Adrian Manches
My chest rose and fell in heavy waves as I let go of the dumbbell, each breath dragging through me like fire. Sweat trickled down my temples, running into the corners of my jaw and soaking the collar of my black tank top until it clung to my torso.
I sat on the edge of the bench, elbows resting on my knees, hands hanging loose as if the dumbbells had stolen the strength from my fingers. My muscles trembled under the sheen of sweat, my forearms still tight from the last brutal set.
I reached for my bottle and downed the water in it. I tipped my head back, eyes closing, letting the water cool my insides. The pounding in my ears fade, savoring the sharp edge of exhaustion like victory.
A knock sounded on the door, pulling me out of my internal victory.
"Who is it?" I called out in annoyance.
"Sir, the Boss wishes to speak to you." A feminine voice replied.
It was probably one of the servants. One of the perks of being the biggest mafia gang in the city was that we had lot of servants and bodyguards. We were served and protected.
"I just finished my rounds." My eyes linger on the 30-pound dumbbells by the mat – the same ones that built the arms I'm flexing now. "Muscles burning in the best way."
"Alright, I'll inform him." She replied in between giggles before walking down the hallway.
Letting out a huge sigh, I pushed myself up from the bench and walked out of the gym and down the hallway.
I have to shower before seeing the biggest Mafia in town. I muttered to myself.
The hall leads me to my bedroom, I close the door behind me and head straight for the bathroom. The door to my bathroom swings open almost automatically, like it knows what I need. I flick the handle on the shower, and the hiss of water fills the room.
Stepping in, I let the warmth hit my skin, the droplets sliding down my back, loosening the tension that clings after a workout. I close my eyes for a moment, just standing under the steady stream, letting it wash the sweat off me.
After a few minutes, I reach for the towel on the rack. Wrapping it securely around my waist, I step out, the air cool against my wet skin and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror – relaxed, grounded, ready to meet Him.
I stood before the mirror, flexing my muscles. Water traced along my veiny hands and slid down my wet biceps, my black hair still damp and glistening, skin clean and fresh from the shower.
I glanced at my king-sized bed, only then did I notice the clothes my maid, Sylvia, set out for me. I suppose she was aware of the meeting with my father and planned ahead. She laid out a pressed white dress shirt, with black trousers and a black belt, I wore them, each garment fitting perfectly around my toned muscles.
I slid my feet into the polished black loafers that stood beside my bed. Taking another look at the mirror, I realized I was formally dressed and immediately undid the first two buttons on my shirt, showing off my well-trained chest. Feeling proud and rebellious, I wrenched my door open, stepped out and headed for my father's chamber, each step echoing with dread.
Two bodyguards stood at the door of my father's chamber, their faces stiff and filled with all seriousness. Upon my arrival, they pushed open his doors and let me in.
His chamber was dim with the curtains drawn tight. Bookshelves loomed on every wall, their rows of old books casting long shadows. A single desk sat in the center, its surface bare except for an open file and a half-empty glass of whiskey. The air was still, heavy, as if the room itself was holding its breath.
My father stood beside the window, smoking a cigar, not acknowledging my presence at all or sparing me a glance. My father and I had always been at odds. It felt like we could never agree on anything-not ever. Every conversation turned into a debate, every decision into a clash.
He treated me like a child, and I refused to be caged. The more he tried to control me, the more I pushed back. It wasn't just that we disagreed – it was as though he never liked me, as if I were a constant disappointment in his eyes.
"Father," I murmured.
"You're late." He turned and looked at me.
"Didn't know there was a schedule." I said cockily as I watched him sit at his desk.
"There's always a schedule in this house. You just never cared enough to follow it."
"Or maybe I just don't want to be like you."
"Careful, boy. That mouth of yours… it's the one thing you inherited from me." Father leaned back, his eyes narrowing.
"Guess I should say thank you."
"Save the sarcasm. You think you know everything, but you don't know what it takes to run this family… to survive."
"Maybe I don't want to survive your way."
"Then you won't survive at all." He countered with a cold smile. "Enough of this, I called you here for a reason."
"Okay." I waited patiently to hear what my father had to say.
He looked down at the open file on his desk, feeling the paper with his fingers. He doesn't look up from the papers on his desk. He doesn't need to.
"You missed your first day," he says, voice low but sharp, each word clipped.
"I-" I start, but he cuts me off with a single raise of his hand.
"No excuses, Adrian. You were meant to report to Stanton College today. The transfer was approved, effective immediately."
I swallow hard. My jaw tightens. "I didn't know the schedule was final..."
His gaze finally lifts. Cold, piercing and somehow heavier than the chandeliers hanging in the room. "You do know, Adrian. And yet you failed to show. That cannot happen again. You will be there tomorrow, first thing."
I nod, tight-lipped. Every muscle in me wants to argue, to shrug, to push back, but I've learned over the years that his patience is thin, and his temper – well, it isn't worth testing.
He leans back in his chair, folding his fingers like he's weighing something far more complicated than the transfer itself.
"Your new environment will be…interesting. There are people there – students, faculty – who may challenge you, who may watch you. You will need to handle yourself accordingly."
I meet his gaze.
"And…" he pauses, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, just enough to unsettle me. "There is someone there… someone you might remember. A girl. Familiar, perhaps. You will find that she is still in that city and her presence… may be unavoidable."
My heart skips a beat, but I force my face calm. "I don't know who you mean."
"Good," he says. "For now, remain ignorant. But keep your eyes peeled. Stanton will be your proving ground. Do not make me regret this transfer."
I nod again, but his words linger, curling in my stomach. My father has a way of planting seeds – hints that will grow before I even know they've taken root.