Vincent stripped off the black gloves, fingers moving with the cold precision of a man who had done this a thousand times before. The gloves hit the furnace, flames devouring them instantly.
Tonight, he hadn't killed.
But the ritual stayed the same.
The red glow of the fire washed over his face, highlighting every sharp cut of his jaw, his jagged scar, every shadow that clung to him. Hands clasped behind his back, he stood alone in the dim, concrete room. Silence suffocated everything, until he finally turned and walked out.
Minutes later, he slid into his luxurious, dark car. Engine on. Wheel spun. He shot onto the empty night roads, speeding through Italy.
He needed noise.
Chaos.
Anything loud enough to drown the storm clawing inside his head.
He drove harder, the city lights blurring. When he pulled into the club's parking lot, conversations died instantly.
Because Vincent Carpel had arrived.
The name that shook Italy.
The Mafia King.
No evidence. No proof. Just rumors, and dead men who never spoke twice.
He moved with an imposing, cold-blooded elegance. Girls in tiny dresses stared after him, whispering behind manicured hands. Not one dared step close. He was arrogant, dangerous, ruthless, wealthy. Yet every girl would give anything to be chosen by him.
Inside, the luxury club pulsed with sinful red lights and deafening music. Bodies swayed. Strippers curled around the poles, spinning. Elite men rained money.
Vincent headed to his reserved area, always empty, always untouched. Just for him.
He dropped into the seat, inhaling the thundering music. Noise was the only thing that ever muted his thoughts.
Derek, the club owner, approached immediately, head bowed, hands behind his back.
"Mr. Vincent Carpel, a pleasure to see you again," Derek said, voice tight with the respect that came from fear.
Vincent didn't look at him. Instead, he slid a hand into his pocket and pulled out an expensive Italian hand-rolled cigarette, one only sold in restricted auction circles. He lit it, letting the smoke coil slow and deadly around him.
He waited several beats, long enough for Derek to sweat.
Then, voice deep and calm, he asked, "Derek… where's my money?"
One look from Vincent made even grown men flinch. Derek was no exception.
"Sir—um—Mr. Vincent… the money will be available before the week ends. One billion is… a lot. We are doing our best to raise it."
Vincent inhaled, exhaled. "Surely you are doing your best."
"I am, sir," Derek rushed out. He couldn't even breathe properly. No one disrespected Vincent, not unless they had a death wish.
Everyone in Italy had heard the whispers about Vincent's wealth. About the elite businesses he crushed without mercy. Derek knew the stories too well. When he bet two billion and nearly lost his club, he crawled to Blax Dynasty and begged at Vincent's feet. The interest Vincent forced on him was outrageous. But he signed anyway.
He didn't have a choice.
Vincent leaned back, smoke drifting from his mouth and nose. The cold outside was brutal tonight.
"Derek, I learned that La Notte di Oro, makes over two hundred million dollars a day." His gaze sharpened. "If you truly wanted to pay me, you would have. But instead… the lady you keep in the villa in Milan drains half your earnings daily. While your wife waits at home. Pathetic."
Derek froze, horrified. "How, how did you know about this?"
His wife suspected his cheating, but not the extent. Derek loved women, believed men were meant to be polygamous. She had learned to adjust.
"I accept men need their urges fed," Derek tried, desperate. "She's sexy, very beautiful. Her body makes you want to spend. She satisfies me. There are tons of girls like her. Why not choose one?"
He was scrambling.
Vincent wasn't impressed.
"You're under my control now. I watch your movements. You owe me. Until you pay, you're under my authority." His voice dropped, lethal. "One more day, Derek. One. And this club is seized by Blax Dynasty. You know how many companies I've taken because they failed to pay."
Derek swallowed hard. "Very sure, sir. I—I will raise your money in a day. But for now, please… relax. I'll bring girls who are willing to go down for you. And your favorite liquor."
Vincent took another drag. "Just bring the liquor. No girls."
Derek nodded sharply. "Right away, Mr. Vincent."
A servant girl arrived moments later. A Latina, curvy, red-haired, her uniform showing more skin than cloth. She bent slowly as she poured his drink, presenting her cleavage.
"Mr. Vincent, my pleasure to serve you," she purred.
She straightened, arching her back for maximum effect, then brushed her hair back and gazed at him with sultry, emerald eyes.
Derek appeared beside her. "How do you see her, Vincent? Hot beneath you as you fuck her? Or on top of you, riding you so hard she screams your name?"
Vincent lifted the glass. He paused.
Eyes closed. One breath.
Then his gaze snapped to Derek.
"Why did you put a sleeping pill in my drink?"
His voice dropped, dangerously soft.
"What exactly are you planning?"
Derek froze.
Vincent recognized the shift in color. He always did. That was why he only drank one liquor outside, and only the brand he owned 70% of, a partnership he bought out, controlling every recipe formula. He knew every possible additive.
Cyanide, belladonna, arsenic, ricin, hemlock, chloroform derivative, strychnine, aconitine, digitalis, and propofol extract.
He had studied them all.
But Vincent lifted the glass to his mouth anyway, and drained it entirely.
Derek went pale. Why did he drink it? Vincent should have killed him already.
Instead, Vincent stood.
He knew this sleeping potion. It activated slowly. Maybe… he needed the sleep.
"One day left, Derek. Bring me my money."
He walked out.
Derek let out a harsh breath and turned to the girl. She was beautiful, too beautiful. He had ordered her to slip the drug in the glass. Now he wanted her for himself.
He slid his fingers under her jaw, lifting her face.
"Do you know how much I could've made if he succumbed? Over ten billion. Enough to pay my debt and expand this club."
The Latina smirked, palm sliding up his face.
"One million dollars for the whole night… you'll keep coming back for my pussy. It's juicy, mi amor."
Derek's eyes lit up. "Very well. One million."
Cheap. Too cheap.
"We could do it here," she whispered.
He grabbed her waist.
"Kneel."
She obeyed instantly, hands going to his belt.
—
Outside, Vincent's car rolled out of the parking lot. Men stared. Girls followed him with hungry eyes.
But Vincent sped home before the drug could hit him fully.
When he arrived, his mansion was silent. Curtains shut. Chandeliers glowing softly, just as he instructed.
His footsteps echoed across the marble. He passed the long dining table, meals neatly covered. He lifted the lids to reveal Ossobuco, Risotto alla Milanese, Bistecca Fiorentina, Burrata con Tartufo, and Pollo al Mattonthe
He picked up a fork and dug into the Bistecca Fiorentina, eating while standing.
Less flavor.
Just like his life.
After six bites, he drank his water and covered the dishes. Then he headed to his room.
He removed his jacket and caught sight of the tattoo carved into his rib,
a black serpent intertwined with a blood-stained dagger, the mark branded on him the night his entire family was slaughtered.
He blinked once, turned, showered.
The medicine finally seeped in.
Vincent lay on his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. His permanent frown deepened. He turned left,
And the screams of his mother.
His father.
His elder sister.
—all tore into his skull.
He gritted his teeth, clutching his head, eyes squeezing shut.
Until the drug won.
Vincent Carpel dozed off for the first time…
without begging for morning to come.