{Late Afternoon, Danica Mansion}
Young and Beautiful by Lana Del Rey played through the speakers, the scent of lavender filling the room under the warm glow of the chandelier.
Why wouldn't people commit tax fraud, be corrupt, and abuse their power when even the bathrooms were air-conditioned and the bathtubs were the size of queen beds?
"Ooh, fuuuuck!"
Chocolate-dipped frozen grapes, wine with names that sounded like spells, maids and butlers who turned a blind eye to your sins —everything served the moment it was called for.
"O-Oh! Give it to me!"
I sat like a king no, I was half-lying, slouched with one leg over the couch and the other on the custom-textured glass table. Grapes within reach, wine in my left hand, and a beautiful woman bouncing in my lap.
"Oh, Sev~"
There was something about rich older women in their mid-thirties. They rode you like succubi, with the stamina and hunger to drain a man dry.
Yeah, she was squeezing me dry.
The ginger slammed her hips down, squatting over me on the couch —one hand gripping the frame, the other digging into my thigh.
Her cunt was hotter than anything I'd ever felt, gripping my cock like a lover clinging to the memory of a lost love.
"F-Fuck!" Her moans nearly drowned out Lana's voice. "O-Oh, you're so b-big, Sev!"
My head fell back, lightheaded from the wine and the sex. She fucked like a bitch in heat, and I wasn't complaining.
"I-I'm close!" Her pace turned frantic, harder and faster than before. It was hard enough to handle her slow —the tightness, the heat, the sheer stamina for a thirty-six-year-old vixen— not that thirty-six was old— But now, with her moving like this, I wouldn't last much longer either.
I fisted her flowing carrot-top hair, yanking her head back and drawing a sharp moan from her lips. Her rhythm stuttered for a second before she shot me a glare —blue eyes flashing with annoyance— then resumed with the same desperate pace.
"D-Don't~" she whined, biting her lip. "I-I'm s-so close!"
I could feel it, her pussy twitching over my cock.
"O-Oh God!" Her cry cut through the air just as the song switched to Lana's Cola. "F-Fuck!"
Her cunt clamped down like a vice, and I broke.
"Fuck!" With a groan, I came as her pussy pulsed, milking every drop from me. "You sure about this?"
Panting, she tried to steady herself but collapsed against my chest instead, my cock slipping free with a wet pop. She smirked—
"I'll take a pill."
I still held the glass of wine in my left hand, and had my right on her chest, softly caressing her stomach and moving up towards her breasts.
"You called me pretty late tonight," I said, letting my fingers play around with her nipple as she snuggled the back of her head into my chest.
"I had a gift prepared for you~" she said in a playful tone. "It took a while to get here."
Gifts from the rich could go one of two ways.
Either they were disgustingly expensive and over-the-top, or completely worthless but weirdly sentimental.
And I had no intention of collecting rich-people junk.
So when she clapped her hands and a maid walked in carrying a pillow —or maybe it was a cushion— I was suspicious.
"What is it?" I asked, pushing my back against the couch arm to lift myself up, taking her with me since she didn't seem interested in moving on her own.
She didn't answer, just kept smiling as the maid came closer.
"Why don't you take a look~" she said, and I couldn't help but lean in towards the cushion.
At first, all I saw was a box sitting on top. But when I looked a little closer, I finally got it.
"A car?"
She nodded eagerly. "Hope you like it~"
There were two key fobs, with a valet key in the middle. One look at the design and the chrome, and I felt my lips curl into a smile.
"Aston Martin?"
"Valkyrie." she replied. "Had to make a special call for it."
I slowly got up from the couch, which made her grumble a bit.
"That's… thank you."
She stayed there lazily, legs crossed, pouring herself a drink.
I picked up a fob, admiring the sleek design.
How could anyone prefer not being rich?
"Are you staying the night?"
I didn't even have to look back to answer. "You know the answer to that."
She sighed. "No staying over."
Even a man like me had rules. And I stuck to them.
"Will you come over tomorrow?"
I thought about it for a second. But I had a few important clients.
"There are a few cases I need to sort out," I said. That was the downside of my job—pulling all-nighters just for a shot at sitting at the same table as the rich. "I won't be free for at least four days."
Being a criminal lawyer was draining. And rarely worth it. Which is why, to make it big, you had to 'be a criminal lawyer… not a criminal lawyer.' As a certain man once said. And I followed that advice to the letter.
My first ever client was an innocent man falsely accused of rape. I did everything to protect him —won the case too— only for him to commit suicide in the end.
My second client was a valet framed by his boss for killing his ex-wife.
I knew I should've won that case. The evidence was there, the presentation to the jury was perfect —but I lost.
And that's when I learned the power of wealth. How even the most perfect evidence could disappear if your opponent had money.
Even the jury could be bought.
After a few more cases —some big wins, and some painful losses all thanks to money games —I realized I didn't enjoy this job anymore.
That's when I decided to stop being a criminal lawyer… and start being a criminal lawyer.
I began taking cases for the corrupt —the ones I knew were guilty— and won them with perfect evidence and airtight witnesses… all fake or bought out.
Since then, I haven't lost a single case.
Most of my clients were frauds, hit-and-run drivers, or straight-up embezzlers.
I didn't take rape or murder cases. Rape because of that first case I ever handled, and because the word itself left a bad taste in my mouth.
Murder was more of a personal line, a close colleague of mine was murdered, and I hadn't touched those cases since.
And of course, anything involving human trafficking, organs, kids, or sex crimes —Fuck no.
I may be a villain, but I wasn't a monster.
"Did you like the gift that much?" she laughed. "Spacing out isn't like you."
She was right. It wasn't.
"Yeah, no," I said, giving a small smile. "Just thinking about a tough case I've got next week."
She looked curious. "Guilty?"
"Rarely aren't," I muttered. The guy had more shell companies than I had fingers, counting both hands and feet.
"The problem is, he's tied up with another group just as powerful. And they're pushing back. It won't be easy."
She swirled her wine. "Always gets messy when two giants clash. But if I can help, you know. As long as my company doesn't get dragged in, let me know. I might be able to pull something."
That was nice of her. But still, no.
"I will," I said, grabbing the glass, pouring myself another, and knocking it back —no swirling, no tasting, just drinking.
"And I should get going. Tomorrow's Monday."
She didn't seem thrilled about that. But a rule was a rule and she knew that.
With a wave of her hand, the maids brought over a robe —thin, silk, nearly see-through.
"I hope to see you next week, at least."
She walked up and pressed her body against mine, arms wrapping around my neck, lips brushing against mine.
"No promises," I said, "but I'll try."
"Good," she whispered, snuggling against my chest. "Then I'll see you soon.
Yeah… she was clingy like that.
Not always a good thing.
But hey —a man likes attention.
Me especially.
* * *
{An hour later, M4 Highway}
Highway hypnosis —now that was an experience.
Driving on the same long-ass stretch, nothing but lines and lights, fewer cars than usual. Just some trucks, some old motorheads —the usual kind this time of year, roaming country to country in their rust buckets.
Some real fancy cars too. A few great motorcycles. Even some timeless classics. At this hour, the mix of vehicles was amazing.
You'd see economy cars carrying their owners to some midnight gig, some overly modded ones road-raging for no reason, and the flashy exotic cars —usually carrying some mistress to a secret apartment.
And to me, it was all the same.
Monotonous. Boring.
People were boring —rich, poor, didn't matter.
But boring was good. At least the rich kind.
Lazing around, eating overpriced food, getting anything your heart desired —yeah, that was the best kind of boring.
"Hm?" The road ahead suddenly looked even emptier than usual. As I got off the highway, it got ghost-town level quiet.
Now, I knew my place wasn't exactly next to a highway, but it was supposed to be a busy neighborhood.
"Why the hell's it so empty then?"
Answer to that—
I took a turn to the left, heading home.
—wasn't great.
The moment I turned into the alley that led to my house, I heard it.
Engines.
Revving, loud, aggressive.
I turned my head to see where it was coming from.
Big mistake.
"Gah!"
Next thing I knew, crash. A massive, violent crash.
I got hit from both sides, the Aston Martin spun like crazy, the front and back completely wrecked.
Windows shattered — glass stabbing, slicing.
One shard lodged itself straight into my chest. Right side, thankfully. But still bad.
Pain hit me like a wave. I'd broken a few bones —definitely some ribs, maybe my collarbone, and my right foot was a wreck.
It hurt like hell. I almost passed out.
My vision blurred. Blood from my head —probably from glass— clouded everything in red.
"F-Fuck!" Even coughing hurt.
I was stuck in the car.
Doors were totaled, jammed. Windows were destroyed —jagged glass everywhere. Crawling through would mean ripped lungs, punctured intestines.
I was trapped.
I was in pain, bleeding out, slowly losing consciousness.
And I didn't even realize —the crash wasn't my fault.
It was two cars that slammed into me.
I tried to turn my head —almost blacked out from the pain and what I saw made it worse.
The two cars that hit me?
They were even more fucked up. Fronts completely crushed, engines on fire. The drivers —slumped over, unmoving. Probably dead.
Both of them.
"P-Phone…"
I reached for it, it was in my right pocket.
As I did, pain shot through my whole chest. The collarbone felt like it exploded. And I couldn't even feel my right leg.
And when I finally got the phone out —it was wrecked with a cracked screen and a massive dent.
What now?
"H-Help!" I shouted, or tried to. "S-Somebody help!"
Nothing.
No answer, not a soul.
Except—
"Oh, what a sight!"
No one good.
"Who would've thought… the man everyone calls to get them out of trouble will be crying for help in the middle of the night, on an empty road,"
That rough and mocking voice, I had heard it before.
"With no one around to help him."
It was sarcastic, yeah, but I knew that tone. People in my line of work? We hear that tone a lot.
"So, Sevastian, tell me… What made you think messing with my wife was gonna end in anything but this?"
Ah, yes. Even through the pain, even with that damn buzzing in my ear — I'd know that voice anywhere.
"Ex-wife," I groaned out, the pain still clawing at me. "She's divorced. Free from having to look at that ugly face."
I could see him — wrinkles on his face, hair greying too early, standing there glowing like a wraith under the starry sky.
Maybe it was the blood loss, maybe the shock, but everything else was a blur… except his old, ugly face.
And the bastard wasn't even that old. Barely forty.
"Ugly? Ha!" He laughed, too loud for this hour. "This was a face women used to die for!"
Delusion —now that was a scary thing.
"D-Dying, definitely," I chuckled, even though the pain made it feel like knives were poking my lungs. "Dying of disgust."
He started fuming.
"That tongue… sharp as ever. But how long will it last? Minutes? An hour? Definitely not more. You've lost too much blood."
"Still a sore loser, Aleksander."
The guy was a loser in every possible way.
"Lost your empire to your ex-wife, lost her, and got kicked out by the same people you put on the board."
"Quiet!" he shouted. "You damned fiend!"
He punched the side of the car, glaring at me through the shattered window.
"It was you! You turned those ungrateful fucks against me! You made them elect her!"
Yeah. That was me. One of my finest wins.
I had no regrets.
"You were a weak leader. A weak man." Any guy who needs to hit women to fix his ego? Weak. All because she got more praise than him.
"She was smart to leave you. And now you've really lost. Even now, you had to pull this stunt just to come at me?"
Even with most of his empire gone, he still had enough money to hire two guys who were willing to die just to kill me?
Fucking rich bastards.
"Oh, but I have won!" he shouted, breaking into laughter almost maniacal and desperate. "I lost everything, sure, but I still get to live! Living is the greatest victory, Sevastian!"
He had two men killed… for that?
Why'd they even agree? For their wives? Kids? Parents?
Or did this bastard bury them in debt so deep they saw death as the only way out?
Nothing was impossible for bitter monsters like him.
But I still didn't lose. Not to him.
"Oh, but I have won." I laughed —even if it hurt like hell. "I still beat you."
My eyes locked onto him.
"You'll never rebuild even half the wealth you had. Everyone that once supported you? They're with her now —and they'll fight to keep it that way. Even if you try to get new backing, they'll shut it down. You're finished. There are more criminal charges against you than most murderers. Good luck, Aleksander. Good luck living your life as a 'winner.'"
"Motherfucker!"
He pulled out a gun. Hands trembling. Still hesitating —at least when it came to pulling the trigger with his own hands.
"Oh," I smiled, lips cracked, blood dripping. "I think she's in love with me now."
One final laugh.
"After all… she finally knows what it's like to be with a real winner—"
And then everything went dark. A cold touch on my forehead.
Dying like a villain, with the last laugh. A winner, going out on his own damn terms.