Old Gui personally led Vio and the other two inside.

As they passed through the East Hall, the women’s gazes followed them as if tethered by invisible threads.

Vio didn’t look at them. He didn’t even pause his steps.

Old Gui walked slightly ahead and to Vio’s side, his body slightly bowed.

With every step, he struck the perfect balance—never obstructing his master’s line of sight, yet always ready to respond at a moment’s notice.

“Mr. Mansero, this way, please.”

But Old Gui didn’t lead them to the VIP Area.

The VIP Area was far too noisy.

Those nouveau riche were arm-in-arm with women, drinking and making toasts—it was utterly uninteresting.

Even the front row was too loud; bidders shouting their bids right in your ear made it even more so.

Instead, he took them to the second-floor side corridor.

This spot was ideal: not too high, not too low—just right for overlooking the entire auction stage.

There were no obstructions in front, offering an unobstructed view, yet from below, when people looked up, all they could see was a patch of shadow—no one knew who was sitting there.

It was quiet, private, and you could leave anytime you wanted.

This was the very seat Old Gui had reserved specifically for Vio. Every time his master came, he sat here.

A low table and a few chairs—not the kind lavishly gilded, but simply comfortable.

On the table were already set a bottle of Macallan 18 Year and a bottle of Bowmore 25 Year.

The ice cubes were kept separately in a silver bucket, their surfaces glistening with fine droplets of condensation.

Next to them lay a small dish of salt-roasted almonds.

He remembered that his master didn’t care for sweets.

Hennessy Richart wasn’t brought out.

Old Gui made a quick assessment.

Today his master sat slouched, his eyelids barely lifting—likely in no mood to try anything new.

Better stick to the old routine—safe, reliable.

“Mr. Mansero, would you like anything else?” Old Gui bent over, his voice lowered so only Vio could hear.

Vio said nothing, merely raising his hand slightly.

Old Gui stepped back two paces but didn’t leave. He stood right by the staircase.

His hands hung at his sides, his waist slightly bowed—neither intruding nor distracting, yet always within his master’s line of sight should he happen to glance up.

Always ready to take orders.

Down below, the auction stage faced directly toward them.

Through a layer of glass, the sound rose softly, neither too loud nor too quiet—just right.

Tuxi sat down beside Vio, and as soon as his bottom touched the chair, he leaned forward.

“Boss, look at that—”

That bullet lodged in his spine had been there for seven years. It hurt on rainy days, it hurt on cloudy days—it had kept him from ever touching a woman in his entire life.

Now that the injury had finally healed, completely healed, his boss let him pick one himself.

He’d been with his boss since he was five.

Back when the Mansello family was wiped out and left with nothing, his boss had nothing at all, and Tuxi stuck by him.

Through all the bloodshed and turmoil, he’d gained fame, fortune, and power—and still, Tuxi stayed by his side.

When his boss beat other subordinates, he never hit Tuxi as hard as he did.

So Tuxi was certain he was definitely the one his boss cherished most.

“Boss,” he whispered, though the excitement in his voice couldn’t be suppressed, “when I make my selection later, will you keep an eye on things for me?”

Vio glanced at him. The look conveyed neither disdain nor indifference.

Tuxi grinned. He knew it was tacit approval.

Bali sat nearby, saying nothing.

A few years older than Tuxi and with longer experience, he knew exactly when to speak and when to stay silent.

In a setting like this, he had no interest.

He was simply scanning the room, checking for any signs of danger.

Down below, the lights dimmed for a second, then suddenly blazed back to full brightness.

A man leapt onto the stage.

He didn’t walk—he jumped, like a host at a late-night variety show.

The man had a European face, in his early thirties, dressed in a colorful suit, a pink shirt with the collar open, holding a golden microphone in his hand.

He spread his arms wide and smiled at the audience.

End of Chapter 11: Chapter 11