Ruiz Souza was starting to have a migraine.
It could've resulted from the thundering bass of Club Pita or the shit he'd been smoking all evening, but whatever it was, the pounding in his temples irritated him. Nonetheless, he remained sprawled in the center booth of the VIP section, one arm draped across the brown leather backrest, legs spread in that careless way that screamed wealth and indifference.
On the table before him were ridiculously expensive champagne bottles, and his glass, which he hadn't touched in over an hour. Below, the main floor writhed--a mass of bodies pressed together under strobing lights, all desperate to be seen, to be chosen, to matter. From his elevated throne, Ruiz watched them with a dark, hooded eyes that held no interest whatsoever. The VIP section wrapped around the upper level like a crown, separated from the commoners by frosted glass panels and velvet ropes that might as well have been castle walls.
He was eighteen, a six foot five inches of lithe, corded muscles with a face that was eerily perfect. His black hair fell just past his ears, artfully disheveled in a way that suggested he'd either just rolled out of bed or run his hands through it too many times. Sharp cheekbones cast shadows across his face, and his jaw looked like they could cut through glass--strong, defined, with just a hint of stubble that he never quite shaved clean.
But it was his eyes that made people look twice, then look away. Dark as spilled ink, framed by lashes that any girl would kill for, they held something cold and calculating that no eighteen-year-old should possess. A thin scar, very recent, traced from behind his right ear lobe and disappeared into the collar of his black silk shirt, which he wore unbuttoned. He had tattoos on his forearms--words in Spanish that he never translated for anyone, and a set of coordinates that only he knew the meaning of.
He adjusted the cuff of his silk shirt, and stretched slightly in his black pants that were tailored to perfection. His boots, Italian leather, the kind you saw in magazines, not on actual people's feet in a club, tapped against the table as his leisure observation continued. A silver chain caught the light at his wrist, and three rings adorned his fingers, each one heavy with meaning and menace.
He lifted a hand to his temple, pressing against the increasing pain. It had to be the loud music. Each thump from the invisible speakers resounded in his head along with the grating laughter of his friends and their easy lays for the night.
"Ruiz! Hermano!" Alfredo shouted over the music, stumbling back to their booth with a blonde tucked under each arm. "Look what I brought-- two beauties to loosen you up! It's a celebration, man!"
Ruiz flicked ash from his Cuban cigar into the crystal ashtray, exhaling smoke without looking up. The girls hovered, hopeful, but he shook his head. Alfredo laughed it off, pivoting to Lucas, who was grinding against a redhead on the adjacent couch. "Leave him--" Lucas said, "He gets like this."
"Yeah, I know." Alfredo replied.
They all knew. Ruiz Souza, grandson of Ginny Souza, the Dowager of the underworld--the woman who controlled more drugs and ammunition than most small countries' militaries. His reputation had arrived at Club Pita hours before he did, whispered from table to table like a curse. Dangerous. Untouchable. Beautiful in the way a loaded gun was.
Earlier in the night, they'd come in waves--girls in dresses that cast aspersions on their dignity, wearing their best smiles and boldest perfumes. They'd approached with rehearsed lines and batting eyelashes, hoping to be the one who could thaw the ice prince of the Souza empire.
He'd declined them all with nothing more than a shake of his head, not even bothering to look up. Most had taken the rejection with forced grace and quickly pivoted to his friends--grateful, at least, to exist in his circle even if they couldn't have him.
Now those same girls draped themselves across his crew like living accessories. Carlos had two on his lap, feeding him shots. Diego was nowhere to be seen, probably in one of the private rooms. Even serious, cautious Fernando had given in to the atmosphere, his usual composure drowned in expensive vodka.
But Ruiz remained detached from it all, with too many issues plaguing his thoughts. Too many demons clawing at his peace.
He took another pull from his cigar and let his gaze drift over the crowd below. The normal people, he thought with something between pity and envy. They were all chasing something--oblivion, connections, love, lust, money, or maybe even the simple things of life that filled gold-diggers with discontent. They wanted to be like him...or associated with him, but they had no idea what it entailed. They had no idea what real darkness looked like. None did, except...Aldo.
The headache went a notch higher as he recalled the dead boy. He buried the memory as quickly as it came and discarded the cigar. He shouldn't have come. Alfredo had insisted, said he needed to "loosen up a little," as if random sex and high-quality booze could settle the dust that had risen over the last few weeks.
Mercifully, a brief commotion at the VIP entrance cut through his thoughts. Security waved through another round of bottle service, but detained a lanky waiter a beat too long--the guy wasn't part of their waiting staff for the evening, hence the check. After a nod, they let him through. Ruiz watched idly as he maneuvered through the crowd with a tray of top-shelf liquor. Nothing special. Just a drone in the hive.
"Ruiz, man, you okay?" Fernando asked, genuine concern breaking through his drunken haze.
"Fine," Ruiz replied, his voice low and rough, the kind of voice that made people lean in to hear better. "Just a headache."
"Want me to get rid of some of these people? Clear some space?"
Ruiz almost smiled. Fernando, loyal to a fault. "No. Let them have their fun."
He settled deeper into his seat, eyes cold and watchful. Always aware. It was how you stayed alive in his world.
What he didn't see, what he couldn't have known, was that someone in this temple of excess and oblivion, was watching him back. And unlike all the others, this one wasn't looking with desire.
This one watched him with hatred. It was a stare so strong, the intensity snagged his gaze. Instincts prickling, he scanned the VIP, looking for the source of his newest apprehension.
Then he locked eyes with the lanky waiter. Time seemed to slow as the waiter dropped his now empty tray, revealing a gun that was as black as death itself.
He wanted to shout, to lunge for cover, but the trigger went off, shooting Ruiz Souza point blank.