Those words landed like daggers piercing directly into Miguel's ribs; they caught him completely off guard, tearing through his calculated armor.
At first, he didn't even know how to begin processing the weight of the information.
Even though he fought to disbelieve it, trying desperately to maintain his composure, the sharp knitting of his forehead betrayed him. The shock was written in the very lines of his face.
Storm? The man he had hand-tushed and pulled into the game? The man he had lent millions to just so he could save his dying wife? He had secured the channels, the trafficking routes, and a network that earned Storm more than millions—and this was the gratitude?
Miguel's mind was a swirling vortex of fog. His jaws tightened until the bone creaked at the thought of Scarlet.
Scarlet was now a rival; it was almost understandable, even expected, if the man wanted him out of the game to claim the throne.
But Storm? Why would a man be so sly, so corny, and so profoundly ungrateful?
Miguel brushed the worries aside for the moment, locking back into a rigid, lethal composure.
His face transitioned into a version of himself that was colder, sharper, and infinitely deadlier. He dropped his arm, standing straight as a rod.
His eyes scanned the captives, who were currently exhaling in a pathetic, premature wave of relief.
"What took you so long? It was as simple as two words. I thought the words were even too hard for you to pronounce," Miguel teased, checking his wristwatch with a casual flick.
He flashed a look of feigned, silver-tongued pity at them.
"And the lesson of the night would be... you don't keep me waiting," he said, shaking his head briefly, his tone entirely devoid of emotion.
"My regards to the devil," he finished.
With that, he swung the hockey stick with brute, unbridled force across the kneeling man's face. Blood gushed out violently, painting the air in a crimson arc before splattering across Miguel's pristine white shirt.
What followed was a screeching, bitter cry of agony that filled the room. The other two began to shiver frantically, profound rings of sweat soaking out of every possible pore as they watched their comrade's jaw shatter.
Miguel was done.
Under normal circumstances, he would have stayed longer to indulge in the slow dismantling of their spirits, but the weight of the names he'd just heard was overwhelming. He had taken Storm as family.
He dropped the hockey stick with a boring thud, throwing his men one knowing, final look. None of these bastards were to breathe again.
He turned and started toward the exit. Behind him, he could already hear the muted, mechanical hum and the predatory hiss of an electric screw coming to life.
As he stepped out of the room, the last thing to wave him goodbye was a chorus of loud, disturbing cries.
"Motherfuckers," he cursed, his voice dripping with irritation and hate. A few steps further into the hall, he paused.
Leaning lazily against one of the structural beams was a guy with a curly afro that almost masked his eyes. He wore a heavy leather coat, and his silver gem-tooth grills dazzled like cold stars as he moved his mouth.
The young man had a finished lollipop stick dancing between his lips as he looked up.
"So, what are you going to do now?"
Miguel went cold for a moment, the temperature of his blood dropping to sub-zero before he resumed his march. He passed the boy without sparing him a single glance, his voice cutting through the damp air.
"Get ready, Navarro. A tsunami is visiting Storm's little villa."
His steps and words bounced off the rough walls in a rhythmic, ominous cadence.
"I like thaaaat!" Navarro cheered, chuckling in dark excitement before peeling himself off the beam to catch up with Miguel's long strides.
**********
The sound of water splattering against expensive tiles filled a room that exuded the sweet, soft scent of high-end shampoo.The steam seeped out through a slightly ajar frosted glass door, overlapping with a feminine, breathtaking fragrance that permeated the air.
Behind that bathroom door sat Fedora. He wasn't in the bathtub or perched on the toilet; he was sat directly on the floor, huddled under the relentless spray of a cold shower.
His knees were clutched tightly against his naked chest, his wet hair clinging to his skin like a body-con dress as the water streamed down his frame.
Usually, this space was extra clean, an aesthetically curated sanctuary. A stranger wouldn't even believe it belonged to a male.
But this morning? Just like his mood, everything was in a state of disarray. Shampoo bottles and toiletries were disheveled and scattered, and a pink bedazzled douche lay carelessly in the corner against the colorful wall.
Another clubbing night. Another sober, crashing morning.
It was a crazy eyesore, made even more pathetic by the fact that Fedora was casually swiping through his phone, the digital glow magnifying his damp, glowing skin.
He pulled his neck back, eyes fixing on the ceiling in a desperate attempt to keep the accumulated bubbles of tears from spilling over.
Right there on the screen was an intimate collage of him and a guy. Pouting with peace signs, a soft peck on the cheek, a cozy cuddle—every slide of the finger stirred the knife deeper into his chest.
For someone who had left school without an exeat and was likely going to face a firing squad of consequences when he returned, he was far more bothered by this amateur heartbreak.
Fedora just wished he could turn the world his way. He didn't want to go back to school, and he damn sure didn't want to see the face of that piece of jerk again.
"Never!!!"
Thankfully, his family hadn't shown any real concern about his sudden, mid-semester return. No one had even asked why he was home before the holidays. He didn't know if that was a blessing or a curse.
They better not ask.
"These damn family," he muttered bitterly, the water drowning out his voice.
"Always thinking money is the only solution to everything.
Fuck!!!"
His eyes shifted to a bottle of antiseptic sitting on the counter. Just drink it and die, his mind whispered with dramatic flair.
"Silly you!" he cursed himself, scoffing at the absurdity of his own thoughts. He wasn't actually going to stay under the cold water and sulk all day.
He needed his morning routine. Those calories weren't going to burn themselves.
He reached up and twisted the handle, turning off the shower. The sudden silence in the bathroom was deafening. As he gradually stood to his full height, catching his reflection in the steamed-up mirror, he heaved a long, retiring sigh. He pressed his lips into a thin line and rotated subtly, examining his beautifully sculpted, slender frame from both angles.
He checked his tiny, flat waist, ensuring there was absolutely no bloating.
"Body is matcha," he pouted naughtily, his soft palms gently caressing the curve of his hips.
Fedora might be depressed, but not looking like his problems?.
"It's a win-win!"
To be continued...