The Reflection in Gold

Mateo braced himself for the darkness of a sub-basement.

Instead, he was blinded by gold.

He stepped out onto a plush, black velvet carpet. The walls were floor-to-ceiling glass, revealing a New York City skyline that looked... different. Sharper. Brighter. The rain outside wasn't the grey sludge of his world; it shimmered like diamonds against the neon lights.

He was in the Penthouse. But not the Penthouse he knew. That one was cold, minimalist, grey. This room was opulent, warm, filled with mahogany bookshelves and roaring fireplaces.

Mateo looked down at himself.

The cheap, oversized grey uniform was gone.

He was wearing a suit. A three-piece, bespoke suit made of fabric so fine it felt like water against his skin. It was charcoal grey, tailored perfectly to his frame. On his wrist sat a platinum watch that cost more than his entire life’s earnings.

"There you are."

The voice was silk and smoke.

Mateo froze. He turned slowly.

Isabella Vesperi stood by the fireplace.

In his world, Isabella was the Princess. The untouchable daughter of the Don. Mateo had loved her from a distance for three years, a pathetic, silent worship. She barely knew he existed, offering him a polite nod when he delivered her mail, nothing more.

This Isabella was different. She wore a silk dressing gown that clung to her curves. Her hair was loose, not pulled back in the severe bun she wore at the office. And she was looking at him with eyes that burned.

"I..." Mateo’s voice caught. The stutter. He waited for it. "I..."

"You've been gone for hours, *amore*," Isabella said, walking toward him. She didn't look through him. She looked *into* him.

She stopped inches away. She reached out and straightened his lapel, her fingers brushing his chest. Mateo stopped breathing.

"The meeting with the Commission ran long?" she asked softly.

"The... Commission," Mateo repeated. No stutter. His voice sounded deeper, steadier.

"Don't worry," she whispered, leaning up to kiss his jaw. "My father is stubborn, but he knows you're the only one who can lead this family when he's gone. That’s why he made you Don."

* Don.*

The word hit Mateo like a physical blow. He stumbled back slightly.

"Mateo?" Isabella frowned, her hand lingering on his arm. "Are you alright? You look pale."

"I... I need a moment," Mateo managed to say. "The elevator. It... shook me up."

Isabella’s concern deepened. She guided him to a leather armchair. "Sit. I'll pour you a drink."

She moved to the crystal decanter. Mateo stared at his hands. They were his hands, but they were manicured. The scar on his thumb from a box cutter was gone.

He looked at the reflection in the window.

He saw himself. But the posture was different. The man in the glass stood tall, shoulders back, chin high. There was a dangerous intelligence in the eyes that Mateo had never allowed himself to show.

He wasn't the Mouse here. He was the King.

Isabella returned with a glass of amber liquid. She sat on the arm of his chair, her hand resting possessively on the back of his neck.

"Luca called," she said casually. "He’s asking for authorization to move the shipment at the docks."

Mateo flinched at the name. "Luca?"

"Yes. He’s impatient. But he knows better than to move without your sign-off." Isabella smiled, a fierce, shark-like expression that he had never seen on her. "He fears you, Mateo. As he should."

Luca... feared him?

Mateo took the drink. The whiskey burned, grounding him. He looked at Isabella. In this world, she wasn't just the Don's daughter. She was his wife. The ring on her finger matched the one on his.

"Tell Luca," Mateo said, the words forming instinctively, drawn from a well of confidence he didn't know he possessed, "to wait. If he moves before I say so, I’ll have his hands."

Isabella’s eyes dilated. She leaned down and kissed him, hard. It wasn't a chaste peck. It was a claim.

"That’s my husband," she whispered against his lips.