Xavier
The car rolled to a stop outside a warehouse that looked like it had been dead for decades. The paint was peeling, the windows were boarded up, and the whole place smelled of rust and neglect. It was the kind of building normal people crossed the street to avoid. Perfect for my line of work.
I stepped out, the gravel crunching under my shoes, and walked inside. The door was hanging off its hinges, a lazy invitation to the darkness within. As I approached the main space, the sounds hit me first. Pained groans, low and ragged, mixing with the sharp, wet crack of fists hitting flesh. Someone was having a bad day. And by the sounds of it, Enzo was making sure it got worse.
I rounded the corner and found exactly what I expected. Enzo had some guy bound to a chair, his arms secured behind his back with zip ties, his face a bloody, swollen mess. Enzo's fist connected with the guy's jaw, a solid, satisfying punch that snapped the man's head to the side and drew a fresh groan from his split lips.
"Enzo," I said.
My second-in-command stopped mid-swing, his fist hovering in the air for a fraction of a second before dropping to his side. He pulled back from the bloody mess he'd been creating and walked up to me, wiping his knuckles on a rag that looked like it had seen better days. His expression was a mix of annoyance and confusion, like a dog that had been called away from a bone.
"Where the hell have you been, man?" he hissed, keeping his voice low enough that the men scattered around the warehouse couldn't hear. "It's been hours."
I turned to look at him, my irritation flaring hot and sharp. "Busy," I said, my voice cold and flat. "And watch your tone. I'm still your boss."
The words landed like a slap. Enzo's jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. He knew better. He stepped aside, his eyes flicking to the man in the chair, then back to me, silently acknowledging that the floor was mine.
I turned my attention to the piece of shit strapped to the chair. He was a mess. Blood was streaming from his nose, his lips were split and swollen, and one of his eyes was swelling shut. He looked up at me through his one good eye, and I could see the fear there, the desperate, pleading fear of a man who knew he was fucked.
"Where the hell is my money?" I asked. My voice was calm, almost conversational, which made it so much more terrifying.
"Mr. Thorne, I swear, I'll have your money," the man slurred, his words thick and clumsy around his busted lips. "It's just—"
I pulled my gun from my waistband. The movement was smooth as I raised it and pointed it directly at his forehead, the cold metal pressing against his sweat-slicked skin. I didn't hesitate. I didn't give him time to finish his pathetic excuse.
"Wrong answer," I said.
I pulled the trigger. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Five. Five shots, all to the forehead, the sound deafening in the enclosed space. The man's head snapped back with each impact, his body jerking in the chair, and then he went still, a bloody, lifeless lump of flesh. His one good eye stared at nothing, a glassy, vacant stare that would haunt his family if they ever found him.
I tucked the gun back into my waistband, the metal still warm from the discharge. My hand didn't even tremble. I'd done this too many times to feel anything anymore.
Enzo stared at me, his brow furrowed in confusion. He'd seen me kill before, countless times, but something was different this time. Something was off.
"Both of you," I said, gesturing to the two men who had been standing guard near the door, "clean this mess up."
I didn't wait for a response. I turned and began walking out, my stride fast and purposeful, the smell of blood and gunpowder following me like a ghost. Enzo fell into step behind me, his footsteps quick and confused.
"What the hell, man?" he said as we stepped outside into the afternoon light. "You just took the fun out of tutoring that guy. Usually you like to play with them a bit, make them suffer before you put them down."
I didn't answer immediately. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a cigarette. I put it between my lips and lit it, the flame of the lighter flickering in the slight breeze. I took a long, deep puff, letting the smoke fill my lungs, the familiar burn grounding me, calming the restless energy that had been simmering inside me all day.
"Nothing," I said, blowing some smoke out in a thin stream. "Nothing is wrong."
I took another puff, the nicotine hitting my bloodstream with a familiar rush. I hadn't smoked in months. I hated the habit, thought it was a weakness, a crutch for people who couldn't handle their shit. But right now, I needed something, anything, to take the edge off.
Enzo was watching me with that sharp, perceptive gaze that made him good at his job and incredibly annoying at times like this. "Okay, something is definitely up," he said, his voice laced with suspicion. "You're smoking. You never smoke unless you're stressed. And you just took the fun out of torturing that guy instead of drawing it out like you usually do. What's crawling in your boxers, man?"
The question hit a nerve, and I felt my irritation spike again, hot and sharp. "Nothing wrong with smoking," I spat out, my voice harsher than I intended. "And not everything can be solved with torture."
Enzo's eyebrows shot up, "Not everything can be solved with torture?" he repeated, like I had just announced I was converting to Christianity. "Since when? You literally made torture an art form. You had a whole fucking warehouse dedicated to it back in Spain. What the hell is going on with you?"
I sighed, the sound heavy and exhausted. I looked at the cigarette between my fingers, the ember glowing orange in the afternoon light, and realised I didn't even want it. It tasted like ash and regret, a poor substitute for the control I was craving.
I tossed the cigarette on the ground and stomped it out, grinding it under my shoe with more force than necessary. The smoke curled away in the breeze, dissipating into nothing, just like my patience.
"Let's grab a drink," I said, my voice flat and final. It wasn't an invitation for conversation. It was a command to shut the fuck up and follow me.
**
The city lights blurred past the tinted windows of the car, streaks of gold and white against the dark canvas of the night sky. Inside the vehicle, the atmosphere was thick with the smell of expensive whiskey and simmering tension.
Enzo sat in the passenger seat, his eyes flicking between the road ahead and the man beside him. Xavier was slouched against the leather seat, a bottle of aged whiskey clutched in his hand like a lifeline. He was drinking straight from the bottle, no glass, no pretence, just raw, unfiltered alcohol pouring down his throat in long, desperate gulps. The level in the bottle had dropped significantly since they had left the bar, and Xavier's words were starting to slur, the careful, precise enunciation he usually maintained beginning to fray at the edges.
"What do you mean?" Enzo asked, his voice cautious, testing the waters. He had seen Xavier drink before, had seen him put away enough alcohol to kill a normal man and still walk a straight line. But this was different. This wasn't the calculated, controlled drinking of a man who knew his limits. This was something else. This was drowning.
Xavier took another swig from the bottle, the liquid sloshing against the glass as he lowered it. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a messy, uncharacteristic gesture that would have been unthinkable an hour ago. "She's not ready," he said, the words coming out thick and heavy, running together like molasses.
"Ready for what?" Enzo pressed, his brow furrowed.
"Spain and Italy is my playground in the mafia," Xavier went on, his gaze fixed on some distant point out the window, his eyes unfocused and glazed. "And she is not ready to be at the center of it all." He lifted the bottle again, taking another long pull, some of the whiskey spilling down his chin and dripping onto his expensive shirt. He didn't seem to notice, or care. "Those people... they're animals. Vultures. They'll smell her weakness from a mile away and tear her apart."
Enzo studied his boss's profile, the tight set of his jaw, the dark intensity in his eyes even through the alcohol haze. Something was eating at him, something that had been building for days, maybe weeks. And it all seemed to circle back to one person.
"She's not ready, or you're not ready?" Enzo asked, the question hanging in the air between them like a challenge.
Xavier's head turned, his eyes snapping to Enzo with a sudden, sharp focus that was almost sober. But he didn't answer. He just looked at his second-in-command for a long, tense moment, his jaw working, before turning away and staring out the window again, deliberately avoiding the question.
The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable. Enzo could feel the wheels turning in Xavier's head, could see the battle being waged behind those cold grey eyes. Whatever was going on with his boss, whatever internal war he was fighting, it was clearly not something Xavier wanted to discuss. So Enzo shifted tactics, steering the conversation to safer ground.
"Anyway," he said, his tone deliberately casual, "why do you have to go back to Spain anyway? Can't you just send someone in your place? Handle it remotely?"
"The Givers of the Masked Charity gala is coming up," Xavier replied, his voice flat, the slur still present but the words more distinct, as if talking about business helped ground him somewhat.
Enzo frowned, genuinely confused. "I wasn't under the impression mafia have charity galas," he said, a note of scepticism creeping into his voice. "Isn't that a little... counterproductive? 'Hey, let's raise money for orphans while we're also laundering money from drug deals and murder.' Doesn't make sense."
Xavier turned to look at him, and even through the alcohol, there was a flash of the cold, condescending superiority that Enzo was used to. "Enzo, are you stupid, or just plain ignorant?" he said, his words slow and deliberate, each one a small dagger. "Everyone in the mafia has a business as a facade to hide our shady dealings. We don't go around as mobsters and mafia bosses, you idiot. We go around as CEOs, philanthropists, entrepreneurs. We build hospitals and fund schools and donate to charity, and the public eats it up because they want to believe that rich people are good people."
He took another swig from the bottle, the level now dangerously low. "The gala is a front," he continued, his voice taking on a hard, bitter edge. "It's there to keep the media and the public under the impression that we are regular CEOs. It's a fucking costume party where we all put on our masks and pretend to be civilized human beings while the real business happens in the back rooms and the private jets and the abandoned warehouses."
Enzo nodded slowly, processing this. He knew all of this, of course, on some level. But hearing Xavier explain it, hearing the contempt in his voice, made it feel different. More real. More ugly.
"So what exactly is she not ready for?" Enzo asked, bringing the conversation back to the point that clearly mattered most.
Xavier's gaze darkened, the grey of his eyes turning almost black in the dim light of the car. He glared out the window, his jaw clenched so tight Enzo could see the muscles jumping beneath his skin. When he spoke, his voice was low, dangerous, a rumble of pure, possessive fury that made the hair on the back of Enzo's neck stand up.
"I don't want those disgusting motherfuckers near my wife," he said, each word ground out like it was being forced through his teeth. "I will tear them limb by limb if they do so much as look at her wrong. She's mine."
The possessiveness in his voice was tangible, a physical force that filled the car and pressed against Enzo's chest. This wasn't about business. This wasn't about the gala or Spain or Italy or any of the practical concerns that should have been occupying Xavier's mind. This was about ownership. About control. About a woman who had become an obsession, a fixation that was consuming him from the inside out.
Enzo knew, in that moment, from the tone Xavier was using, the dark, dangerous edge that hadn't been there even when he was shooting that guy in the warehouse, that this was not a man he wanted to argue with. This was not a man who would listen to reason or logic or calm, rational discussion. This was a man on the edge, a man who was one wrong word away from doing something catastrophic.
So Enzo did the only thing he could do. He kept his mouth shut, leaned back in his seat, and watched the city lights blur past, wondering, not for the first time, just how deep his boss had fallen into the abyss of his own obsession.