Vincent stepped out of his room and into the polished hallways of the mansion. His footsteps echoed softly as he descended the grand, curved staircase, wide, elegant, built to intimidate.
Unlike yesterday, every curtain was drawn shut. The low windows, the towering ones, sealed tight. No sunlight dared to intrude.
Last night had passed quietly.
The sleeping medicine had helped him.
For the first time in sixteen years, Vincent Capel had slept peacefully.
He wouldn't lie to himself about that.
Sixteen years ago, he had sworn never to rely on pills. The nightmares were unbearable, blood-soaked memories clawing their way back every time he closed his eyes. He was Vincent Capel. He was strong. The Mafian King of Italy did not depend on something as fragile as sleep medicine.
It made him weak.
Or so he believed.
But last night, his judgment had wavered. He needed it. He had contacted his assistant, Gonzalo, and ordered him to obtain it discreetly and bring it to his office.
Vincent reached the dining hall.
Breakfast was already prepared.
Of course it was. The chef always had it ready before eight in the morning, and if he didn't show by noon, it would be replaced with something fresh, no matter the cost.
He sat at the head of the long table, eyes scanning the covered plates. One by one, he lifted three of them carefully.
Fish.
The expensive Italian spread, imported sea bass, lightly seasoned, plated with surgical precision.
Vincent didn't eat meat.
Not anymore.
The memory surfaced without warning: vultures feeding on human flesh atop the red hills. Bodies he had supplied. A necessary cruelty. Something he didn't regret, but one that had changed his appetite forever.
He pushed the thought aside and ate slowly, methodically. His mouth moved in a steady rhythm, savoring the taste the way he always did.
After sampling the three plates, five remained unopened.
He stood, picked up his briefcase, and left the mansion.
Minutes later, he was driving through the city. Soon after, he stepped into the fully air-conditioned skyscraper that bore no name on its exterior, but was feared worldwide.
The Blax Dynasty.
As Vincent exited the elevator, a man was already waiting.
Spruced hair. Dark suit. Movements perfectly synchronized with Vincent's own pace.
Georgeson.
Even after years of service, the man still feared him.
"Sir," Georgeson began carefully, "Blax Dynasty is in need of a new accountant after Ms. Andriana's dismissal. Out of fifty thousand applicants, we've narrowed it down to ten candidates with the strongest credentials. If you'd like to see them personally—"
"Have you tested their honesty?" Vincent asked without looking at him.
"Yes, sir. Fifty of them picked up the stack of fake cash we placed near the exit. They were dismissed immediately. The remaining ten returned it untouched. They're waiting in the interview room. Shall I proceed with selecting one?"
Vincent stopped at his office door.
For the first time, he looked directly into Georgeson's eyes.
"Make them wait," he said calmly. "Patience is part of the test."
He stepped inside.
Gonzalo was already there.
Vincent walked to his desk as Gonzalo rose from the lounge and placed a small, dark bottle in front of him.
"I got it discreetly," Gonzalo said. "A rare prescription-grade sleeping pill. Imported. Two thousand dollars."
Vincent picked up the bottle, turning it slowly.
"Can you believe," he murmured, "that something this cheap can buy you peace, even for a few hours?"
He slipped it into his pocket and leaned back into his chair.
That was Gonzalo's cue.
"The officials have been bribed," Gonzalo reported. "Ten million dollars each. One hundred of them. The money is already circulating to be legalized."
Vincent nodded. "How much came in today?"
"Two hundred trillion in twenty stacks. Three hundred billion from my personal wallet."
"Ten trillion will compensate you," Vincent replied. "Anything else?"
As he spoke, he opened his laptop and accessed the interview room camera.
Ten people sat around a circular table.
Ten people willing to sell their loyalty to the Blax Dynasty, the most powerful organization in Italy, and arguably, the world.
Four women. Six men.
Vincent rested his chin on his interlocked fingers, watching them sit in silence.
Gonzalo continued, "The President of Italy called today. He wants a private meeting with you."
Vincent's eyes lifted. "What business?"
"He didn't say. Only that it's confidential. He claims he doesn't trust people easily."
Vincent squinted.
President Alessandro Vitale.
Eight years in power. Influential. Dangerous.
"Where?" Vincent asked.
"He'll come to you," Gonzalo replied. "After all… his recorded net worth is barely one hundred trillion. You exceed that by a million times over."
Vincent exhaled slowly. "Still, luxury requires maintenance. Money doesn't come easily."
That much was true.
Blax Dynasty dealt primarily in oil, illegal acquisition, strategic shortages, inflated resale prices. Below ground floors handled logistics. Upper floors ran the real operations, money laundering, arms trafficking, human trade, assassinations.
Gonzalo owned over twenty palace-like buildings and the most expensive villa in Italy. Each worth hundreds of billions. He changed residences weekly.
A habit born from deprivation.
"Invite the president," Vincent said. "Privately."
Gonzalo nodded.
Then Vincent's phone rang.
His expression darkened as he listened.
"We have a problem," he said quietly.
Gonzalo stiffened.
"The money didn't reach the crossing point today. It diverted routes. It's missing."
Silence.
"The clients are calling," Vincent continued. "This was supposed to be smooth."
Gonzalo swallowed. "A traitor?"
"One of our men got greedy," Vincent said coldly. "Find him."
Gonzalo nodded and left.
Vincent slammed his hand against the table.
Greed.
It was greed that had killed his father. Greed that had burned his home. A partner who wanted everything, and sent killers to claim it.
They failed to kill Vincent.
The boy who stabbed the man again and again, blood splattering his face as rage consumed him.
The man had taught him how to kill.
Now Vincent perfected it.
He stood.
It was time.
—-
Vincent walked into the interview room.
All ten candidates immediately stood from their seats.
The man before them was the owner of the Blax Dynasty, his face known across the world. A living shadow that ruled both legal markets and the underground with the same cold precision.
Vincent took his seat at the head of the long table.
He lifted one hand.
At once, all ten sat back down.
Silence followed.
Vincent leaned back in his chair, studying their faces one after another, letting the weight of his presence sink into them before he finally spoke.
"Welcome to the Blax Dynasty," he said calmly. "You're here for the vacant position of accountant. You will be responsible for recording every sum earned, every cent moved, and dispatching funds when required."
His gaze sharpened.
"We need only one accountant. Mistakes are unacceptable. We work with truth."
He paused.
"Upon signing the contract, one hundred million dollars will be transferred to your account."
Shock rippled through the room.
One hundred million.
And that wasn't salary.
It was compensation.
"For life-long service to the Blax Dynasty," Vincent continued. "One of you will sign. Or none of you will."
Every candidate straightened.
"Now," Vincent said, "one by one, tell me why I should choose you. Starting with you."
He pointed at the woman seated to his right.
She was no older than thirty. Tinted blonde-white hair framed her face. Average. Unremarkable. Someone you would never notice twice on the street.
Morgan stood.
Her past flashed through her mind, the coffee shop, the crude hands, the boss who smiled while crossing lines and paid her a thousand dollars a week to stay silent. She had quit. She was exhausted. She wanted more.
She wanted a life she could never reach otherwise.
When she'd seen the Blax Dynasty recruitment notice online, she hadn't hesitated. No one in Italy didn't know the name. Mafia or not, it was power.
She had submitted her credentials immediately.
Today, she had ridden buses across the city to reach the skyscraper that pierced the clouds, surrounded by staff dressed in tailored suits, expensive watches glinting at their wrists.
Morgan met Vincent's gaze.
"Loyalty and honesty," she said steadily, "create a foundation that cannot be shaken. Add dedication and punctuality, and you build trust that survives pressure. I don't just work to earn, I work to protect what I'm trusted with."
She inhaled. "Money can be replaced. Trust can't."
Vincent watched her in silence.
Then he nodded.
"Sit."
One by one, the others spoke. Some confident. Some trembling. Some rehearsed. Some desperate.
When the last finished, Vincent spoke again.
"The penalty for dishonesty, betrayal, or manipulation of records," he said evenly, "is death. Do you agree?"
The room stiffened.
Some nodded immediately.
Others hesitated, then nodded.
Vincent's eyes moved to a man in a cheap but neatly ironed leather suit.
"You," he said. "Tell me why I shouldn't choose any of them."
The man stood. "Samuel."
"Because they don't deserve it," Samuel said bluntly.
Vincent tilted his head. "Why?"
"They speak what sounds good," Samuel continued. "But they're here for money, not responsibility. Fear sits behind their eyes. Some will fold the moment pressure comes."
"And you're different?" Vincent asked.
Samuel didn't hesitate. "I know what this place is. I won't pretend it's clean. I won't moralize it. If I'm chosen, I won't lie, to you or to myself."
He gestured toward the others. "They're still pretending."
The room erupted.
Accusations followed. Voices clashed. One insult after another.
Vincent leaned back, watching.
Then Morgan stood again.
"Enough," she said sharply. "Why are we tearing each other apart? Are we here to compete, or humiliate?"
Silence cracked.
A red-haired woman scoffed. "Easy to say when you look like you belong. That blonde hair alone—"
Morgan cleared her throat ignoring her.
"Mr. Vincent Capel," she said, voice firm despite the fear crawling up her spine. "With respect, this question itself feels wrong. Is belittling someone's education and experience truly how an interview should be conducted?"
Vincent's eyes locked onto her.
"How dare you defy my orders?"
Morgan flinched, but didn't sit.
"I'm sorry, sir," she said. "I may not be suited for this job. But loyalty without morals is empty. Honesty without ethics is just obedience. Loyalty only has meaning when it's tested against what's right."
The room went dead silent.
Vincent slammed his palm against the table.
The sound echoed violently.
He rose slowly from his chair, his gaze burning into Morgan.
"How dare you tell me how to run my empire?" he growled.
Morgan swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, sir, but my last job destroyed me. I was assaulted repeatedly. If my boss had morals, he wouldn't have done that. I want money. I want justice. If I don't get it here, I'll find it elsewhere."
Something shifted in Vincent's eyes.
He turned away.
"The interview is over."
He reached the door.
"Ms. Morgan."
She froze.
"Come with me," he said without turning. "You're hired. Sign the contract."
The door closed behind him.
Morgan remained seated for a heartbeat, then stood abruptly.
Her hands shook.
This was it.