The transaction unraveled faster than anyone expected.
What had begun as a tense but controlled exchange deteriorated into sharp words and colder stares. The rival family's representatives moved with deliberate caution, their eyes flicking between the crates of weapons and Izana's men. There was a subtle shift in the air—one Izana should have caught instantly.
But he didn't.
A detail went unchecked. A question went unanswered for a second too long. A pause lingered where there should have been certainty.
And the rival family noticed.
"This isn't what was agreed upon," one of them said, voice clipped, fingers tapping impatiently against the table.
Izana turned his head slightly, blindfold still in place, the dull throb behind his eyes flaring in protest. "Explain," he said calmly—but his voice came a fraction too late.
"We requested confirmation of serial integrity," the man continued. "Your lieutenant gave us an incomplete verification."
A murmur rippled through both sides.
Izana's jaw tightened.
That should not have happened.
He lifted a hand, signaling silence, his posture sharpening. "Dante," he said quietly.
Dante stiffened. "Yes, Boss."
"Why was this not addressed?"
There was the briefest hesitation. Just long enough.
Izana felt it like a blade sliding under his ribs.
Before Dante could respond, the rival family's leader stood. "We're done here."
The words slammed into the space like a gunshot.
Izana straightened fully. "Sit down."
The man smiled thinly. "No. If you cannot guarantee precision, then this partnership is no longer viable."
"Weapons of this tier require trust," another added coolly. "And today, Don Izana, you were… distracted."
The word hit harder than any accusation.
Izana's hands curled slowly into fists.
"You are making a mistake," he said, voice dangerously even.
"Perhaps," the leader replied. "But it's one we can survive."
And with that, they turned away.
The deal was over.
Izana didn't move for several seconds after they left. The sounds of crates being sealed, guards repositioning, murmured conversations—all of it blurred into background noise.
The migraine behind his eyes spiked sharply.
Damn it.
Not them.
Me.
The curse stirred, not violently this time—but smugly. Like it had been waiting for this moment.
You faltered.
Izana swallowed hard, forcing his breathing to steady. His body felt tight, coiled, rage pressing dangerously close to the surface.
Dante stepped closer. "Izana… we should leave. Now."
Izana didn't respond immediately.
The thought burned in his chest—not of the rival family, not of the failed deal—but of Leah. Of how his thoughts had drifted. Of how he had let himself linger in warmth when he should have been ruthless.
Unacceptable.
"Take me home," he said finally, voice low and sharp.
Dante didn't argue.
The drive back to the mansion was silent.
Izana sat rigid in the back seat, blindfold still on, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles ached. The city blurred past, unseen but felt—the hum of traffic, the vibrations beneath the tires.
His chest burned with a mixture of anger and something worse.
Disappointment.
In himself.
He had survived torture, curses, betrayal.
And yet a feeling—a person—had been enough to distract him.
Pathetic.
By the time they arrived at the mansion, Izana's restraint was fraying.
He stepped out of the car and walked inside without a word, his stride clipped and purposeful. Servants moved aside instinctively.
Leah stood near the base of the stairs.
"Izana—." she began.
He walked straight past her.
Didn't slow.
Didn't acknowledge her.
Didn't look back.
The door to his bedroom slammed shut upstairs moments later.
Leah stood frozen, her chest tightening painfully.
"What—?" she whispered.
Dante stopped beside her, placing a firm but gentle hand on her arm before she could follow. "Don't," he said quietly.
She turned to him sharply. "What happened?"
His jaw tightened. "The deal failed."
Her eyes widened. "Failed?"
"Yes."
"But that's not—." She stopped, studying his face. "That's not all, is it?"
Dante hesitated.
That alone told her everything.
"Dante," she pressed. "What aren't you telling me?"
He exhaled slowly. "Izana… hasn't been himself these past two weeks."
Leah's breath caught. "What do you mean?"
"He's distracted," Dante said carefully. "In meetings. In negotiations. He listens—but he doesn't hear. He misses things he never would have before."
Shock washed over her. "That's impossible. Izana would never—."
"I know," Dante said quietly. "That's why it worries me."
Her hands trembled slightly. "Is he hurt?"
"No," Dante replied. "Not physically."
That somehow felt worse.
Upstairs, Izana ripped the blindfold from his eyes the moment the door shut behind him.
White-hot pain exploded through his skull.
He hissed sharply, staggering a step as light flooded his vision, stabbing and unforgiving. His green eyes burned, watering instantly—but he didn't put the blindfold back on.
He welcomed the pain.
Deserved it.
He moved to the bedside table, fingers shaking just slightly as he opened the drawer. A hidden compartment slid open beneath his touch.
Inside were several bottles of whiskey.
And a small tin container.
His name was etched neatly on the lid, alongside a doctor's name and a clinical label.
Medical marijuana.
Prescribed. Regulated.
Controlled—once.
Izana stared at it for a long moment.
Then he grabbed one of the bottles and the tin and turned toward the balcony.
The night air hit him hard as he stepped outside, cool and sharp against his overheated skin. He lowered himself to the floor, back against the railing, legs drawn in loosely.
He uncorked the bottle and took a long drink.
The burn was immediate.
He didn't flinch.
He opened the tin next, hands practiced despite the tremor still lingering faintly in his fingers. He lit it and inhaled slowly, deliberately.
The smoke curled into the night.
For a few moments, there was nothing.
Just the city lights below.
The dull ache in his chest.
The fading edge of rage.
His thoughts returned—unwanted.
Leah's face.
Her blue eyes.
The way she looked at him when she thought he wasn't paying attention.
He laughed quietly, bitter. "This is your fault," he muttered—to himself, to the curse, to the night.
Another drink.
Another breath.
The pain dulled.
But the guilt didn't.
Inside the mansion, Leah stood at the foot of the stairs, staring up at the closed door to Izana's room.
Something had changed.
And whatever it was—it wasn't just about a failed deal.