Vincent Carpel, CEO of Blax Dynasty, one of the most ruthless and feared empires not only in Italy, but in the world, stood in the dim-lit room, staring at the exact point he aimed to hit.
His fingers curled around the gun with deadly familiarity. Shadows swallowed half his face, yet the scar on his right eye, earned at sixteen, cut through the gloom. He still remembered the blade sliding through his skin, sinking deep and almost blinding him. Sometimes the ghost of that pain flashed behind his eyes.
A slow exhale left him as he lowered the weapon just slightly… then, expression carved in stone, he raised it again and fired.
Boom.
The bullet shot through the air, tearing into the precise center of the board, exploding it into splinters. Vincent lifted his head, lowered the gun, and let his jaw flex tightly. He had never missed. Not once, even the bloody day he turned seventeen.
That day, after swearing vengeance on the rival who murdered his father, Vincent had waged a war that nearly cost him his life. A teenage boy fighting a mafia lord twice his size, and still winning. After emptying bullets into the man's chest, Vincent, eyes burning with pain, had knelt over the lifeless body, pulled out the penknife he always carried, and carved out the man's right eye. He left it at Red Hills for the vultures. A final, brutal tribute.
Vincent turned now, snapping out of the memory as Gonzalo, his personal assistant of nearly a decade, approached to take the dark glasses Vincent had removed.
Across the room, a man knelt on the cold floor. Older, hair grayed, his mouth sealed with plastic, sweat pouring down his temples. His body trembled violently, his hands cuffed behind him, eyes wild with the realization that he would not leave this place alive.
He had been caught selling Blax Dynasty secrets to competitors desperate to dethrone Vincent, but too powerless to do so except through treachery. Vincent had been furious when he learned of it. Israel had been under the Dynasty for almost ten years, paid in millions. The very man Vincent himself had once trusted.
Israel had tried to escape, speeding toward a private jet to flee Italy, but Vincent's black cars cornered him within minutes. Now he sat here, in this concrete room called Danger. His final destination.
Vincent began pacing with slow, precise steps, hands clasped behind his back, eyes locked on the trembling man.
"Israel," Vincent's voice finally filled the dark-painted room, low and dangerous, "why have you forsaken me?"
Israel shook his head violently, muffled pleas trapped behind the plastic. Vincent's gaze flicked to Gonzalo. A silent command. Gonzalo moved, ripping the plastic from Israel's mouth with ruthless efficiency.
Israel inhaled sharply, voice trembling as words tumbled out of him. "S–sir, I didn't want to do it! I've worked for you almost ten years. But the money, they offered so much. I declined a thousand times, sir, I swear. Please… don't kill me. I'll never do it again. Spare me."
Vincent's rage simmered beneath his cold expression. His fists tightened.
"Israel !" he snapped, making the man flinch hard.
Even Gonzalo stiffened.
"You were about to run," Vincent growled. "Did you think I wouldn't find you? I own this city. I control Italy. I have eyes in every corner of the world. Did you tell them that too?"
He stopped pacing, tall, intimidating, breathtaking in a way that drew women, not that he cared. Vincent had no time for relationships, no patience for bodies thrown at him. His life was scheduled down to the second. There was no room for softness.
"How dare you betray me?" His voice dropped to a lethal whisper. "Blax Dynasty runs on one policy, never reveal its secrets. You tried to ruin me. And I do not forgive those who try."
Israel cried harder. "Nile Empire knows about the oil… the shipment. They know it's leaving illegally tonight. They—they plan to sabotage the goods before they reach the checkpoint tomorrow noon. They want everything for themselves."
Vincent's jaw clenched. He lifted his head, meeting Gonzalo's eyes. A silent exchange.
"Israel," Vincent began again, stepping closer. "That shipment cost me ten trillion dollars. When I deliver, I gain three hundred trillion. And you risked it… for ten billion?" His voice sharpened. "You're paid twenty million weekly. If you had told me about their offer, I would have given you ten billion myself."
Israel sobbed. "I'm sorry, sir. Please, you must move fast to protect the shipment—"
Vincent cut him off. "I already have."
Israel blinked. "Huh?"
"The moment you opened your mouth, your confession was recorded and sent to my men." Vincent shrugged slightly. "We appreciate useful information."
Israel's hope flickered. He adjusted on his knees, swallowing relief. Vincent watched him for a long, unreadable moment… then nodded once.
"You know what," Vincent said quietly, "you should be free. After all, you gave me news that could've cost me a lot of money."
Israel's eyes widened. "Th-thank you, sir! Thank you!" He cried harder, trembling with sudden joy. "I swear I'll prove myself. Loyalty—forever—"
Vincent looked at Gonzalo. Another silent order. Gonzalo moved, unfastening the cuffs and ropes with zero gentleness. Israel fell sideways, panting, rubbing his raw wrists. He staggered to his feet, tears streaming.
"Thank you, sir," he whispered again. "Thank you."
Vincent nodded slowly. "You can go."
Then, softly—
he spoke a line Israel didn't understand,
"Freedom given by a wolf is never freedom, only the illusion before the bite."
Israel paused, confused, but desperate to leave. He turned and hurried toward the exit,
"A mistake made once," Vincent called calmly, "can never be reversed."
Israel froze. His eyes widened.
He turned just enough to see Vincent raise the pistol.
Three shots.
Straight into the back of his head.
Israel jerked upright from the impact, coughing blood from his mouth and nose before crumpling to his knees… then forward onto the floor. Lifeless. Blood spreading beneath him.
Vincent didn't flinch. "Clean the body," he said quietly. "We're heading south tonight."
Gonzalo nodded immediately.
Vincent pulled off his dark gloves and tossed them into the burning furnace.
He was Vincent Carpel. Owner of Blax Dynasty. King of kings. Lord of lords. He built a trillion-dollar empire from nothing, and he would annihilate anything, or anyone, that threatened it.
His polished Italian shoes echoed as he strode out toward his black luxury van.