Vincent walked into the dimly lit room, his sanctuary, his ritual chamber, where he held his enemies captive, where they confessed, where they died, and where everything was cleaned afterward without a trace.
His gaze fell on the man kneeling on the cold floor. Lips glued. Hands cuffed behind his back. A pathetic sight. His assistant, always two steps ahead, handed him the pistol and his eyeglasses with practiced precision.
This was the ritual. Vincent's ritual.
He lifted the gun, aimed at the crimson bullet points pinned on the opposite wall, and inhaled deeply. The weight of the weapon steadied him. Vincent slipped the eyeglasses over his eyes, dark, reflective lenses that hid everything he felt.
Three points today. Three targets.
Focus. Silence. Breath.
Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.
All shots landed. All red points exploded into dust.
He never missed. Never failed.
As usual, victory settled over the room.
His assistant collected the gun and glasses. Vincent finally turned to stare down at the man kneeling in blood. Fresh stains. Severed fingers lying beside him. Gonzalo had been right, this one broke easily after pain.
Vincent crouched slightly, locking eyes with him.
"Nile Corporation. Right-hand man. Do you want to live… or die protecting my enemy?"
The man trembled.
"He was tough," Gonzalo murmured, "but after we chopped off all his fingers, one after another, he confessed when we reached the last thumb on his feet."
Vincent nodded silently. Gonzalo, the assistant who had pledged his loyalty long ago. An orphan cast out at twenty by the same family who had once adopted him, discarded because he "wasn't their blood." He had lived eight years with them only to be thrown away. The Blax dynasty had given him a home, a purpose, a master worth loyalty. Gonzalo never forgot that.
He ripped the plastic from the captive's mouth.
The man coughed, his words shaking, his jaws swollen from multiple hits. "Frederick Leonard… he has a hiding home in Milan. That's where he goes to rewind."
Vincent's expression didn't change. Only his eyes darkened.
"Why should I trust you with that information?"
The man coughed again, pain shooting through his bruised cheek. His voice was hoarse, shredded. "I'm not lying. In Milan… Frederick has a room beneath the ground. Underground. He runs private business there… business only he knows. He's always there."
Vincent circled him slowly, hands behind his back, gun held tightly.
"As his right-hand man, you should know everything. Am I right?"
The man shook his head frantically. "No. No. I don't have business there. I only take the operations he gives. Just like… like him to you."
He glanced at Gonzalo, then lowered his head in fear.
Vincent's footsteps echoed as he paced. His eyes flicked to his assistant, silent, understanding, and then back to the trembling man.
"You know something you're not saying. And I hate being lied to. So answer me again. What is this private business?"
The man squeezed his eyes shut. "Cocaine."
Vincent's brows lifted. Throughout his reign as the Mafia King, Italy's most feared, the world's most whispered about, he had never touched hard drugs. Illegal weapons, bullets, black-market oil, yes. But never substances that killed silently.
"You ship cocaine," Vincent said. "Isn't it against the laws?"
The man looked straight into his eyes. "You ship illegal oil. We're not different."
"Oh, yes we are," Vincent replied coolly. "Your product kills instantly. Mine keeps economies alive. We are not the same."
The man stuttered, "He—he has three warehouses full. It's consumed every week. If it kills, why do people rush to it?"
Vincent ignored the question.
"Where are the warehouses?"
"Catania. Napoli. Genoa. Milan."
He swallowed hard. "They're operating even now. A hundred billion dollars every single day."
Vincent's stare sharpened.
"I read you refine crude oil. But that refinery is a cover. You don't refine a single drop. It's to distract government officials."
"We're the same," the man whispered again, desperate.
Vincent studied him.
"Of course we're the same. We kill our enemies the moment we spot them. But there's one major difference, you're kneeling… and I'm holding your life in my hands."
The man broke.
"Please don't kill me. You want Frederick, not me. I'll do anything. Spy? Informant? Anything. Just don't kill me. Life is too good to die now."
Forty soon. Tears, sweat, and blood soaked into his mustache as he cried.
Vincent tilted his head slightly. Expressionless.
"How can I trust a man who steals thirty percent of his boss's money… then steals more again? How can I trust a man who sleeps with anything that walks? Who murdered his own mother because he saw her as a threat?"
The man froze, horror filling his eyes.
"I could never trust you."
He swallowed. Doom crawled over his skin.
"He thinks you're the biggest mafia boss in Italy. In the world…"
"And so I am," Vincent replied simply.
"He wants your connections. Your money. He wants to destroy you. If you kill me, it's useless, he'll find another right-hand man."
Vincent nodded once.
"Not immediately. Not after fifteen years of working beside him. Trust like that isn't found easily. And when he's disoriented…"
He leaned closer.
"…we strike. Clean. Like a knife cutting through flesh."
Vincent saw the memory of the blade slicing his face behind his eyes, the moment he'd seen black.
"You didn't lie," Vincent finally said, glancing at Gonzalo.
Gonzalo confirmed it quickly.
"The house is tracked. Everything he said checks out. Mansion underground, entrance through a small square hatch. The warehouses are real. It's all verified."
Relief washed over the man's face.
"You'll walk out of here a free man," Vincent said calmly. "I keep my promise. I've changed my mind. I won't kill you with my gun."
Gonzalo immediately understood. He removed the cuffs.
The man rubbed his bruised wrists, shaking. "Thank you… thank you so much."
Vincent stepped aside.
"Go. My drivers will drop you at your building."
The man practically stumbled toward the exit, hope resurrecting in his chest.
Vincent's hand hung loosely at his side as he watched him walk away.
He turned to his assistant.
"Burn him alive."
Gonzalo's face didn't change.
"Noted, sire."
He walked off to fulfill his order, diligent, loyal, merciless.