After the successful mission dealing with the rival Nile Empire, firing his men even before they got to the illegal ship, striking first at the Blax Dynasty's Shipping Clearing Coast, Vincent Carpel's men moved ten times faster, taking the enemy completely unawares.
Once again, he was winning the battle.
He drove alone at 2 a.m., heading straight to the most exclusive country club in the city. The moment he stepped inside, the club's noise dipped. Style, darkness, and lethal charm hung on him like a second skin, commanding the entire room.
Again, silence.
Again, respect.
Vincent Carpel. The man whose name echoed through all of Italy.
The girls turned instantly, some even those who came with partners. His wristwatch alone was worth billions, and his suit screamed luxury and danger. He still wore the same clothes from last night when he had shot Israel, not bothering to change.
He walked calmly to the private area, the one permanently reserved for him by the club owner. After Vincent had given him 2 billion to save the elite club during the Blax Dynasty conflict—l, on the condition he paid back with 3 billion interest, the man hadn't hesitated. Vincent always collected.
He always finished deals.
And he had already received 4 billion back. Only 1 billion left.
Vincent took a seat on the velvet cushions.
The club owner, a light-skinned man dressed in a designer cowboy hat and flowing white agbada-style gown, approached him reverently. He served Vincent like a king, because in his mind, Vincent was one.
Behind him, a drink servant rushed forward at the owner's command to serve Vincent Carpel, also known by his secret name, Blax, the name he gave himself the night he founded the organization that made him powerful and untouchably wealthy.
"Mr. Vincent, my honor to see you again. Here, have a drink. My treat, no, the club's treat."
Vincent didn't speak.
His eyes stayed cold as the yellow-tinted-haired server poured out the most expensive liquor in the club, Vincent's favorite.
He leaned back, picking up the tumbler, letting the liquor burn down his throat. As he swallowed, he spoke, still not looking up.
"Where is my money, Derek?"
The club owner stuttered immediately. Vincent finally raised his gaze. His eyes were burning. Derek moved closer, lowering his tone, pleading as he perched beside Vincent.
"The club is successful, I promise to raise the one billion. We just need more time… until the deadline," Derek said shakily.
Vincent crossed his legs, authority radiating from him ..
"The deadline is in two days. If it's not met, you know the agreement. The papers are signed. Blax Dynasty will take over your club. And I will be willing to."
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
People had made him cold.
After watching his father die.
After seeing his mother's head blown open.
After watching his sister raped and killed right in front of him.
He held the trauma, and he used it to carve the world the same way it carved him.
Derek swallowed hard under Vincent's dead gaze.
"S-sure," he finally whispered. "Sire, there are girls willing to spend time with you tonight. Hot. They all want you."
Vincent's expression did not shift.
Derek understood the silence.
He got up and hurried away.
But not before ordering the sexiest, prettiest girls, those desperate to be noticed, maybe even fucked by the world's strongest mafia leader, to head toward Vincent's area. Fifteen of them. Wearing almost nothing… some wearing nothing at all but bras and panties. Their breaths unsteady, excited.
Vincent drank again, careful not to get drunk.
He had enemies everywhere.
He was a trillionaire, one mistake could end everything.
The girls hesitated, then started dancing, waists twisting, bodies moving to the private music in his reserved section. Desperate to impress him. Desperate to be chosen by him.
But Vincent stared at nothing.
The music passed through him.
They meant nothing.
Then his phone buzzed.
A message.
"Sir, urgent matter. Nile Organization is attacking the ship. Their leader sent more men to intercept before it reaches Italy tomorrow. He didn't back off after losing his men. He's moving swiftly. Reports say we lost 23 trillion worth of goods during the sail."
Vincent blinked slowly.
He answered immediately, slipping in his AirPods.
"Gonzalo. What is it I hear?"
His assistant responded, breathless.
"Our men are fighting back. Latest report, we have killed more than 40. Few left. Our casualties, five. We're holding still."
"Who is this Nile Corporation?" Vincent demanded. "I want every bit of information immediately. What do they want from us? Send the firearms from the warehouse to the men in Ravenna City, Italy. Use the normal trap. Our way. Bring Nile's leader to me."
"Noted, sir."
The call ended.
Vincent stood.
Time to leave this empty club, to return to his cold, lonely mansion where no one stayed unless necessary. The private chef cooked every day, whether Vincent ate or not.
His $200-trillion mansion, built in only three months, remained dark, curtains always closed per his strict orders.
He turned when one girl finally gathered courage. She touched his shoulder lightly.
He looked at her.
She flinched instantly.
"Vincent… my pleasure to see you tonight. I'd be delighted to be your guest."
She trembled, trying to maintain her courage.
She knew the risk of approaching him.
He chose women.
Women did not choose him.
"Your nipples are blaring open from your underwear."
He didn't even look down, just straight into her eyes.
Panicked, she looked down and fumbled to adjust herself. All that dancing, all the romancing of her own body, and she hadn't noticed when they slipped out.
"Fix that first."
He walked away, his presence chilling the air, leaving the desperate girls frozen with disappointment. None of them had caught his attention. Not even close.
One girl snatched his remaining drink and swallowed it in frustration.
Vincent slid into his dark, tinted luxury car and started the engine.
Halfway down the road, his phone rang again.
His assistant's loyal voice filled the vehicle.
"We've successfully trailed Nile's right-hand man. He's at a birthday party in a club. We believe he'll lead us to the leader. Files and records sent. He's surrounded now, no escape."
Vincent's voice dripped steel.
"Kidnap him. Bring him to the Raven Room, the dark room for deadly activities, mafias only. I'll interrogate him myself. Drill him if he's stubborn."
"Noted, sir."
"Bastards… how dare they try to destroy what I built. They'll learn the hard way."
He cursed under his breath and changed course. Instead of heading home at almost 4 a.m., he drove to Red Hills, where vultures gathered for their meals.
Meals Vincent always supplied… with his enemies.
As he stepped out of the car and approached the hills, the thousand vultures screeched over a body recently dropped off. Bones already exposed. Flesh nearly gone.
One vulture looked up at him.
For the first time that night, Vincent grinned.
"Enjoy."