Vincent removed his black gloves and, for what felt like the thousandth time, tossed them into the burning furnace.
The flames swallowed the leather instantly.
This time, he hadn't killed.
Red firelight danced across his sharp features as he stared into the blaze, one hand clasped behind his back, standing alone in the dimly lit room. After a long moment, he turned away and strode out, his footsteps echoing with finality.
Minutes later, he was marching toward his luxurious black car.
The engine purred to life, and Vincent drove straight toward the club, the only place loud enough to drown his thoughts before he returned home. He spun the steering wheel, accelerating through the empty Italian roads, eyes fixed forward, unblinking.
Soon, the parking lot came into view.
The moment he stepped out of the car, attention snapped toward him.
Vincent Carpel.
A name that shook Italy.
The Mafia King.
Dangerous businesses, whispered rumors, blood-stained deals, but never a single piece of evidence strong enough to touch him. People tried. People disappeared.
He moved with effortless dominance, his imposing handsomeness impossible to ignore. Girls in skimpy dresses whispered behind their palms, eyes trailing after him. No one dared approach.
Arrogant. Ruthless. Wealthy. Untouchable.
And yet, every woman there would have given anything to be claimed by him.
Vincent entered the banging luxury club, where bodies twisted to deafening music. Strippers swirled around poles, their movements designed to drain wallets. Elite men spent recklessly, intoxicated by lust and sound.
Vincent headed straight for his reserved area.
The same place. Always empty. Always waiting, for him.
He sat back, one arm draped over the chair as the club owner hurried over. Tonight was supposed to be payment day. One billion dollars, the remaining sum from a loan Vincent had once granted.
Vincent leaned back, signing nothing, simply letting the music pound through him. He welcomed the noise. It silenced everything else.
"Mr. Vincent Carpel, a pleasure to see you again."
Derek stood stiffly, head lowered, hands clasped behind his back in respect.
Vincent didn't look at him.
Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a hand-rolled Cuban cigar infused with black truffle essence, flicked his lighter, and lit it slowly. Smoke curled around him.
Silence stretched.
Then Vincent spoke, his voice low and deadly calm.
"Derek. Where's my money?"
His eyes lifted.
Derek flinched the instant their gazes met.
"S-sir… Mr. Vincent. The money will be ready before the week ends. One billion is… a lot. We're doing everything we can."
Vincent inhaled deeply, then exhaled smoke.
"Surely you are."
"I am, sir," Derek answered too quickly, stepping back.
How could he ever disrespect Vincent Carpel?
This was a man whose power ran deeper than bloodlines, whose wealth spread across Italy by word of mouth alone. That was why, when Derek lost a two-billion-dollar bet and stood on the brink of losing his club, he had crawled to the Black Dynasty and fallen at Vincent's feet.
When Vincent finally agreed to see him, the contract he signed had been brutal, outrageous interest, ruthless conditions.
But desperate men didn't negotiate.
Vincent watched the smoke drift upward. The cold tonight was sharp. He needed this.
"Derek," Vincent said lazily, "I learned that Club Imperia Milano makes over two hundred million dollars daily. Even more on weekends."
Derek stiffened.
"If you truly wanted to gather my money, it would already be in my hands." Vincent's gaze hardened. "Instead, you're spending half your income on the woman you keep in a Milan villa, while your wife waits at home."
Pathetic.
Derek's face drained of color.
"H-how did you know that?"
"I watch what belongs to me," Vincent replied coldly. "And right now, you belong to me."
Derek swallowed hard.
"One more day," Vincent continued. "That's my mercy. Fail, and this entire place will be seized by the Black Dynasty. You know how many empires I've taken that way."
Derek nodded frantically.
"Yes, sir. I'll have it. I swear."
Trying to recover, Derek forced a smile.
"In the meantime, why don't you relax? I'll bring the girls, your favorites. And your liquor."
Vincent lifted a finger.
"Just the liquor. No girls."
Derek hesitated, then nodded.
"Right away, Mr. Vincent."
Moments later, a server approached.
She was Latina, red hair cascading over her shoulders, white heels clicking softly. Her uniform barely contained her curves, skirt riding high on her thighs. She bent forward deliberately as she poured the liquo, —a 40-year-old Dalmore Constellation Reserve, rare and priceless.
"Mr. Vincent," she murmured, "my pleasure to serve you."
She straightened slowly, brushing her hair behind her ear, eyes lingering.
Derek returned, smirking.
"What do you think, Vincent? Hot beneath you… or on top?"
Vincent reached for the glass, then paused.
His eyes narrowed.
He closed them briefly.
Then he looked straight at Derek.
"What do you think you're doing?"
Derek froze.
"Why is there a sleeping pill in my drink?" Vincent asked calmly. "What's your plan?"
Vincent knew immediately. He knew poisons too well, benzodiazepines, chloral hydrate, zolpidem, rohypnol, gamma-hydroxybutyrate, barbiturates, diazepam, ketamine, scopolamine, phenobarbital. He'd studied them all.
Without another word, Vincent lifted the glass and drained it completely.
Derek stared in shock.
Vincent stood.
"One day," he said, pointing once. "Bring me my money."
Then he walked away.
The moment Vincent disappeared from the club, the air seemed to rush back in.
Derek exhaled sharply, both hands planting on his waist as he stared at the empty doorway. His shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat.
He turned slowly.
His gaze landed on the girl.
She stood there, hands folded in front of her, red hair spilling over bare shoulders. Another girl. Another failed attempt.
Or… was Vincent Carpel different?
Derek frowned.
Is he gay? The thought flashed briefly through his mind. Maybe men would work better, brothers, perhaps,
He shook his head hard, forcing the thought away.
Focus.
His eyes darkened as he stepped closer to the girl. He lifted her chin with a finger beneath her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze.
"Do you have any idea," Derek said quietly, voice trembling with anger, "how much I could have made tonight if he had fallen for it?"
The girl's emerald eyes widened slightly.
"More than ten billion," Derek continued, teeth clenched. "Enough to wipe my debts clean. Enough to expand this club. Enough to own the city."
His fingers tightened under her chin.
"You failed."
She swallowed but didn't pull away.
Derek's gaze dropped briefly, then he reached forward and slipped the small vial from where it was hidden against her chest, tucking it into his pocket.
He chuckled bitterly. "Such a waste."
Then his eyes shifted.
Slowly, hunger replaced frustration.
She was beautiful. Too beautiful.
And suddenly, Derek wanted her for himself.
He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper.
"How much would it cost for you to stay with me tonight?"
Her lips curved faintly as her hand lifted, palm resting against his cheek.
"100 thousand dollars," she murmured. "For the whole night."
She leaned closer, breath warm against his ear.
"You'll keep coming back for my coño. It's… delicioso."
Derek laughed softly, impressed.
"One hundred it is."
Cheap. Far cheaper than the women who pretended not to want him while emptying his accounts.
"We could do it here," she whispered.
Derek's hand slid around her waist, pulling her close.
"I can't wait," he said. "You'll follow my instructions."
She nodded eagerly.
"Kneel."
She obeyed instantly, sinking to her knees as her fingers reached for his belt,
The music swallowed them whole.
—
Vincent drove fast.
The medicine wouldn't hit immediately, but it would soon. He couldn't afford weakness on the road.
He pulled into his mansion just in time, the gates closing behind him. Inside, the curtains were drawn, chandeliers poured golden light over the silence.
Dinner awaited him.
He uncovered the dishes, white truffle risotto, osso buco, saffron-infused tagliolini, burrata drizzled with aged balsamic, and porcini-stuffed ravioli.
He ate standing.
He speared a bite of the risotto, chewing slowly. Minimal seasoning. Perfect. Just how he liked it. Excess disgusted him, in food and in life.
After a few bites, he drank water, covered the food, and headed upstairs.
In his room, he removed his jacket and caught sight of the tattoo etched along his ribs,
A black serpent coiled around a burning family crest, the fangs dripping blood, carved the night his entire family was slaughtered. A mark of survival. A reminder of vengeance.
The medication crept in as he showered.
Vincent collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
Then the screams came.
His mother. His father. His sister.
He clutched his head, teeth grinding, eyes squeezed shut,
And for the first time in years, Vincent Carpel surrendered to sleep.
Not waiting for morning.