The inside of the truck was dark and suffocating, the air thick with the smell of metal, gasoline, and dried blood that had not yet left Alex's clothes. Alex wonderd where the blood came from, was it his parents or someone else's. His wrists were tied tightly in front of him, the rope rough against his skin, and every small movement made it burn. He sat on the cold floor of the truck, knees drawn up slightly, shoulders shaking not from cold but from everything that had just happened. His throat hurt from screaming, and every breath felt sharp, as though grief itself had grown teeth inside his chest.
The vehicle jerked forward violently, and he lost balance for a moment, his shoulder slamming against the steel wall. He groaned softly, more from exhaustion than pain, and closed his eyes, but the darkness only brought the image back. His fathers falling. The sound of the gunshots. The laughter. He swallowed hard and pressed his forehead against his tied hands as tears slipped down again, silent this time. There were no more screams left in him. Only a hollow ache that would not settle.
The two masked men sat opposite him, their rifles resting casually against their knees as if this was nothing more than another routine errand. One of them nudged the other lightly with his boot.
"You think the boss will actually keep him?" the first asked, his tone relaxed, almost bored.
The other shrugged. "Number Ten thinks so. Says he's got a feeling."
"A feeling," the first repeated with a dry chuckle. "Hope it's worth it."
Alex lifted his head slowly, his eyes red and swollen. They were speaking about him as if he were a package, a gamble, a stray animal picked up off the street. Not once did they look at him as a person who had just lost his family. Not once did they show even a flicker of remorse.
He cleared his throat painfully. "Why are you taking me there?" he asked, his voice trembling despite his effort to steady it. "I didn't do anything."
Neither man answered immediately. One of them adjusted his mask slightly and looked at him with a gaze that was impossible to read. "You're alive," he said finally. "That's reason enough."
Alex frowned weakly, confusion mixing with fear. He had heard stories about the Rodrigos. Everyone had. Their name alone could quiet a room. Businessmen lowered their voices when they mentioned them. Police officers avoided eye contact when questions about them arose. It was said that the Rodrigos did not chase power; power came to them. And those who crossed them did not get trials or apologies. They simply disappeared.
His stomach twisted violently at the thought of being taken to their estate. He imagined dark rooms, chains, screams echoing off probably marbled walls. He imagined torture. He imagined being buried somewhere no one would ever find him. The realization made him bend forward as if he might be sick.
Outside the truck, the city lights began to appear in the distance, tall buildings rising against the night sky like silent watchers. The truck slowed as it approached a long stretch of road lined with towering hedges and security lights. Alex forced himself to look up when he felt the vehicle turn and roll forward with mechanical precision. The gates ahead were enormous, black iron reinforced with steel, and they opened smoothly without a sound as if they had been expecting them.
His breathing became shallow. He was here..he was in the Rodrigo estate.
The truck stopped completely, and the back doors were flung open. Cool night air rushed in, brushing against his damp face. One of the masked men grabbed his arm and pulled him up roughly. Alex stumbled as his feet hit gravel, nearly falling if not for the firm grip on his shoulder. He blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the bright lights that illuminated the massive estate before him.
The Rodrigo mansion stood tall and immovable, its stone walls polished and flawless, large windows glowing faintly from within. It was beautiful in a cold, intimidating way, like something built not for warmth but for dominance. Armed guards stood at precise intervals, their posture straight, their eyes alert but calm. No one looked frantic. No one looked surprised. Everything moved with discipline.
Alex suddenly became aware of how small he looked in comparison. His clothes were stained. His hair was disheveled. His face was streaked with tears. He felt like a broken piece dragged into a place where everything was sharp and perfect.
He was shoved forward, forced to walk up the wide steps that led to the entrance. The large doors opened before they even reached them, revealing a grand foyer with polished marble floors and a chandelier that hung like a cluster of frozen stars. The inside was silent, almost eerily so. It did not feel like the home of criminals. It felt like the headquarters of something far more organized.
And then he saw him.
A tall man stood near the base of the staircase, dressed in a dark tailored suit that fit him flawlessly. His posture was straight, hands clasped loosely behind his back, expression calm and unreadable. His hair was neatly styled, and his eyes—sharp and steady rested on Alex without blinking.
Alex knew who it was, everyone did...this was Antonio the oldest of the two brothers.
Antonio Rodrigo did not look like the monster from rumors. He looked composed. Controlled and Dangerous in a way that did not need to shout.
The masked man who had dragged Alex cleared his throat respectfully. "We brought him," he said. "Collateral from the raid."
Antonio's gaze moved over Alex slowly, not with cruelty but with assessment, like someone inspecting merchandise before purchase. Alex felt exposed under that stare, as though every thought in his head had been laid bare.
"Is he injured?" Antonio asked calmly. His voice was deep, smooth, without urgency.
"No major injuries," the masked man replied.
Antonio nodded once. "Untie him."
Alex blinked in surprise as the rope around his wrists was cut. He rubbed the sore skin instinctively, but he did not run. He knew better. He felt the weight of guards surrounding him, the quiet tension in the air.
From above, a faint sound echoed down the staircase. Alex's head tilted upward despite himself. Another figure leaned casually against the railing, watching with open curiosity.
Raphael Rodrigo.
He did not wear a suit. Instead, his shirt sleeves were rolled up slightly, revealing strong forearms, and his posture lacked the rigid discipline Antonio carried. There was a faint smirk on his lips as he studied Alex, his eyes glinting with something that felt dangerously close to amusement.
"Well," Raphael said lightly, descending a few steps, "who are you?" He asked Alex and Alex panicked, his lips trembled as he fidgeted with his fingers.
Raphael stepped closer, circling Alex slowly as if inspecting him from all angles. Alex's heart pounded violently, and he clenched his fists at his sides to stop them from trembling. He could feel Raphael's gaze lingering on his tear-streaked face, on the way his chest still rose unevenly from suppressed sobs.
"He looks fragile," Raphael murmured. "But not stupid."
Antonio's expression did not change. "Why was he kept again?" he asked, directing the question to the masked men.
"Number Ten thought he might be useful," one replied quickly. "We were ordered no hostages, but—"
"But you made a choice," Antonio finished calmly. There was no anger in his tone, which somehow made it more intimidating.
Silence filled the foyer. Even the guards seemed to hold their breath.
Antonio's eyes returned to Alex. "What is your name?"
Alex swallowed hard. For a brief second he considered staying silent, but something in Antonio's gaze warned him against foolish defiance. "Alex," he answered hoarsely.
Antonio nodded slightly, as if filing the information away. "You understand where you are?"
Alex hesitated, then whispered, "The Rodrigo estate."
Raphael chuckled softly at the fear in his voice. "At least he's informed."
Antonio stepped forward once, closing the distance just enough to make Alex instinctively stiffen. "You are alive because someone believed you might serve a purpose," he said evenly. "If that belief proves incorrect, you will not remain here long."
The words were simple, but the meaning behind them pressed heavily against Alex's chest. He was not a guest. He was not a prisoner of emotion. He was an evaluation.
Antonio turned slightly toward one of the house staff who had appeared silently at the edge of the room. "Find out what he can do," he instructed. "Until then, he remains."
"Remains" The word rang through Alex's tired brain.
Raphael's smirk deepened as he looked at Alex one last time.
"Welcome to the family," he said almost playfully, though his eyes held something far darker.
"No leave , no transfer" he added coldly and walked off.
Alex stood in the center of the grand foyer, surrounded by polished marble and controlled power, and felt the final thread of his old life snap quietly inside him. His parents were gone. His town was gone. Justice was a fantasy.
And now he belonged to the most dangerous men in the city.