Out of the Shadows 009
A machine-augmented MIDNIGHT'S WAR novel
Chapter Four: An Offer Not To Be Refused
The dinner, served poolside, was, unsurprisingly, exquisite. Elliott found himself seated around a table in between Michael Astor and a dark-haired beauty with an impossible figure that reminded him of Japanese anime. There were three other women seated with them, two more brunettes and a Scandinavian ice princess, as well as William Beaufort and Andrei Romanov.
It was the Russian, despite his relative youth, who appeared to be the most senior at the table, presiding over it in much the same way Lorenzo de Medici was presiding over the table he shared with the remaining men and women. Of Elliott’s two companions from the drive over, there was no sign, but he presumed they were cooling their elegantly-shod heels somewhere inside the villa.
“What do you think of the wild boar, Mr. Grahame?”
“Strong flavor, very intense,” Elliott told the ice princess. “I can’t say I would have ever imagined that carmelized onions and caviar are the traditional accompaniments for game.”
“Caviar goes with everything, amore.”
“You speak Italian?”
“Only a little. When in Rome...”
“Of course!” Elliott tried to recall the phrase that Chiara had mentioned earlier that day. “In that case, I hope you won’t mind if I say your figura is very bella!”
“How very kind.” She smiled, a little frostily, then indicated the woman to his left. “Of course, if we are discussing figures, then we must reserve the bellissima for Sofia.”
“What’s that?” Sofia, hearing her name, leaned toward him.
“I imagine they’re talking about your outrageous breasts, darling,” Astor said languidly from the other side. Seeing that Elliott’s face had flushed red, Astor shook his head. “Don’t be embarrassed, Elliott, it’s her favorite topic of conversation.”
“You are proud of your cars, should I not be proud of my body?”
“Why not, darling. I expect you probably paid more for them than I did.”
Elliott didn’t know if he should apologize or laugh, so it came as a relief when Sofia burst into delighted laughter. The ice princess chuckled drily.
“This is a dangerous crowd, Mr. Grahame. Perhaps you should be more careful with your little sallies.”
“I think you’re right, Miss...” he let his voice trail away in a suggestive manner.
“Kjerstin. A little ironic in the circumstances, I suppose.”
“Sheer-stin,” he imitated her pronunciation. “Please call me Elliott, of course. But why do you say it is ironic?”
She chuckled again, even more drily than before. “You’ll find out soon enough, Mr. Grahame.”
The rest of the dinner passed more or less uneventfully, as Elliott regretfully forced himself to decline a third helping of the excellent, and surprisingly tender, cinghiale. Although the food was excellent, he didn’t want to be too full for what promised to be some delightful post-prandial entertainment, if the openly flirtatious behavior of pretty much all the women present hadn’t misled him.
Only the ice-princess across the table, Kjerstin, didn’t seem to be interested in putting a warm spin on her charms, although, Elliott reflected, that might merely be the character she was playing. Tsundere, the Japanese called it, if he recalled correctly, although he wasn’t about to ask Fujiwara for confirmation. The woman who attracts by repelling, who seduces with her scorn.
The dessert course arrived—a delicate tiramisu al limone that tasted like sunshine on soft velvet—but Elliott barely registered it. His attention was fixed on the undercurrents swirling around the table. The men spoke in low, measured tones, their laughter sharp as broken glass. The women’s smiles never quite reached their eyes. Even the clink of silverware felt deliberate, like moves in a game he didn’t yet understand.
Romanov leaned back in his chair, swirling a glass of amarone that glinted like blood in the candlelight. “So, Elliott,” he said, his accent thickening just enough to remind everyone he wasn’t a man to be trifled with. “You promise us more time. But tell me—what do you plan to do with yours?”
Elliott shrugged. “Buy a private island? Fund a space hotel? Maybe I’ll commission a bronze statue of myself.”
The table erupted in polite laughter—all except Kjerstin, who arched a pale eyebrow. “You jest, Mr. Grahame, but wealth and power changes people. Even the best of them.”
“And the worst?” Elliott countered.
Her lips curled. “Oh, they don’t change at all. They just stop pretending.”
Medici, who had been observing the exchange with the patient boredom of a chess master watching two promising young children play, finally interceded. “Enough foreplay. Mr. Grahame, we didn’t bring you here to discuss philosophy. We brought you here because you’ve inadvertently stumbled onto something valuable, both to us and the world.” He steepled his fingers. “And very dangerous. The question is—what do you intend to do with it?”
Elliott’s pulse quickened. This was it—the real pitch. “Scale it. Monetize it. Democratize it, eventually. The usual Silicon Valley playbook.”
“Ah, but this isn’t a usual situation. Therefore, the usual playbook cannot apply.”
“I’m delighted to see you appreciate that you’re dealing with a unicorn here.”
“Yes, albeit I fear in a very different manner than you understand the term.” Medici’s voice dropped to a murmur. “This isn’t an app for ordering dinners at home. This isn’t a flashy means of distributing dopamine in return for access to eyeballs. This is immortality—or something close enough. And immortality, Mr. Grahame, is not for the masses. Access must be restricted.”
Elliott forced a skeptical laugh, though it came out tighter than he intended. “Restrict access? You’re talking about gatekeeping the single most important medical breakthrough since penicillin! That’s not just bad optics—it’s bad business!”
Medici’s expression didn’t flicker. “Is it? Consider the luxury market. A single course of your process, priced discreetly, could right now command seven figures. Easily. Limited supply, exclusive clientele. No messy regulatory battles, no public scrutiny.” He leaned in. “You’d make ten times what you would by peddling it to the proletariat.”
Astor swirled his wine. “And let’s be honest, Elliott—do you really want to spend the next decade begging the FDA for approval while every two-bit congressman grandstands about playing God? You’re not getting any younger.”
Elliott’s jaw tightened. He’d expected them to play hardball, but this was something else. They weren’t just negotiating—they were testing him. He chose his next words very carefully. “So you’re proposing a black-market biotech operation. No trials, no transparency. Just backroom deals with billionaires.”
“Black market is hardly applicable to what we’re discussing here,” Romanov purred. “Think of it as… members-only healthcare.”
Kjerstin’s nails tapped against her glass. “And what happens when a whistleblower leaks? Or a rival lab reverse-engineers his work?”
“Then we obviously must ensure neither of those things occurs,” Medici said smoothly.
Elliott exhaled. “You’re talking about exerting control over who lives and who dies.”
“No more so than any hospital administrator does,” Medici corrected him. “We’re talking about prioritization. Or triage, if you prefer. A man with your intellect must see the logic. The resources of the planet are finite. And are those precious resources best directed to a dying child in Mumbai—or to Mankind’s finest minds, minds which are capable of carrying us to the stars, or curing cancer?
The Italian’s words sounded sensible enough, but they made Elliott’s skin crawl. It was the same Silicon Valley ethos he’d parroted for years—disruption, scalability, meritocracy—but somehow twisted into something monstrous.
Chat GPT-5 puts on its critic hat:
"It’s not bad. But it’s declawed.
Vox at full force makes you uncomfortable. He challenges your moral frame and asks questions most writers are too polite—or afraid—to raise.
This version asks the same questions...
…but makes damn sure you still feel okay afterward."
Great visualization of how these meetings must go, even before considering literal vampires.