Vincent walked into the room, the same cold chamber where he held his enemies captive, broke them, killed them, and had their bodies cleaned away like they were nothing more than stains. His steps were calm, controlled, the steps of a man who already knew how the night would end.
The man on his knees trembled. His lips were glued shut, his hands cuffed behind him. A pathetic sight. Vincent didn't spare him a second glance at first, his attention shifted to his assistant, who immediately understood. Gonzalo placed the pistol in Vincent's waiting hand and passed him his eyeglass.
The ritual.
Vincent's ritual.
He always aimed the gun at the bullet points first, precision before punishment. And when he shot, he always turned to face his enemy, letting them see the kind of man who would decide their fate.
He wore the eyeglass over his eyes. Three points today. Three targets. He inhaled, slow and deep. Focus sharpened.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
Every bullet hit. Every red point burst into a satisfying scatter. As always, Vincent won. Perfection was the only outcome he allowed.
Gonzalo stepped forward to take the weapon and eyeglass from him. Vincent's gaze drifted back to the man kneeling on the floor, his fingers severed from his hands, lying near his knees, discarded, blood still fresh and shining.
Gonzalo had been right. The man was breaking.
Vincent studied him, those trembling eyes, the shallow breaths of a man hovering between fear and foolish hope.
"Nile Corporation's right-hand man," Vincent said quietly, power dripping from every syllable. "Do you want to live… or die protecting my enemy?"
The man's entire body shook. His toughness had dissolved long ago, after each finger was chopped off, one by one. He finally confessed when they reached the last thumb on his feet. The moment he screamed out the truth, every lie in him began to fall apart.
"Frederick Leonard has a hiding home in Milan," Gonzalo summarized, standing loyally at Vincent's side. "Where he goes to rewind."
Gonzalo, the abandoned orphan they'd found on the streets. Thrown out by a family who decided he was too dangerous to keep once they had their own blood. Eight years they'd kept him. And then discarded him. But when he found Vincent building the Blax Dynasty, he knelt and swore loyalty. A vow he lived by every single day.
He ripped off the plastic sealing the captive's mouth.
The man choked on a cough, pain echoing through his swollen cheek. He looked at Vincent, the Mafia King, like he was staring at death wrapped in a tailored suit.
"Why should I trust you with that information?" Vincent asked.
The man coughed again, his voice hoarse and thick with blood. "I wasn't lying… In Milan, Frederick has a room beneath the ground… where he runs private business. Best known to him. He's always there."
Vincent's cold stare didn't waver. "As the right-hand man, you should know what this private business is. Am I right?"
The man shook his head, but his eyes betrayed him.
"I don't have any business there," he whispered. "I only take operations. I'm just like Gonzalo is to you."
Vincent stepped back, pacing slowly, hands behind his back, the gun secure in his grip. His stare met Gonzalo's, a silent command passing between them.
Then his gaze returned to the trembling man.
"You know something," Vincent said. "And you aren't telling me. I hate being lied to. So I'll ask again, what is this private business?"
The man hesitated. His life hung on a single word.
"…Cocaine," he breathed.
Vincent's brow lifted slightly. In all his years as Mafia King, he had never touched hard drugs. He shipped weapons, bullets, illegal materials, but never substances that destroyed people from the inside out.
"You ship cocaine," Vincent repeated. "Is it against your laws?"
The man stared at him desperately. "You ship illegal oil. We are not different."
"Oh, we are." Vincent's voice dropped into a deadly calm. "Your product kills with every intake. Mine helps society keep its resources running. We are not the same."
"He's got three warehouses," the man pushed on. "Full of them. Consumers come every week. If it kills, why do they keep rushing back?"
Vincent's eyes narrowed. "Where are these warehouses?"
"Catania. Napoli. Genoa. Milan," the man listed. "It runs every single day. One hundred billion dollars."
Vincent smirked faintly. "I read your file. You don't refine crude oil. You've never refined, not once. The refinery is just a distraction for government officials."
The man swallowed. "We are the same," he whispered again.
Vincent tilted his head, studying him. "Of course, we are the same… We kill our enemies the moment we see them. But we differ in one thing—" He stepped closer, lowering his voice to a chilling whisper. "You are kneeling. And I am holding your life in my hands."
The man broke.
"Please…please don't kill me." His voice cracked into raw panic. "I'm just his right-handed man. I can act as a spy. An informant. Anything you want, just don't harm me. Life… life is too good to die now."
The soon-to-be forty-year-old sobbed, tears, sweat, and blood dripping into his moustache.
Vincent stared at him without expression.
"How do I trust a man who refuses to die for his boss? Who steals thirty percent of Frederick's money and still takes more? Who sleeps with anything that walks? Who murdered his own mother in her sleep because he saw her as a threat?" Vincent asked, voice cold, steady. "Tell me, how could I ever trust you?"
The man froze. Doom wrapped its hand around his neck.
"He feels… you are the biggest mafia boss now," the man whispered shakily. "In Italy… and the world."
"And so I am," Vincent answered.
"He wants your connections… your money… your empire. If you kill me now, he'll replace me. It'll be a waste."
Vincent's voice deepened. "Not until I destroy him. No, he won't just take another right-hand man. You've worked beside him for fifteen years. Trust is too rare. Too difficult."
The man trembled harder.
"He'll be disoriented," Vincent said. "And then, then we strike. Clean. Like a sharp knife cutting through flesh."
His eyes unfocused for a moment, as if he could still feel the blade that once cut across his face.
"You didn't lie," Vincent said finally.
Gonzalo stepped forward. "The house is tracked. Everything matches. It's in the forest, thousands of hectares. An underground mansion. Verified. The cocaine warehouses too. All legit."
The man exhaled in relief, his body sagging.
"You'll walk out of here a free man," Vincent said. "I keep my promises. I won't kill you with my gun."
Gonzalo immediately moved, unlocking the cuffs. The man rubbed his wrists, tears escaping again.
"Thank you. I really appreciate, thank you."
Vincent's face remained unreadable.
"Go ahead," he ordered. "My drivers will drop you at your building."
The man rushed out, stumbling over his own feet in desperate gratitude.
Vincent didn't move. His hand remained lowered. His eyes didn't shift.
He simply watched the man walk away.
Gonzalo stood still, waiting for his king's command.
Vincent's voice was quiet when it came. Lethal. Final.
"Burn him alive."
Gonzalo nodded once. "Noted, sire."
He turned to carry out the sentence, obedient, efficient, loyal to the bone.