Page 3

Adriano

I’m pacing the warehouse floor, my boots slamming against cracked concrete, restless as hell while my men sift through the latest powder stacks in the back. The space reeks of rust, stale smoke, and that faint, chemical bite leaking from the crates.

Tony’s over there, barking orders, his voice bouncing off the rusted walls as Marco tears open a bag, checking the weight. My empire’s humming with millions in white dust, all fresh off a boat and ready to flood the streets.

The twinkling bulb overhead buzzes like it’s laughing at me, and my fists tighten, then loosen, aching for something to smash.

Ralph barrels through the steel door just then, his face pinched, jaw locked, eyes skittering away from mine like a rat dodging a trap.

I know it’s shit news before he even opens his mouth.

“Spit it out,” I bark, stepping toward him.

He scratches his scarred knuckles, stalling. “The deal’s off. Kessler’s pulling out.”

“What the fuck do you mean, ‘pulling out’? I had that bastard locked down. Five million on the table, meetings every damn week—he was drooling for it!”

Ralph shifts, boots scraping. “Guess he grew balls overnight. Says he’s not selling. Snagged some investors to prop him up.”

I smash my fist into the metal table, the crash ricocheting off the walls.

Pain sears my knuckles. That company—Kessler’s crumbling little kingdom—was mine.

I need it badly, not just for the cash, but to scrub my dirty money clean.

Millions piling up in shadow accounts, begging to bleed through those books.

And now this prick thinks he can yank it away?

“Boss, we can still—” Ralph tries, but my glare slices him silent.

“Get me everything on him,” I snarl. “Every fucking crumb of filth. I want his life gutted.”

Ralph nods and his thumbs are already jabbing his phone. “On it.”

I turn to stare at the wall, its peeling paint like shredded flesh. I’ve scraped my empire from dirt and blood, broken every rule to climb, and still, it’s never enough. One asshole with a sudden backbone, and it all wobbles.

Pain’s not a choice; it’s the fucking toll for breathing.

For three years, I’ve been neck-deep in this world. No room for softness. No time for grief. Business deals, money laundering, power plays—it’s all I know now. Now I’ve got nothing but this: deals, fists, and a void that swallows everything good.

That, and the fleeting relief I find in a willing body.

I lean against the table with my gloved hands flexing. Thinking about it. I should have a woman pinned against some hotel wall now. A blonde maybe, loud and forgettable. Her nails scratching my back, and her moans fake as hell. I’ll fuck her hard, fast, chasing something I never find.

And when it’s over, I shove her off, toss cash on the dresser, and leave without a word. No kissing, no repeats—just a transaction.

That’s all it’s been since Sophia died. Women come and go, mouths on mine when I let them, but it’s empty. Mechanical. I don’t feel shit anymore, just the grind of moving forward because stopping means drowning.

Two hours later, Ralph slumps into the chair across from my desk.

We’re upstairs now, in my office—a tight, scarred box above the warehouse.

He drops a thin folder, and the papers spill out like guts.

“This is it?” I snatch the folder, flipping through the pages. “A fucking parking ticket? A year old?”

Ralph leans back, arms crossed. “The guy’s spotless, Adriano. Fifty, married, no kids. Runs his company like a saint—taxes filed, no dirt. The worst he’s done is skip a meter.”

I hurl the folder across the room, sheets scattering like ash. “Spotless? Nobody’s that pure. Dig deeper.”

“I did,” he replies, steady but cautious. “He’s a ghost. Either he’s dull as fuck, or he’s a goddamn genius at covering his tracks.”

I lean forward, my elbows gouging the desk and fingers laced tight. My pulse pounds, and there’s a dull ache in my skull. Kessler’s screwing me, and time’s running out. The cash has to move—now. Every day it sits, the feds creep closer, their stench on the wind.

“Then we stop asking,” I say, surging to my feet, the chair screeching back. “Get the boys. We’re hitting his place.”

Ralph’s brows shoot up. “You sure? This ain’t quiet.”

I grab my jacket, yanking it on as the leather settles heavily on my shoulders. “Quiet’s for losers with patience. I’m done.”

The drive is dead quiet, the SUV engine growling low.

Ralph taps his knee beside me while Tony and Marco click magazines into their guns in the backseat.

Streetlights smear yellow across the glass.

I choke the wheel as I picture Kessler’s smug grin, thinking he’s safe. He’s about to learn otherwise.

We roll up to his brownstone in Queens—neat brick, cushy setup, lights glowing warm like a damn postcard. I cut the engine and step out, nodding to the crew. They move like shadows, fast and sure.

Tony picks the lock in ten seconds, and the door pops open. We slip inside, our boots hushed on the hardwood. The living room is too perfect—lavender and old paper, a lie of peace. Kessler lounges on the couch, glasses low, the TV muttering news. His wife is knitting, her gray bun tight.

She spots us, and her needles crash down as a gasp tears free. Kessler jolts up, eyes bugging, hands scrabbling for the remote like it’ll save him.

“Who the hell—” he stammers, but I’m on him, seizing his shirt and slamming him to his feet.

“Shut it,” I hiss, smashing him into the wall. His glasses skid away. “You think you can fuck me?”

His wife shrieks, a piercing sound. Marco grabs her, dragging her toward the kitchen. She kicks and thrashes, but he’s a brick wall.

“Let her go!” Kessler chokes, his voice splitting.

I twist his collar tighter. “You had a deal. My money, your company. What flipped?”

He wheezes, his face purpling. “I—I got a better offer. It’s not personal!”

“Not personal?” I ram him again, his skull cracking against the drywall. “You’re bleeding me dry, you fuck. That’s as personal as it gets.”

Ralph steps up, papers in hand—the contract, the transfer. I shove them into Kessler, pinning him. “Sign.”

He shakes his head, quaking. “I can’t—”

I jerk my chin at Tony by the kitchen. “Do it,” I say, my voice ice cold.

A scream cuts off, muffled, then a thud. Kessler’s eyes whip toward it, frantic. “No, please—don’t hurt her!”

“Sign the fucking papers,” I growl, bearing down. “Or she’s gone.”

His hands tremble as he snatches Ralph’s pen. He scrawls his name, ink bleeding, tears streaming. I rip the papers free, scanning the signature. Done.

“Secrecy clause,” I snap.

Ralph slides it over. Kessler signs again, blind, sobbing like a kicked dog.

I release him, letting him crumple. “Smart move.”

Tony returns, wiping his hands. “She’s fine. Tied, gagged, breathing.”

Kessler crawls toward the kitchen, whimpering like a beaten dog, his hands scrabbling at the hardwood.

I don’t look back. I pivot, snatch the papers from Ralph and shove them into my jacket, the leather creaking as I jam them deep.

Then I step closer to Kessler, looming over him. His sobs hitch, pathetic and wet.

I crouch just enough to grab his hair, yanking his head up so his terrified eyes meet mine.

“Cross me again,” I hiss, voice a blade, “and I’ll carve her screams into your skull before I end you both.” I release him, letting his face smack the floor, and turn to Ralph. “We’re out.”

Back in the SUV, night presses thick against the glass.

My gloves flex on the wheel, the signed documents a hot weight in my pocket.

Victory is mine, but it’s bitter, like chewing gravel.

This is me now, full of force and fear, a machine that takes because asking is for suckers.

Sophia’s ghost flickers—her smile, her voice, and then, as always, it vanIshes, leaving a hole that has been rotting me out for three years.

I’m neck-deep in this game, have been since she died.

Deals like Kessler’s, blood on my hands is all I know.

Women, too, are just bodies to burn through.

Last week, I had a brunette in a bar; her lips tasted of whiskey and regret.

I fucked her in the bathroom, rough and without words.

She clung to me afterward, begging for more, but I gave her a fake number and walked away.

They’re all the same, to warm me for a night, and gone by morning.

No connection. Just a release I barely feel.

“You good, boss?” Ralph cuts through the quiet.

I grunt, my eyes locked on the road. “Good enough. Kessler’s ours.”

He grins, slouching in his seat. “So funny when the guy pissed himself. Think he’ll squeal?”

“He won’t,” I reply, my voice hard. “Not unless he wants her head blown off next.”

Ralph laughs. “You’re a mean fucker.”

Being mean keeps me standing. It keeps the empire from crumbling. Sophia’s death broke me, leaving me ruthless, empty, a bastard who doesn’t stop. I breathe in the cold night air but feel nothing. His company is mine now, just like everything else I set my sights on.

I’ve yet to see something I want but don’t get.

I hold the wheel tighter and drive into the black.