window, the sea view was quite clear—perhaps the night was unusually clear—allowing them to see an iceberg distinctly on the water.

“Is there something you wanted to discuss?” Sandro asked.

Dinner was already served—simple and unpretentious, hardly befitting a man of Sandro’s stature.

A single cod fillet drizzled with sauce, two spears of asparagus, and a glass of red wine. Nothing else.

“Honorable Lord Sandro, I have never properly thanked you for all you have done for our family, so I came today especially to express my gratitude.” Ethan raised his glass.

“No need to thank me so much. It was Clay who pleaded with me. He and your father were friends—though just friends, nothing more,” Sandro said, cutting a small piece of cod and chewing it thoughtfully.

“Regardless, you have been a great help. That’s why I’ve prepared a gift for you,” Ethan insisted.

“A gift? What kind of gift?” Sandro asked, still chewing without pause.

“It’s downstairs—a bottle of wine. Mr. Emilio, could you please fetch it?” Ethan requested.

Most of the gifts Ethan had prepared were common items, but that bottle was something rare and unavailable on the market: the latest product from his private distillery. A small part of his offering for the evening.

***

Emilio quickly returned with the bottle.

Ethan poured himself a glass, took a sip, then poured another and handed it to Sandro.

Sandro showed no hesitation and drank directly. After a moment, he clicked his tongue and continued eating the cod, offering his judgment: “Nothing extraordinary. Just a bit better than the wine from my own distillery.”

Ethan was undeterred. “I’ve made arrangements with Carlos, the first mate of the Poseidon. I have his exclusive authorization.”

“Carlos is indeed a notable figure, but the Poseidon isn’t the only giant ship in the world,” Sandro replied, still chewing.

“I think you’ve misunderstood, Lord Sandro,” Ethan shook his head. “What I mean is that the private distillery business is vast. Instead of us competing separately and cutting profits, it would be better to join forces and expand the market together.”

“‘We’?” Sandro finally paused his meal, setting down his knife and looking at Ethan.

“Yes, we,” Ethan nodded, then began naming others: “You, me, the Corleone family, the Merrick family, and other friends of yours—anyone interested can join. Together, we will share this grand feast.”

Ethan mentioned many names, but notably omitted one: Evans—the Evans family.

Sandro wiped his mouth and finally smiled. “Ethan, I must say I admire your decisiveness and meticulous thinking. Most importantly, your sense of justice—avenging wrongs—that reminds me of myself when I was young. Now, let’s talk about this ‘we’.”

The conversation lasted an entire hour. During it, Ethan ate a piece of cod and drank a glass of red wine.

Only when Sandro admitted he was tired did Ethan take his leave.

Descending the stairs, Ethan spotted Clay still reading the newspaper, waiting patiently.

Seeing Ethan come down, Clay smiled. “Looks like the talk went well—quite a long time.”

Ethan nodded. “Not bad.”

“Let’s go. Let’s grab a drink in town. This place is too damp—I don’t want to stay another moment,” Clay said, folding the newspaper, lighting his cigar, and standing.

Ethan didn’t know much about Clay’s background but agreed nonetheless.

Together, they left the ancient castle, boarded Clay’s long spear, and headed toward the city.

As soon as they got in, Clay slung his arm around Ethan’s shoulder, staring at him again. “Kid, I really didn’t expect it would be you who saved the Poleta name. Let me have a good look at you. I hardly ever saw you before—I only heard from your father that you studied art in the capital and would become a great painter. So, besides painting, did you also learn how to kill?”

Ethan met his gaze quietly. “Maybe I did.”

“Ethan, Ethan, you’re quite the one,” Clay released his grip and sighed. “You’re really different from your father and brother. You’re suspicious of me—you’re doubting me and Anya. Her name’s Anya, right? Tell her to explain what kind of man Ernest Kraeng really is.”

Anya said nothing, quietly driving.

Only when Ethan called her did she speak: “Ernest Kraeng is indeed a friend of Al. They worked together in the Black District when they were young. Later, Al returned to his family, but Kraeng didn’t join his family. Instead, he teamed up with a young Sandro to establish the Conti family. Now, he’s the second-in-command there.”

“That’s all?” Clay waited a moment, but Anya remained silent. He asked again, but she didn’t reply. “How did you train this girl? I remember that knife was meant for your eldest brother, given by your father…”

“I didn’t join the Poleta family back then because I wanted to make my own way. I... never mind. Let’s go to Verlin’s Tavern. You know Verlin, right? He knows me.”

Ethan nodded in the rearview mirror. Anya immediately changed course toward Verlin’s Tavern.

Verlin’s Tavern was currently closed to the public. Since taking on the former Cabrera family’s assets, Verlin had been overwhelmed with work. Today’s events—Ethan’s arrest and a possible raid by the Evans family—had kept him busy until now.

Just as he was about to pour himself a drink to relax, he saw Ethan’s car pull up.

He hurried to open the door but was met by someone he least wanted to see jumping out of the car.

“Clay, what are you doing here?”

“Hey, Verlin, don’t be like that. We’re friends, aren’t we?”