Victor Castellano's POV
The gun pressed against the back of my head felt cold. Really cold.
"I'm sorry, boss," Tony said behind me. His voice shook like a scared kid's. "They offered me everything. Your casinos. Your territory. Everything you built."
I didn't turn around. Didn't beg. Didn't even flinch.
Instead, I laughed.
"Everything I built?" I asked, staring at the concrete wall of the parking garage. My blood would stain it soon. "Tony, you idiot. You think they'll actually give you anything?"
"Shut up!" Tony's voice cracked. The gun pushed harder against my skull. "You don't know—"
"I know exactly what happens next," I interrupted. My voice stayed calm, even though my heart pounded like a war drum. "You pull that trigger. You tell them I'm dead. They smile. They shake your hand. Then, three days later, you disappear. Because dead men can't talk, but traitors? Traitors always talk when they're scared."
Silence. Just our breathing and the distant sound of cars on the street above.
I'd started with nothing. Absolutely nothing. At fifteen, I was sleeping in cardboard boxes, stealing food to survive. By twenty-five, I owned three city blocks. By thirty, half the police force was on my payroll. At thirty-five, I controlled the entire east side—drugs, gambling, protection, shipping. Everything.
I built an empire from dirt and blood.
And now my own lieutenant—the kid I found crying in an alley ten years ago, the one I taught everything—had a gun to my head.
"You remember the night we met?" I asked softly. "You were sixteen. Three guys were beating you bloody because you owed money to their boss. I didn't know you. Didn't owe you anything. But I stopped them anyway. Know why?"
"Boss, don't—"
"Because you reminded me of myself," I continued. My words came out hard and cold, like ice. "Hungry. Desperate. Willing to do anything to survive. I gave you food. A job. A family. I trusted you with my life."
"You never trusted anyone!" Tony shouted. "You always said trust is weakness! You said—"
"I said trust carefully," I corrected. "I trusted you, Tony. Only you. And look where that got me."
My mind raced through options. The gun angle meant turning would be suicide. Running meant a bullet in my back. Fighting meant... well, probably death too.
But here's the thing about being a kingpin for twenty years: you learn that death isn't the worst thing.
The worst thing is dying stupid.
"Who's paying you?" I demanded. "Sergei? The Russians always wanted my territory. Or maybe the Colombians? They've been pushing north for months."
"Does it matter?" Tony's laugh sounded bitter and wrong. "You're dead either way."
"It matters because you're signing your own death warrant, you fool!" I snapped, real anger finally breaking through. "Every organization I destroyed, I destroyed because someone got greedy and betrayed their boss. Every single time. And every single time, the traitor died worse than the boss did. You think you're special? You think you're different?"
The gun pulled back slightly. Just an inch.
That's when I knew—Tony wasn't sure anymore. He was scared. Doubting.
Good. Scared people make mistakes.
"Last chance," I said quietly. "Put down the gun. We fix this. Together. Like always."
For three heartbeats, nothing happened.
Then Tony whispered: "I can't. I already took their money. If I don't kill you, they'll kill my sister. They have her, boss. They have Maria."
My chest tightened. Maria. Tony's little sister. I'd paid for her college. Helped her get a job at a real company, away from our world. Sweet kid who baked cookies and dreamed of being a teacher.
They were using her as leverage.
"Where is she?" I asked, my voice dropping to deadly calm.
"I don't know. They just send me pictures. She's tied up, crying, begging—" Tony's voice broke. "I have to do this. I have to save her. You understand, right? You'd do the same for family."
Would I?
I'd never had family. Just soldiers. Assets. People who worked for me because I paid well and killed my enemies better than anyone else.
But in that moment, I understood Tony completely.
He was doing exactly what I'd do—sacrificing one life to save another.
Even if it was the wrong choice.
"Okay," I said slowly. "Okay, Tony. Do it. Save your sister. But promise me something."
"What?"
"After they let her go—and they won't, but when you realize that—you hunt down every single person involved. You burn their world to ash. You make them regret the day they used a kid to get to me. Promise me."
"I promise, boss. I swear."
"Good kid," I whispered.
The gunshot was louder than I expected.
Pain exploded through my skull—white-hot and blinding. My knees hit concrete. Warm blood poured down my neck. The world tilted sideways.
I fell.
Face-first into a puddle that reflected the single parking garage light above.
My vision blurred. Darkened around the edges.
Tony's shoes appeared in front of my face. He was crying. Actually crying.
"I'm sorry," he sobbed. "I'm so sorry, boss."
You should be, I thought, but my mouth wouldn't work anymore.
My empire. Twenty years of building, fighting, surviving. Gone because I made one mistake.
I trusted someone.
The darkness rushed in like a wave. Cold. Heavy. Final.
My last thought wasn't about money or power or revenge.
It was simple:
I built everything from nothing... and trusted the wrong snake.
Then—nothing.
Just black.
Empty.
Dead.
But death wasn't empty.
Death was... light?
Bright. Warm. Pulling me up instead of down.
What the hell?
My eyes snapped open.
I gasped, sucking in air like I'd been drowning.
But the air was wrong. It smelled like flowers and... candle wax?
And I wasn't in the parking garage anymore.
I was in a bed. A massive bed with silk sheets and gold-trimmed curtains.
"Your Highness!" A woman's voice shrieked nearby. "He's awake! Prince Adrian is finally awake!"
Prince? Prince Adrian?
Who the hell is Prince Adrian?