A pair of hands extended through the window, the scar at the back of his hand terrifying. His hands trembling, the guard fumbled with the cuffs. Despite preparing himself mentally to face this man, he couldn't bring himself to calm down. He shakily locked the cuffs around the prisoner's wrists and clumsily tried to open the cell door.
A deep and intimidating voice came from the darkness, asking, "Don't you need me to step back?"
"Ah—yes, ste-step back, please," stammered the prison guard.
With an eerie smirk, the man stepped back. The guard unlocked the door, and the prisoner stepped out, wearing a grey jumpsuit marked with a number. The dull fabric reflected his bleak and oppressive aura as he walked down the passageway.
The moment they stepped into general population, there was an immediate silence. The endless chatter and arguments across bars ended abruptly. The atmosphere was tense, so tense you could cut the tension with a knife. It was only when the large iron door clinked shut did the chatter return but even then, it was hushed whispers.
The prison guard led him to the top level, where the prison warden's office was. He knocked on the door, the sound more pronounced in the silence. A voice came in from inside shouting, "Come in."
He opened the door and walked in with a tense posture. He said, " Sir, he is here."
The warden looked up from his desk, and when his eyes met Dagur's, he got up quickly, excitement flashing across his face. "There's no need for those. Take them off quickly."
The guard hesitated, shaking while searching for the key. His fingers were quivering as he unlocked the cuffs, his nerves betraying him. Dagur found it quite amusing. This little guard was acting like he was going to eat him. Dagur's sinister smirk made the guard's insides churn painfully. He hurriedly removed the restraints and rushed out, closing the door behind him as though fleeing from a predator.
The warden laughed while gesturing toward the chair. "Sit, sit. I thought you wanted to spend more time here. Turns out you want to leave early," he said, acting like a sycophant trying to please his boss. He would gladly give Dagur his pants if he asked for them.
Dagur leaned back in the seat, saying nothing. Beckoning with a tilt of his hand, the warden instantly understood. He hurriedly got up and offered him a cigarette, lighting it with eager hands. He took a long drag, his body relaxing, smoke drifting from his lips. From his posture alone, he looked more like the owner of the office than the warden himself.
The ragged X-shaped scar on the back of his right hand became more prominent when he pinched the cigarette; its ugly mark pronounced with every movement.
"I have urgent business to take care of," Dagur said, his voice calm yet heavy with threat. "What, you will miss me?"
"Of course," the warden replied quickly. "But it's not good to stay too long in a doomed place like this."
With a soft mhm, Dagur agreed with him, smoke drifting lazily. Suddenly, a knock came at the door. The prison warden said, "Come in," and someone entered carrying a bag with Dagur's belongings.
"You can change in here," he said. "I will be waiting outside."
Dagur didn't respond. In fact, the warden didn't wait for him to answer. He turned to leave, closing the door behind him. For a moment, Dagur sat in silence, the cigarette slowly burning between his long fingers. He took a long drag absentmindedly as if time itself had paused at his command. His phone inside the bag chimed.
Through the transparent plastic, he saw that it was a notification. He pulled the cell phone out, and his gaze sharpened at the message glowing on the screen: waiting outside.
He stood up, unhurriedly, his movements carrying a biting chill that would make anyone uneasy. He discarded the prison clothes, replacing them with tailored pants and a crisp shirt. His aura changed drastically, becoming even more overbearing and commanding. He fastened his watch and slid rings onto his fingers.
When he stepped out of the office, the warden was waiting, smiling ingratiatingly. "I would say come any time, but there's nothing good about this place," he said, leading him to the exit. Dagur didn't respond, but the warden, desperate to curry favor, kept on with the nervous chatter. Who wouldn't want to be in Dagur Castel's good graces?
Cool night air brushed against Dagur's cheeks as soon as he stepped out. Standing by the car was a woman dressed in a tight black leather dress with a slit running down the center. Her short yet elegant bob fit her face perfectly. When she saw Dagur, her intimidating expression changed drastically. She beamed, the smile on her face dazzling.
Her name was Samphire. Ten years ago, Dagur had saved her from human traffickers. Ever since then, she pledged her loyalty to him and became his most trusted subordinate.
She worked for him, lived for him, and followed his every command. She was relieved that he had finally decided to come home.
"Finally, you decided to cosplay a prisoner," she said warmly.
Dagur opened the car door. His tone cool, he said, "I heard grandmother is getting a little impatient. I thought I would pay her a visit."
Samphire slid in beside him, her excitement barely restrained. As the driver pulled away, she studied him, her gaze lingering. His eyes closed, he felt her scrutiny. "What?" he asked flatly.
Samphire sat down next to him in the car, barely able to contain her excitement. As they drove off, she stared at him, her gaze burrowing. Her gaze trailed down his face before stopping at his lips. Dagur was a hyper-vigilant person, so of course, he felt that gaze burrowing through his skin. "What?" he flatly asked.
Realizing she had been caught staring, she coughed and said unashamedly, "You look good."
He opened his eyes slowly, his gaze sharp-edged and cutting straight into Samphire. It was a look that said without words: don't even think about it.
Samphire chuckled softly, her voice carrying a teasing lilt. "Why not give it a try? You don't like anyone anyway."
Dagur closed his eyes again, dismissing her silently, but Samphire wasn't ashamed. She leaned closer, her tone shameless as she said, "That's why you have a temper. You need to relax a little."
Her long, slender fingers with nails painted a dazzling red, reached across the seat toward his thigh. Before she could touch him, her wrist was caught in a vice-like grip. Pain shot through her arm, her eyes watering instantly. She knew better. Dagur Castel did not tolerate being touched without permission.
He released her wrist, and Samphire exhaled shakily, relief flooding her chest. She loved him, no, she adored him, but fear was always part of that love. He was not a man to be trifled with.
Who was Dagur Castel, really? He was the Enforcer of the Alliance, the one who sat atop a pyramid of the world's most violent men—Yakuza, cartels, mafias—all held in check by his iron grip. The Castel family had, for decades, commanded the most powerful position in the Alliance. It was this very position that had cost his father his life.
Without a successor, the Enforcer's seat would collapse, and the Alliance would descend into war. Out of all the Castel children, his grandfather had chosen Dagur as the next in line, bypassing his other sons.
It was a decision that had not sat well with everyone. His uncles seethed, and even his grandmother opposed it. Not only were his uncles viable candidates, but Dagur had not even been raised within the Castel family during his earliest years.
His mother, Reina, had lived a hard life. She was an escort, surviving one night at a time, until fate twisted her path. On one of her jobs, she stumbled upon Landen. He had been drugged by an aphrodisiac, and just as he escaped the clutches of that venomous woman, he stumbled into Reina's hands.