Vincent left his bed at exactly nine o'clock in the morning.
He pulled off the thick duvet, the same one that had held him warm until sleep dragged him under. As he stretched, rising slowly from the mattress, the curtains remained tightly drawn. But the golden chandeliers above him spilled light across the vast room, revealing the wealth carved into every corner, the oil-paintings framed in black gold, the velvet walls, the marble floors so polished they reflected his shadow.
A room fit for a king.
A room dripping with mafia luxury, lethal elegance, dark wealth, silent power.
Yet it all meant nothing to him.
Vincent walked toward the bathroom dressed in nothing but loose black pants, his torso bare, sculpted, and tense. He had an appointment at noon. The ship carrying his oil barrels had finally arrived at the checkpoint where officials, customs authorities, would examine the goods. He had already paid them three billion to let everything pass smoothly. The oil would reach Italy by twelve noon sharp.
He needed to be ready. He needed to get to the Blax skyscraper, his empire.
Under the cold shower, he let the water crash against his skin. And like always… the memories came.
Sixteen years ago.
His nineteen-year-old sister, dragged by the hair.
Molested while his father watched, helpless, moments before he was executed.
His mother had been shot first. The ambush began with her scream.
His hands trembled violently under the freezing stream. His eyes closed, flashes slicing through him, his sister's tears, the men laughing as they took turns, the helplessness, the cruelty, the horror.
He inhaled sharply and snapped his eyes open. The cold water kept sliding down his skin.
His left hand trembled even harder.
He tried to calm himself. Tried to breathe. Tried not to break.
When he stepped out of the shower, the trembling had eased, barely. He dressed in his dark suit, his permanent color. There was no color in his life. There had been none since the night his family was stolen from him. No joy. No warmth. Nothing.
His relatives had abandoned him too, his father's enemies were too dangerous.
So the sixteen-year-old boy had learned to stand alone.
To become stronger.
To kneel before no one.
And now here he was: Vincent Carpel, the man the world feared.
He glanced once more at his reflection as his wristwatch clicked into place. Brushed back his hair. Sprayed the expensive cologne made only for him, his signature. His power.
He stepped out of his room,
And froze.
The curtains in his sitting room, his high windows, were wide open.
Who dared?
Sunlight spilled inside.
Sunlight. In his house.
His voice boomed immediately, sharp and commanding. "Who is responsible for this?"
The staff hurried in. By evening, they were always gone, he never liked people inside his space longer than necessary.
A chubby woman stepped forward. Newly employed. A sixty-two-year-old who now looked in her forties ever since Vincent hired her, gave her a salary that lifted her off the rural streets, and allowed her to live well. Generous to those loyal. Lethal to those who weren't.
"Yes, sir," she began nervously. "I just thought the room needed a bit of sunlight for the palace. What's life without light? It felt too dark in here. My children are your age mates… they would agree. When there's light, there's joy."
Vincent's eyes darkened instantly. Cruel. Dangerous.
"Are you mad?" His voice was low, lethal. "Who are you to decide what this house needs?"
His jaw clenched as he growled, "You're fired. I don't want to ever see you again. Not near my mansion or anywhere near me. Understood? And to hell with your children."
He walked past her, leaving her stunned.
"Fix these curtains!" he shouted. "Close them. Shut them forever. I don't ever want to see light in here again. Ortega!"
Ortega appeared instantly, the woman he had personally employed to coordinate every staff member. She was punctual, loyal, and determined to remain in his good graces.
"Just as you said, sir," Ortega replied immediately. "She will be fired."
Vincent glared at them both. "Close the damn curtains. Now I have no appetite. You all make me sick."
He stormed out and headed to one of his luxury vehicles, one of many in the garage, driving straight to Blax Dynasty.
Ortega turned to the chubby lady still frozen in shock.
"When rules are not met, you are eliminated. Follow me," she said briskly.
—
Vincent entered the skyscraper, Blax Dynasty, his empire of glass and steel. He ignored the greetings of the employees as he marched forward, dark shades hiding the storm in his eyes.
The sunlight earlier.
Her mentioning her children.
Pathetic.
He was in a dangerous mood.
The elevator opened to his floor. His assistant approached instantly.
"Mr. Vincent, the oil will reach Italy in an hour. The buyers are already at the shore. The accountants received the payment this morning, $375 trillion. We doubled the price. They complained, but they had no choice. Our rate is the cheapest. We invested 10 trillion… and earned 375 trillion back."
Vincent finally shifted from his thoughts.
Good strategy.
Very good.
As they walked into his office, the curtains also tightly shut, he sat at his desk.
"And the right-hand man?" Vincent asked.
"Still locked up," Gonzalo replied. "He was stubborn. We chopped off all his fingers. He'll bend like the rest."
Vincent nodded.
"I was emailed last night about a money-laundering job from the political borders," he continued. "Five hundred trillion dollars in 50 stacks. They want it pushed to the east and made legal. They contacted us because they know what we do. We need to bribe the officers, the customs heads, the border patrol, and the transport union chiefs. The shipment must move freely without intervention."
He leaned back.
"Our cut is 500 trillion in 20 stacks. I bargained for it. They had no choice when I threatened to expose them. As always, we do not lose. Get moving."
"Noted, sire," Gonzalo said, bowing before leaving.
Vincent leaned back. Forced his hands to stay still. He needed work. Chaos. Something to drown the trembling.
—-
And then noon came.
Vincent headed for the meeting with the most important board members of the elite mafia and corporation. As he walked into the room, it was dark. The massive screen at the front glowed faintly, displaying the agenda of the anticipated meeting.
The moment Vincent stepped inside, control surrounded every movement he made. The staff rose instantly, one after the other, their chairs scraping softly against the floor. Their heads dipped in respect as their eyes followed him until he reached the head of the table.
Only when he sat did they sit, each man dressed in expensive suits, each face carefully guarded.
The meeting began.
The screen shifted, displaying the barons of oil, the shipment already delivered to the buyers. A secret sale, illegal by law. But to Blax Dynasty, the law had no authority. And if the law dared to oppose them, it would be crushed.
"How much did the buyers pay again?" Vincent asked calmly.
He leaned back in his chair, one hand resting beneath his chin, his eyes fixed on a female staff member with her hair pulled back into a neat ponytail. She was in her mid-forties, mature, sharp, and well-suited for the mafia world.
"Pardon me, Mr. Nicholas," she said steadily, "as I repeat, we calculated the total sum of three hundred and sixty-five trillion dollars from the buyers. It's an incredible return, just ten trillion invested for a three hundred and sixty-five trillion gain."
Murmurs of approval followed as the rest of the members bowed their heads in agreement.
Vincent didn't move.
Instead, his gaze lingered on the woman in the dark suit longer than necessary. Long enough for her fingers to tighten slightly at her sides. Long enough for discomfort to creep into her posture.
"Ms. Andreina," he finally said, his voice smooth but dangerous, "you are the accountant in charge of Blax Dynasty's funds, are you not?"
"Yes, sir," she replied quickly. "That is my duty, until the very end, just as I signed in the form." Her eyes fluttered slightly behind her spectacles, though she tried to keep her composure.
Vincent tilted his head. "What more information should I know about you?"
She hesitated. "Pardon me, sir… I don't understand."
Silence thickened.
Vincent rose to his feet.
Slowly, deliberately, he began pacing the room, his footsteps echoing against the marble floor. "The law of Blax Dynasty," he said, "is trust. Honesty. You signed the contract knowing the penalty."
He stopped and turned to face her.
"Death."
The entire room watched, unmoving.
"What is an organization without trusted aides?" he continued coldly. "It collapses. And I will never allow Blax Dynasty to fall."
He stepped closer. "Ms. Andreina, you have worked for Blax Dynasty for over a decade. Why did you choose now, of all times, to destroy everything you've worked so hard for?"
Gasps rippled quietly around the table.
"I—I don't understand you, sire," Andreina stuttered, swallowing hard.
Vincent's eyes hardened. "You do understand. And I will not repeat myself." His voice dropped lower. "Why did you choose to ruin everything after all these years?"
Her resolve shattered.
"I—I'm sorry, sir," she cried. "Ten trillion dollars will be sent back to the Blax Dynasty accounts immediately and properly recorded. Please, pardon me. Pardon my dishonesty, Mr. Vincent."
Regret flooded her face.
Only hours earlier, she had transferred ten trillion into a private account she had created just before the money landed in multiple offshore accounts. She had believed it was too large a sum for anyone to notice. Too insignificant compared to the whole.
She had been wrong.
Vincent had noticed.
And Vincent was furious.
"Ms. Andreina," Vincent said icily, "what did the contract state when you signed it? After receiving one hundred million dollars in advance, along with a daily stipend of two million dollars, what did the paper say?"
She trembled violently before dropping to her knees.
"Pardon me, Mr. Vincent," she sobbed, pressing her hands against the cold marble floor. "I regret my actions—"
Vincent ignored her plea.
"What did the contract say," he repeated, his voice unwavering, "before you signed it?"
Andreina shivered as the truth escaped her lips.
"Death," she whispered. "Mr. Vincent… death."
Vincent clasped his hands behind his back, his gaze piercing as he looked down at her.
"And so shall it be."