The clinking of silverware and low hum of conversation faded as the final course was cleared from the dining room. Thatcher, weary from the long journey and the heavy meal, pushed back his chair, offering a polite smile.
"If you don't mind, Grandfather," he said, his voice courteous but touched by the fatigue of youth, "I think I'll go up to my room."
Mr. Linton gave a small nod, his sharp eyes softening just slightly. "Of course, Thatcher. You need your rest."
Thatcher bowed his head respectfully to his grandfather, then turned to kiss his mother lightly on the cheek. "Goodnight, Mom."
"Goodnight, dear," she replied warmly, brushing a stray lock of hair from his forehead.
He turned and made his way up the grand staircase, his footsteps echoing lightly in the vast marble hall. As he disappeared from view, the heavy atmosphere of the room shifted — not colder, but heavier, as if weighted by unspoken thoughts.
Mr. Linton leaned back in his ornate dining chair, steepling his fingers before his mouth, his eyes locked on the flickering flames dancing in the marble fireplace. His daughter, elegant in her simple navy dress, sat across from him, her face caught between admiration and a mother's pride.
She smiled, a wistful, tender curve of her lips.
"He's growing up, Father," she said softly, her voice carrying the same cultivated refinement as her upbringing demanded. "He's strong. He's smart. He... he would make a good billionaire like you."
Mr. Linton turned his head slowly, his face illuminated by the fire's golden light. His expression was unreadable for a long moment, carved from stone like the statues he treasured.
Then he spoke, his voice deep, assured, echoing with certainty.
"Yes," he said. "Even more than me."
There was no trace of false modesty in his tone. It was not a boast, nor a mere hope. It was a pronouncement — as inevitable as the rising of the sun.
She studied him, the man who had built empires, crossed oceans, crushed rivals without mercy. It struck her, not for the first time, how little he doubted. How utterly he believed in his dominion over the world.
Mr. Linton shifted in his chair, the leather creaking softly beneath his tailored suit. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew a slim black envelope, embossed with gold filigree.
He laid it carefully on the table between them.
"I've arranged a flight for you and Thatcher," he said, his voice dropping into something closer to a private murmur. "First-class. To Rome."
She blinked, startled. "Rome?"
He nodded, the lines of his face hardening slightly. "For your safety."
There was weight in those words. A gravity that pulled at the edges of the room. She straightened slightly, instinctively sensing the deeper currents swirling beneath her father's calm surface.
"You leave tomorrow morning," he added.
"But..." she hesitated, a frown creasing her brow. "What about our feeding? Our accommodation? What about... everything?"
Mr. Linton turned fully toward her, the firelight casting deep shadows across his stern features. He smiled — not warmly, but with a quiet, dangerous confidence that seemed to shake the very air.
"I," he said, letting the word hang for a moment, "am Linton Getty."
His daughter held her breath, sensing the full weight of what was coming.
"I own the world," Mr. Linton said, each syllable deliberate, etched in iron. "All of those things are taken care of."
The silence that followed was absolute, profound. It was the kind of silence that demanded belief because there was no room for doubt. No force on earth could challenge the simple, terrifying truth of those words.