The casino was closed.
But it wasn't empty.
Darian killed the engine in a nondescript private lot. His fingers still chilled from forty minutes alone, driving through streets swallowed by silence. He lingered on the wheel longer than needed. Some things didn't deserve a delegate.
Tonight was one of them.
The casino towered, black glass, dark chandeliers, not a sound but a heavy quiet, like untouched gold dust hanging in the air.
No keycards for the basement. Only one thing mattered: finger pressure. His fingerprint slid the steel door open, a door so seamless it might as well have been a shadow.
One step at a time, he descended. His footsteps quiet but certain. Cold concrete pressed underfoot, sharp enough to swallow sound whole.
The final door cracked open. Metal and fresh blood hit his nose raw. And then, laughter.
Not just any laugh. The laugh belonged to the only person who could make Darian feel fifteen again.
"Hey, kid."
Deep voice, teasing edge. But sharp enough to cut glass. "You're slow. Almost bored of killing alone."
The man stood in the room's center, one foot crushing a nearly broken man's head.
Silver hair tangled over a knife-sharp gray gaze. Tall, broad-shouldered, dressed casually, but bloodstained enough to tell its own story.
Oldest Gravelle brother. Loaded and fired without hesitation. "This rat," he said, pressing harder, "claims to know you. Old friend, he says."
Darian said nothing.
The half-dead man groaned, bloody, desperate to speak. "Mr. Gravelle… I, I worked under the strategy division… I remember you…"
Tongue runs faster than brain. One slip, and you lose both.
Darian stepped closer, studying the man's face. Familiar? Maybe. Blurry. "Name?" His voice was flat.
His brother sneered. Gray eyes gleamed with hunger. "He didn't say yours. So I doubt it. But I'm polite enough to ask first."
The man trembled. "Please… I just, I sent reports back then…"
A lie wrapped in fear. Too thin to fool.
The brother snorted. "Too slow, Dari-boy." His smile cracked wide. "Want me to help you remember?"
Without waiting, his foot slammed down harder. A scream ripped out. Then silence.
"Funny," the bro muttered. "The rat's a pain. But now I want to kill him more." He looked at Darian. "Waiting on your green light. Is he your acquaintance, kid?"
Darian's eyes stayed fixed on the floor. Stillness. His mind shut down sentiment.
Data. Risk.
Cold.
"If he knows me, he knows more than my first name." Brother laughed low. "Yeah, right?"
One last stomp. Then quiet. Blood seeping into tile cracks. The man unmoving. Head shattered like ripe fruit against concrete. Blood and brain matter pooling beneath expensive leather shoes.
"I like when you visit," the brother said, light as a whisper. "Reminds me you're still my lil bro." No smile. No need. Darian answered flatly. "Bigger game than rats."
"Always."
"And you, Dari-boy… are key in the next move."
Darian didn't move. No need. Not with him in the room.
"There's something off," the man muttered, crouching beside the body. He dipped two fingers into the blood, still warm, then brought them to his nose. Inhaled like he was sampling wine. Judging it.
"I've killed a handful of traitors before."
His voice was quiet, conversational. Like he was reading a stock report. "But this one…" a glance at the corpse, "...wasn't your average rat."
Darian waited. Logic started turning. It was never about the body. It was about the breach.
"He knew your name," the man went on. "Not a shock. Your name's everywhere now. CEO of Vanguard Corp. Media sweetheart. Our very own legal mascot."
He rose slowly, thumb flicking a bloodied folding knife open and shut. Not cleaned. Not hurried.
"But he didn't just know you were CEO." The blade lifted, slow, deliberate, pointed at Darian's forehead.
"He knew you're one of us, Dari-boy."
Stillness. Darian's jaw clenched. Heartbeat cooled. Focus narrowed. That wasn't a bluff. It was a puzzle piece, delivered too early.
Too clean.
"And if he knew you're Gravelle…" His brother's grin split wide. But it wasn't human. "…he knows who I am, too."
The logic was simple. If Darian's name had leaked, someone inside had spilled it. But if his brother's identity had surfaced… That wasn't a leak. That was a knife to the throat.
The man stepped in, stopping inches from Darian. Knife still in hand. Breath steady. But something burned behind those pale irises. A twitch of madness that never fully went to sleep.
"I've got guesses," he said, calm and flat.
"But…" The knife kissed Darian's neck. No pressure. Just contact. Long. Controlled. "…my brain's got another theory."
Steel slid downward, shaving a perfect line through Darian's collar. Not a threat. A message. One only the two of them spoke.
Darian didn't flinch.
"Maybe he wasn't the only one who knew." His brother dipped his head lower. Voice dropping like a trapdoor. "Maybe, Dari-boy… this is bigger."
"Someone's playing behind our backs." He moved fast. The knife struck the concrete, right between Darian's shoes.
"I need your help." Not quite an order. Something more dangerous.
"You run the top. You see things I can't." Their eyes locked. Same grey. Same cold. But one of them calculated like a scalpel. The other was the blade.
"We find out who leaked our family," he said. Head tilted, silver hair falling like a whisper down his cheek.
"Then we rip their tongue out." Grinning now. "One letter at a time."
Darian looked down at the body. There was a crack in the walls. And someone was lighting matches in Gravelle territory.
He raised his head. Eyes cold. Exact. "Give me a name." His brother's laugh flickered low. Like embers under ash.
"Not yet. This is chess, kid. Not checkers."
Then he moved past Darian, tapped his shoulder once, soft, almost warm. If warm still meant anything in a room like this.
"You start with Vanguard. I'll start in hell."
The upper floor of the casino was empty. Chandelier lights off. Only the low blue glow of the bar's signage remained, enough to catch the curve of a glass. Dark enough to kill someone without staining the carpet.
Darian sat.
Leather barstool. Too soft. Too low. Arms folded on the counter. Back straight. He looked like he was waiting for someone to take his order.
But no one was here to serve.
The man who arrived kicked the chair back before sitting, like he owned the place. Lazy movement. Loud. One boot propped against the frame of the table.
"I missed this place," he said, grabbing a bottle from the back shelf like it was his kitchen.
"First time I killed someone…" He popped the cap with his teeth, sharp click. "...was in the basement downstairs. Blood ran all the way up here, you know that?"
Darian didn't respond. Stared at the empty glass in front of him. One second. Two.
Then the voice again.
"You've grown up, huh, Dari-boy." That mock-affectionate tone, soaked in taunt.
Darian didn't blink. Tapped his left fingers on the bar. Slow. Once. Twice. Not nervous rhythm. A warning. To himself.
"Still using that name," he said. Flat. A correction with no force behind it.
"Why not, kid?" His brother leaned closer with a grin. "It's affectionate." Darian glanced at him. Brief. "Affection doesn't have to be annoying."
A laugh. "You sound like a thirteen-year-old discovering his first wet dream." He poured a drink for himself. Didn't offer Darian any. Of course he didn't.
"Still playing the image game? Sitting like you're on a royal court. Straight back, no slouch. 'Gravelle the golden boy'."
Glass tapped the bar. Sharp clink. He nudged Darian's shoulder, light, invasive. "You haven't changed. Still reek of self-restraint."
No reaction. But Darian's jaw tightened.
"I could tear your collar off right now," his brother murmured. "See if you still look like a cologne ad."
A pause. "Though... credit where it's due. You don't look like a loser anymore."
"Stop." Darian's voice dropped. Cold steel, unsheathed. But of course, he didn't. "You still got that scar on your left shoulder?" His tone softened. Casual. Dangerous.
"The one from when you were twelve. Tried to follow me on that drug dealer job. Got hit with a wood shard on the way in."
Darian stayed still.
"You didn't cry. Not even once." A slow sip. Smile curling like smoke. "I thought, 'this kid... I can work with this one.'"
Darian exhaled. "If you're here to reminisce, do it alone."
"But it's more fun with you." Low voice. Leisurely tone. "Still... keep pretending. But don't forget…"
He turned, leaned in, close enough for the breath to be felt, not smelled. Smile low. Voice lower. "...there's still a part of you I built with my own hands. And that part... you'll never be able to sterilize."
Darian's heartbeat hit once, hard. Not fear. Just recognition. "…And you still hate it when I call you 'kid,' huh?"
No reply. A soft chuckle. One last sip. "You'll always be my boy, Dari."
The air in the bar smelled like old liquor and expensive wood. Neither of them spoke at first. Until his older brother nudged the bottle in Darian's direction.
"Y'know, your lil bro got picked up by the cops yesterday?"
Darian didn't look at him. He didn't need to. He could picture the expression already stretched across his brother's face, half amused, half proud.
"Public party. Girl overdosed. He hand-fed her himself." His voice was light, like it wasn't about blood or consequences, just another weather report.
Darian turned his head slightly. "Is he an idiot?"
"Nah. He's got... a personal definition of fun."
His brother pulled out his phone. Screen flared bright in the dark. Long fingers, clean nails. Knuckles raw, used too often to silence things the wrong way.
He flipped through photos. "Here." He held it out.
One photo.
The youngest, shirt half open, hair wild, smirking like a brat, throwing up a peace sign beside a cop.
The cop? Laughing too. One arm slung casually over his shoulder. But that wasn't what hit hardest.
Behind them stood a girl. Designer dress. Neck red, strangled or sick, hard to tell. But her eyes, empty.
Body upright, soul missing. Sweat tracked down her temple. One bead dragged down her cheek. Her knees were barely holding.
Darian exhaled. Sharp through the nose. Jaw tight. "Too reckless."
"Too funny," his brother countered. "Did you see her face? Trying not to breathe, too scared to scream..." He mimed her expression with mock-wide eyes. "Like, 'Oh no, this isn't the kind of party I thought it was'."
Darian pushed the phone away. "He's too exposed."
"So what? Our last name isn't exactly small." His brother shrugged. "You think those cops didn't know who he was? He'll be out by noon. With a steak dinner and a champagne toast."
"If the girl talks?" His brother smiled. Crooked. Knowing. "She won't. Baby bro's got a way of making people think breathing was a gift he handed them."
He slid the phone back. "You're too tense. Relax. He's a stray bullet, yeah, but when he hits, he hits hard."
Darian pressed his fingertips to one temple. Slow. Controlled. "He's uncontrollable."
"And that's the beauty of it. They can't control him either." That smile again. Thin. But something volatile simmered under it. Fire that chose its moments.
Then he leaned in, close enough for Darian to feel the shift in heat. "Come on. Don't you miss him a little? I miss watching you two tear each other apart like feral kids."
Darian turned his eyes on him. "I don't miss anyone who slips drugs to girls mid-party." His brother laughed.
Not loud. Not forced. Too genuine to be safe. Darian didn't notice when it got there, but now there was a file in front of him.
Thin. Damp on the edge. Smelled faintly of rusted staples and something sharper underneath, metal, maybe sweat.
He glanced down. Photos. Faces. Some caught in cafés. Others behind meeting tables, neat hair and corporate laptops lined up like props.
Ordinary. Too ordinary. Which made it suspicious.
"My men took the shots quietly. Some have been under watch for a week," his brother said, voice lazy, like reading off a breakfast menu.
"They might know about you. About us. Best part? They're all public figures. Easy to approach. No noise."
Darian touched the corner of a photo. A man with glasses. Early forties. CEO of an investment firm. A name he'd seen once, buried deep in Vanguard's quarterly report.
Should've meant nothing. But he was here. In this file. Which meant something. His brother didn't play games without reason.
"What if it's a trap?" Darian asked. Low. Nearly a whisper. "Then good," his brother smiled, vaguely. "You'll find out who set it."
Darian flipped to the next photo.
A woman. PR consultant. He remembered her, present at a Vanguard gala two months ago. Her smile had been too bright. Too easy.
Warmth like that didn't belong in their world.
"Recognize anyone?" his brother asked, pouring a drink without waiting for an answer.
Darian said nothing. Recognition didn't mean safety. In his world, the familiar often hid the sharpest blades.
"I'm taking the ones with a dirty trail," his brother said, licking the drink off his lip, slow, unsettling. "What you've got? Light picks. They're like... back doors."
"And you're handing them to me?" Darian rolled the glass between his fingers. Condensation slipped down the side, pooling between his knuckles.
"You're the one with the clean face." His brother's voice dipped, silk-wrapped venom. "You show up, smile a little, ask some useless question, make them feel important. They'll strip themselves bare before they even know they're naked."
Darian looked up. His gaze sliced. "And if they expose something they shouldn't?" His brother shrugged, smile gone flat. "Then you shut it down. Permanently."
There it was. Murder, dressed in civility. Darian didn't reply. Hand still on the stack. But in his mind, the gears clicked on.
Not emotion. Not doubt. Calculation. Who first. Who posed the highest risk. Who was too confident for their own good.
"What if I choose wrong?"
"No big deal," his brother sipped. "If you pick wrong, it just means they were slick enough to fool you. And that's reason enough to end them."
Darian stared at the file. Silence coiled around him like smoke.
He arranged the possibilities like glass shards. One by one. Faces from the file. Connections between names. Risk of infiltration. What would break if they were one step off.
Darian turned a photo with the tip of his finger. Too clean. Too prepared. No one in this game was clean, unless they'd already scrubbed the blood off.
He was considering a softer approach. No sudden moves. Something casual. A social event. Dinner, maybe. The kind where small talk was a trap and every toast had teeth…
…BRUG.
The table shuddered hard. His brother's glass tipped. Liquid burst across the paper, blurring ink, smudging a photo into watercolor.
Darian didn't react. Didn't flinch. Just lifted his eyes, slow, deliberate. His brother's face had changed. Gone was the chaos. The crooked grin.
Now… Still. Tight. Almost... stabbed. Phone still in his right hand. Screen lit.
Darian caught a glance. A photo. Not a target. Not a corpse. Not surveillance.
A woman.
Black velvet dress, thigh-high slit. Pale skin. A smile painted on, not grown. Long neck. Eyes that pulled attention like gravity. Flashes exploding around her on a red carpet.
He knew the face. Everyone did. Lilianne. Actress. Luxury incarnate. The phone blinked again. Another shot.
Same smile, different meaning. And beside her… A man. Smiling too. Too close.
Darian didn't ask. Didn't need to. His brother stood. Quick. Sharp. No words. No excuse. No exit line. Just a twitch in the jaw and a breath he forgot how to release.
Anger? Jealousy? Something else, deeper? Darian couldn't tell.
And that, that was what unsettled him most. He watched the silhouette disappear down the hall. Leather shoes clicked once. Then silence. Too calm for someone on the edge.
The phone was still on the table. Still lit. Lilianne's smile frozen mid-flash. Darian stared a little longer. Not to admire. Not to judge.
But because he knew…
Any woman who could shatter his brother's control in a single second was far more dangerous than anyone in that file.