Vincent left his bed at exactly nine o'clock in the morning.
He pulled off the heavy duvets, the same thick duvets that had held him in warmth until sleep dragged him under, and stretched. As he rose, the curtains remained tightly shut, but the crystal chandeliers poured a muted glow across the vast bedroom. The walls were dressed in rare oil paintings, velvet drapes, and dark, intimidating décor that whispered of wealth, power, and blood.
A room built for a king, or a mafia sovereign.
Vincent walked toward the bathroom in nothing but loose black pants, the hard lines of his body barely softened by the shadows. He had an appointment at noon. The ship carrying his oil barrels had already reached the checkpoint to pass through government clearance. The customs officers, along with the port authorities, had been paid three billion to let the shipment pass without inspection. By noon, the oil would reach Italy.
He needed to prepare. Needed to go to the Blax Skyscraper, his empire.
The moment he stepped into the shower, the memories returned.
Sixteen years ago.
His nineteen-year-old sister screaming as men dragged her by the hair.
His father forced to watch right before they killed him.
His mother shot down as the first victim of the ambush.
Vincent's hands trembled beneath the cold water. His eyes shut tight as the flashes stabbed through him, his sister's tears, the men laughing as they took turns. He inhaled sharply and snapped his eyes open. Water streamed down his skin.
His left hand trembled violently. He forced himself to breathe. Forced the shaking to stop, at least enough to pass as control.
By the time he stepped out of the shower, the tremor had lessened. It never disappeared entirely.
He dressed in a dark suit, his signature color. Black. A life without color. A life without joy.
After that night stole his family, even his own relatives abandoned him.
His father had too many enemies, it was dangerous to shelter the last Carpel boy.
So at sixteen, Vincent picked himself up, alone.
He swore strength into his veins.
Swore he would never kneel again.
And now—
Vincent Carpel stood as a man feared across borders.
He clasped one of his luxurious wristwatches, checked his reflection, brushed his hair into sharp perfection, and sprayed the cologne crafted exclusively for him.
Then he stepped out into his sitting room, and froze.
The curtains were open.
Sunlight spilled across the marble floors.
His jaw clenched.
Who dared?
His voice erupted, deep and commanding.
"Who is responsible for this?!"
The staff hurried in, most of them gone by evening as they always were, but the culprit stepped forward: a chubby woman with her hair tied tightly back.
"I—I opened it, sir," she confessed. "I thought the room needed a bit of sunlight for the palace. I mean… what's life without light? It was too dark here. My children are your age mates, and they'd agree. When there is light, there is joy."
Vincent's expression darkened into something merciless.
Joy?
Light?
In his house?
He growled, low and lethal.
"Are you mad?"
His voice shook the air.
"Who are you to tell me what this house needs? You're fired. I don't ever want to see you again, near my mansion or anywhere close to me. To hell with your children."
He walked past her, cold fury in his steps.
"Fix these curtains. Close them. Seal them. I don't ever want to see sunlight entering my windows again. Ortega!"
Ortega, the caretaker he once saved from poverty, appeared instantly, bowing slightly.
"Just as you said, sir. She will be dismissed," Ortega assured quickly.
Vincent shot her a hard look.
"Close the damn curtains. I've lost my appetite. All of you make me sick."
He stormed out toward one of his luxury cars in the garage. Ortega turned to the fired woman still trembling in shock.
"When rules are not met, you are eliminated," Ortega said coldly. "Follow me."
⸻
At the Blax Dynasty Skyscraper
Vincent entered the towering building, ignoring the greetings from staff. His sunglasses hid the shadows in his eyes. The earlier sunlight incident gnawed at him, the woman's pathetic mention of her children… the blinding brightness he despised.
He pressed the elevator button and stepped out onto the executive floor. His assistant rushed to him.
"Mr. Vincent, the oil will reach Italy in an hour. The buyers are already waiting at the shore. The confirmed payments were sent this morning, three hundred seventy-five trillion dollars. We doubled the price. There were complaints, but they had no choice. Your cheaper shipments have captured the entire market."
Vincent nodded slowly. A good strategy.
They entered his office, the curtains shut tight, like always.
"And the right-hand man?" Vincent asked.
"Still locked up," Gonzalo replied. "He was stubborn, so we chopped off all his fingers. He'll bend like the rest."
Vincent sank into his chair.
"I received an email about a money-laundering request from the political borders. Five hundred trillion dollars in fifty stacks. They want it pushed to the East, made legal. I told them we'd handle the connections, bribing customs officers, border commissioners, and harbor regulators."
His eyes narrowed.
"Our cut is five hundred trillion in twenty stacks. They agreed after I threatened to expose the deal. You know what to do."
"Noted, sire," Gonzalo said and left.
Vincent leaned back, unclenching his left hand. He needed work, needed noise, to drown the tremors.
⸻
The elite mafia board awaited him in the dark conference room, the only light coming from the glowing screen. When he entered, everyone rose. Respect. Fear. Devotion.
Vincent sat at the head of the table and allowed them to sit.
The meeting began. Figures appeared on the screen, oil barons, the secret shipments, the illegal profits.
"How much did the buyers pay again?" Vincent asked.
Ms. Andreina, the accountant, adjusted her glasses nervously.
"Mr. Nicholas, pardon me, sir, we calculated the sum of three hundred sixty-five trillion dollars."
Vincent watched her too long, and she shifted uncomfortably.
"You are the accountant of the Blax Dynasty, yes?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," she replied carefully. "It has been my role for over a decade."
"And what more should I know about you?"
She blinked in confusion.
"I'm… not sure I understand."
Vincent stood and paced slowly.
His voice chilled the room.
"The law of the Blax Dynasty: Trust. Honesty. Penalty for betrayal, death. You signed that contract. You accepted a hundred million in advance. You receive two million daily. So tell me, Ms. Andreina…"
He turned sharply.
"Why did you choose today to destroy everything you built?"
Gasps rippled through the board.
Andreina swallowed.
"S-sir, I don't—"
"Do not lie to me."
Vincent's voice cut through her.
She broke.
"I—I'm sorry, Mr. Vincent," she whispered. "Ten trillion dollars… it will be sent back to the Blax accounts. Please forgive me. I thought, you would not notice. The money is so large, I thought—"
Vincent's stare burned through her.
"What did the contract say?" he demanded.
She collapsed to her knees on the cold marble floor.
"P-penalty… death," she whispered.
Vincent clasped his hands behind his back, his voice calm, almost gentle.
"And so shall it be."