"It has been up to a week now," Storm muttered to himself, the words escaping in a dry rasp.
A full load of unease and tension remained stacked deep down his throat, thick and suffocating like the heavy, leather-bound books crowding the shelves around him.
It had really been a week since he and Scarlet had pulled that brave, reckless stunt together. It was a play Storm initially wanted no part in, the very thought of it turned his stomach, but Scarlet was sly, a man of corny charms and jagged edges, able to manipulate and persuade him into the fold.
"If Miguel leaves the field, it would benefit us both... You especially," Scarlet had said on that fateful day. His tone was wicked, carrying an evil implication that hung in the air like stagnant smoke.
The man had invited Storm over for their usual ritual, a chill-out session fueled by high-end liquor and sexual adventures with beautiful women. After getting all high, floating somewhere way over the clouds, the two men had retreated into the VIP section.
Storm thought they were there to sleep off the haze of their activities, only for Scarlet to begin weaving words that could put a man at arm's length by the mere sound of them.
"What do you mean by, 'when he leaves the field?'" a wasted Storm had asked, his voice thick with innocent confusion.
"Don't be naive, Storm!" Scarlet's voice echoed through the plush room, sharp with irritation. He cast a disgusted stare down at Storm, who was struggling to even register the gravity of the room he sat in. Then, Scarlet leaned in, his voice calming into a predatory silk.
"You know what I mean..." He paused,
acutely aware of the weight his words would carry. His eyes darted around the walls as if the very paint could tell him off or betray their secret.
"Miguel has to die!!" Scarlet delivered the line in a harsh, jagged whisper.
That single sentence hit Storm like a bucket of ice water, leaving him clean and sober in an instant.
He flew to his feet, his heart hammering against his ribs, ready to storm out of the man's office. He owed Miguel and the Salazar cartel everything. Even though Miguel was years younger than Storm, age didn't touch the hierarchy of respect; this was the man who had saved Storm's wife and hauled Storm himself up when he was sinking deep into the abyss like the Titanic.
In truth, Storm feared and honored only two entities: God and Miguel.He was a changed man now, transformed from a struggling crypto trader to a player in illegal businesses that bagged thousands of millions, all thanks to Miguel's hand. He had vowed never to turn his back; it was a blood-deep, forever loyalty.
"Let's never talk about this again. You are my tight friend—or else I would have outed you to Miguel, or even ended you myself," Storm snapped, his finger flying up in a stern warning. He shook his head in a violent refusal, closing his ears to whatever poison Scarlet had left to pour.
He was almost out the door when Scarlet pulled what seemed like his final card, the ace hidden up a blood-stained sleeve.
"Stooooorm!… be wise for once," Scarlet's voice dragged in a slow-burn mockery. For some reason, the sound froze Storm in his tracks. He snapped his head back, fixing the man with a challenging, questioning look.
"You are being loyal to a man you owe tens of billions to? If you aren't aware, or maybe you have just forgotten, let me jog your memory." Scarlet paused, letting the silence simmer until it was uncomfortable before continuing.
"You made a deal with the devil himself. And the devil will never set you free. You are disposable the second you can't keep up no more."
This line pierced Storm's armor. He straightened up, turning fully to face Scarlet with a flicker of dark investment dancing on his face.
"Who knows what his desires would be then? I mean, you have a beautiful daughter and a mesmerizing son... and Miguel has eyes for good things," Scarlet finished.
A smirk faintly pulled at his lips the moment he saw Storm's knuckles turn white, his fists folding tightly in a primal reflex.
After a handful of minutes of crushing silence, Storm felt the shift. In as much as it's absurd, there's sixty percent truth in Scarlet's words, he told himself.
He had watched Miguel do it before, discarding the loyal once they became a liability. Even Storm himself had participated in such acts; it was the unspoken, brutal rule of the mafia. But to hell if he would let that shadow fall over his family.He declared his descent into the darkness by slowly walking back and reclaiming his seat.
Now, a week later, he was in a seat again, this time in his own office. His anus was squeezed tight with nerves, trapped in that same contemplating silence, but now the air carried the loud, screaming signatures of fear and regret.
There had been no reports. No feedback from Scarlet or the assassins they had hired.
Nothing had surfaced on the news, not even a whisper on the wire. There could only be one possibility.
The plan failed.
The thought alone froze Storm inside and out. He prayed silently, desperately, that the event would turn out otherwise, lost in an internal brewing chaos of "what ifs." He was drowning in it when the sound came.
A knock. It was so polite and soft it could have passed for a stray gust of air swooshing by, but it nearly sent Storm into the next realm.
He literally forgot how to breathe for several seconds, clutching his chest tightly, his eyes feeling as though they might pop out of their sockets.
"Sir?" The voice called from behind the wood, polite and professional.
Storm let out a deep, jagged exhale, a sound of pure, trembling relief as he pressed his eyelids shut. He recognized that voice. It belonged to his butler.
"Come in," Storm managed to call out, sitting up straight as he realized he had been slowly slipping out of the chair in his state of paralysis.
The doorknob twisted downward with a long, stretched creak. The door danced open slowly, revealing the suited, middle-aged man.
He walked in as if the floor beneath him were made of thin glass or fire, his expression unreadable. In his gloved hands, he held a cellphone out like an offering.
Storm didn't utter a word. He just shot the man a sharp, questioning glare that vibrated with suppressed panic.
"Sir, you have a call," the butler announced. He approached the desk, stretching the phone toward Storm with as much respect and distance as he could muster.
After a suspicious, thorough scan of the device, Storm finally took it. He placed it cautiously to his ear, stealing one more quick glance at the butler. The screen was labeled with a haunting [UNKNOWN NUMBER].
Clearing his throat, he spoke into the void.
"H-hello?"
"Storm, this is Robinson speaking," the voice on the other end answered sharply, skipping any form of formalities. It was mechanical, robotic, yet firm and precise enough to make Storm's blood run cold.
Storm's brows folded in a mask of confusion, fear, and escalating worry.
Why was Robinson calling him?
To be continued...