Transmigration: Into the Life of Severus Snape-Chapter 66 - 63: The First Move

Severus turned to face the man identified in Arcturus's dossier.

Mateo Ricci.

The right hand of Lorenzo Zabini stood before him—a figure seasoned in the art of negotiation and persuasion. He was the kind of man who never repeated himself, his words carefully chosen, each syllable loaded with intent.

"Congratulations," Mateo said, offering a polite nod that did little to mask the keen interest in his eyes. "The Vigorem Draught dossier circulated among the trade delegates this morning. The numbers are... impressive."

"I prefer results over performance," Severus replied, his tone steady.

A flicker of amusement danced across Mateo's features, betraying a hint of respect. "Spoken like someone who understands both."

They exchanged a few more sentences—carefully measured pleasantries veiled in a layer of technical admiration. Mateo offered a compliment on the potion's exquisite restraint, a subtle nod to its complex formulation. Severus responded with calm insight, his words chosen with the precision of a skilled practitioner. Neither man yielded an inch, nor did they pose questions that pierced too deeply, maintaining an air of calculated formality.

As the conversation began to wane, the room's tension palpable, Severus reached into the depths of his inner pocket, his movements smooth and unhurried. He produced a tiny silver capsule box, its elegance apparent in its sleek design. Discreet and unmarked, the box seemed to shimmer under the dim light.

"Since you're already familiarizing yourself with my dossiers," he said quietly, his voice dipping to a barely-there whisper meant for Mateo alone, "perhaps you'd find interest in something the International Confederation of Wizards has yet to encounter."

Mateo's gaze darted momentarily to the box before locking back onto Severus's face, curiosity flashing in his eyes. "And what might that be?" he inquired, his tone a mix of intrigue and caution.

The source of this c𝓸ntent is frёeweɓηovel.coɱ.

"A taste," Severus replied, his expression unwavering. "Something still... private. Off the record. Just one dose. You can use it on a controlled magical subject, or not—it's entirely up to you. Either way, you'll grasp the magnitude of what I'm offering when the moment is right."

With careful deliberation, Mateo accepted the box, cradling it with gloved fingers without opening it. He merely nodded once, a silent acknowledgment of the weight of what was being presented to him.

Then, a faint smile crept onto his lips. "We should converse further in private, Mr. Shafiq. Some topics are far too intriguing for the scrutiny of public discussion."

Back on the summit floor, Severus was immersed in reviewing a series of enchanted herb stabilization techniques at a side exhibit. The air was thick with the scent of various magical plants and the chatter of numerous attendees, but he was only half-aware of his surroundings when three members of the French trade consortium approached him.

"Mr. Shafiq," said the woman at the forefront, her dark eyes glinting with confidence and her elegant attire adding an air of authority. "May we have a word?"

Their approach was assertive. They were impeccably dressed and emanated an eagerness that felt almost predatory, as if they were accustomed to getting what they wanted.

They laid out their proposition with precision: joint production rights to the highly coveted Vigorem Draught, full-access privileges to an extensive pan-European logistics network, and a partnership with three reputable export firms known for their reliability and influence in the market.

The pitch was rapid-fire, slick, and enticing.

Too fast, Severus thought, feeling a slight tug of wariness settle in his gut.

He listened with an outward calm, nodding occasionally and maintaining a polite smile. Inside, however, he was cautious, refusing to reveal any of his thoughts.

"Thank you," he finally said, his voice steady, "I'll review your materials."

He tucked the offer folder beneath his arm, fully aware that he wouldn't even glance at it tonight. The consortium's eagerness was transparent; they were not here to extend a helping hand. No, they were positioned to leap ahead of the Zabinis, intent on securing their stake in the lucrative deal that was clearly in play.

And that realization set his mind racing—the clock had already begun to tick.

That evening, in one of the private villas nestled within the upper tiers of the Vienna Summit complex, Lorenzo Zabini stood by the tall, elegantly framed windows, gazing out over the sprawling cityscape awash with twinkling lights. He held a glass of warm spiced wine, the fragrant aroma wafting up to meet his senses. His expression remained inscrutable—a mask of measured contemplation cloaked in distance.

Behind him, Mateo quietly closed the door with a soft click, the sound barely disturbing the serene atmosphere. He placed the silver capsule box with a faint metallic glint on the polished table between them, its presence stirring an undercurrent of tension in the air.

"He handed it to me without ceremony," Mateo began, his voice steady yet laced with gravity. "Didn't name it. Just said it wasn't for public discussion."

Lorenzo turned to face him, his brows lifting slightly in surprise. "He gave you something unmarked?" he asked, curiosity stirring within him.

Mateo nodded firmly, his gaze unwavering. "Unmarked, but not insignificant. I believe it holds more weight than it appears."

"You trust the boy?" Lorenzo inquired, studying Mateo's expression for any signs of doubt.

"I trust what I saw," Mateo replied earnestly. "And I trust that Severus Shafiq is no fool. The Prince family wouldn't provoke the Zabinis lightly." His words echoed softly in the room, the implication hanging heavily between them.

Lorenzo opened the capsule, silently considering the lone tablet inside. He lifted it between his thumb and forefinger, holding it to the light.

Just a simple tablet. And yet—he didn't dismiss its significance. Instead, he summoned one of his enforcers—a battle-hardened duelist named Vico, a man infamous for surviving three assassination attempts and for shattering a werewolf's spine in a fierce street duel.

"Take this," Lorenzo commanded, his voice steady and authoritative.

Without hesitation, Vico accepted the tablet and swallowed it dry, as if it were an everyday task. For several seconds, an anxious stillness enveloped the room; nothing seemed to happen. Then—subtle, yet unmistakable shifts began to occur.

His posture straightened, muscles tightening with newfound energy. His breath slowed, each inhalation deliberate and measured. And then—his aura began to swell. It didn't flare with wild abandon. It didn't explode with chaos. No, it swelled—controlled, precise, and terrifyingly consistent.

Mateo took a step back, his eyes widening as he observed the air shift subtly around Vico, reminiscent of heat rippling off a sun-baked stone.

"That aura wasn't there before," Lorenzo murmured, a hint of awe breaking through his usually unflappable demeanor.

"I know," Mateo replied, his voice laced with surprise.

"Good," Lorenzo replied, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes as he snapped his fingers sharply.

At that signal, four more men entered the room. Each was a trained fighter, their bodies coiled like springs, armed and ready, wands at the ready in swift, practiced motions. Without warning, Lorenzo turned to face them, his expression unwavering.

"You four. Try to put him down," he commanded.

His words hung in the air, not as a request, but as an undeniable directive.

Vico turned, his wand raised before his opponents had even taken a step. The duel unfolded with a raw intensity. It was anything but elegant; every movement was infused with a savage ferocity. Vico didn't just keep pace—he utterly overwhelmed them. His shield work was a blur, faster than the eye could follow. His reflexes were honed to a razor's edge. Every stunning hex he cast struck with a concussive force that echoed through the air.

The fierce confrontation dragged on for nearly thirty minutes. Blood seeped from a cut on his temple, and rivulets of sweat coursed down his back, yet he remained resolute, refusing to show any signs of weakness. Then, as the two-hour mark approached, Vico suddenly ceased his movements, collapsing to his knees as if a puppet had been severed from its strings. He gasped for breath, his eyes glassy and unfocused, utterly drained of energy.

Lorenzo watched in silence for what felt like an eternity. He poured himself another glass of wine, taking a slow, deliberate sip as he settled back into his chair, his gaze steady but distant. Finally, without turning to Mateo, he spoke softly, "Request my father. And my brother to join us for the remainder of the Summit."

Mateo straightened, acknowledging the order with a slight inclination of his head. "Immediately?" he asked, eager to comply.

"Now," Lorenzo replied curtly.

His attention drifted back to the tablet's box—small, silver, and disarmingly plain. It was the kind of item that would escape the notice of an untrained eye, yet it held an air of ominous promise. It was the sort of object only a Prince would dare to present in silence, carrying implications too vast for mere words. Lorenzo Zabini had just come to understand the depth of Severus Shafiq's true capabilities.

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