Vincent Carpel, CEO of Blax Dynasty, one of the most ruthless companies in Italy, if not the entire world, stood before the shooting range target, his jaw set. His gun was raised, his dark eyes hidden behind darker shades. The scar that ran down the left side of his face, the one he'd gotten at sixteen, pulled faintly when he narrowed his gaze.
He could still feel the knife slicing through his skin. He could still taste the blood. The pain that nearly blinded him lived permanently in his memory.
His fingers flexed once. He lowered the gun slightly, breath steadying. Then, with the expression he almost never wore, cold, controlled dominance, he fired.
Boom.
The bullet tore through the exact center, splintering the board cleanly. Vincent lifted his chin, dropping the gun to the table with a soft, final thud.
He had never failed at this target. Never, except once, when he was seventeen. That was the year he swore to kill the man who murdered the only father he ever knew. The war that followed should have taken his life, yet he came out alive, victorious, after emptying bullet after bullet into the rival mafia lord's chest.
His vision had been burning that day. His rage blinding. After shooting the enemy dead, he'd taken the penknife he always carried and carved out the man's left eye, an offering, which he dropped at Red Hills for the vultures to eat as his final farewell.
Now, in the present, Vincent turned. His personal assistant, Gonzalo, his right hand for almost a decade, instantly stepped forward to take Vincent's shades.
Across the room, a man knelt.
Older. Gray hair. Lips sealed with plastic. Sweat streamed from his forehead down to his brows. His body trembled uncontrollably; he already knew he was standing at the edge of his grave.
His hands were cuffed behind him. He had been caught selling Blax Dynasty's secrets to competitors desperate to climb to the number one spot, Vincent's spot. The man had been paid millions by Vincent, fed by Vincent, protected by Vincent.
But greed never slept.
Vincent had found out. Of course he had.
The traitor had tried to flee the country, aiming for a private jet Vincent knew about before the man even bought the ticket. Vincent's black vehicles cornered him within minutes, dragging him to this very room, a place called Danger, reserved for the last moments of those foolish enough to betray him.
Vincent stepped toward him now, pacing slowly, hands behind his back, each step deliberate, controlled. His presence alone made the air heavier.
"Israel," Vincent said, his deep voice echoing in the dim, black-walled room, "why have you forsaken me?"
Israel shook violently, trying to speak through the plastic. Gonzalo understood instantly. He ripped the plastic off without mercy.
Israel gasped, words spilling out messy and terrified.
"S-sir, I didn't want to do it! I've worked for you almost ten years—I swear, I swear I rejected them, I refused them so many times—but the money—sir, the money was too much—please, I didn't want to betray you, please don't kill me—please—!"
Vincent's fists tightened at his sides. His anger simmering beneath his skin.
"Israel," he snapped.
Israel froze.
Vincent's voice dropped, low and lethal. "You were about to run. Did you think I wouldn't find you? Did you forget I own this city? Italy listens when I whisper." His eyes darkened. "I have spies everywhere. Did you tell them that too?"
He stopped pacing, standing tall, dangerously handsome, impossibly intimidating. Countless women tried to throw themselves at him, tried to live off his empire, tried to be seen at his side. But Vincent had no interest. He had no time.
Work. Power. Control. That was his world.
"How dare you?" His voice was a quiet threat. "Blax Dynasty runs on a single policy, never reveal its secrets. And you? You tried to destroy everything I built."
Israel sobbed. "Nile Empire—they know! T-they know about the oil shipment being moved across the state—they paid me to tell them, I was trying to earn back your trust, sir—please—just one more chance—!"
Vincent's expression didn't move.
"Go on," he ordered.
Israel swallowed, his fifty-year-old body shaking. "They leave at midnight to sabotage the goods before they reach the checkpoint tomorrow. They want it all for themselves. You lose everything… or they take everything."
Vincent raised his head sharply, exchanging a glance with Gonzalo. Information confirmed.
"Israel," Vincent said, pacing again, gun still in his grip, "that shipment cost me ten trillion dollars. Delivering it earns me three hundred trillion." His eyes hardened. "And you risked all that, for ten billion? When I pay you twenty million every week? When I would have gladly given you ten billion myself if you'd come to me first?"
Israel broke into louder sobs. "I'm sorry, sir. I'll change. Please— protect your goods—they're already moving—"
Vincent cut him off with a calm, spine-freezing reply.
"I already have."
Israel blinked. "H-huh?"
"Your confession was recorded. My men are acting on it now. News like this is… valuable."
Israel sagged with relief, nodding desperately.
Vincent watched him for a long moment. Then the slightest shift crossed his face.
"You know what? You should be free," Vincent said, voice calm. "After all… you just saved me a great deal of money."
Israel gasped in joy. "T-thank you, sir—thank you—"
Gonzalo moved behind him, unlocking the cuffs and releasing his legs. Israel fell over, breath shaking, hands rubbing the red marks on his wrists.
He staggered to his feet, tears falling. "Thank you, sir. I swear—I swear I'll never betray you again—"
Vincent nodded slowly. "You may go."
Then he added,
"Mercy is simply the pause before judgment."
Israel blinked, confused, but too relieved to question it. He turned to leave.
He took three steps toward the door.
Vincent spoke behind him, voice ice-cold.
"A mistake made once can never be reversed."
Israel froze.
He turned,
Boom.
The bullet hit the back of his head.
Boom.
Boom.
Three shots. Same spot.
Israel stood a moment, blood pooling in his mouth, dripping from his nose. Then he collapsed forward, body crumpling, lifeless.
Vincent didn't flinch.
"Clean the body," he said to Gonzalo. "We're heading south tonight."
He peeled off his dark gloves and tossed them into the burning furnace.
This was Vincent Carpel,
owner of Blax Dynasty,
king of kings,
lord of lords in the mafia world.
A man who built a trillion-dollar empire from nothing.
A man who never tolerated betrayal.
His polished Italian shoes clicked against the floor as he walked out, heading toward the black luxury van waiting to take him to his next mission