They didn't untie me straight away.
The silence stretched long enough that my wrists began to throb in rhythm with my heartbeat, every nerve in my fingers screaming as if the blood rushing back couldn't decide whether to heal me or punish me. My eyes swept the room, cataloguing every detail: four men standing against the walls, rifles low but ready, their posture precise and disciplined. Military training, not street-level intimidation. They didn't twitch. They didn't blink unnecessarily. They waited. And I waited too, because panic would have been payment, and I didn't owe them anything yet.
Finally, the man at the center nodded, almost imperceptibly.
"Untie him."
A knife flashed. Rope fell. The slap of rough fibers against the marble floor was the only sound before the rush of blood into my wrists made me gasp involuntarily. I flexed my fingers, testing strength, feeling the sting like tiny fire ants crawling under my skin.
"Good job on smashing my apartment," I said, voice flat, controlled. "Really tasteful."
Nothing happened for a moment. Then metal rose.
Four AK-47s snapped up, barrels aimed at my chest. Smooth, efficient, deadly. I counted them automatically. Four angles. Four men. No cover, no escape. For a moment, I let myself imagine the floor swallowing me whole.
Then the man lifted his arm. Just that.
The rifles dropped.
"You asked for my name," he said.
I rolled my wrists slowly, ignoring the tremor that betrayed me. "Yeah. Figured I should know who owns the guns."
"Don Esteban."
"Spanish?" I asked, curiosity edging my tone.
A beat. Then soft laughter. "Is that a problem?"
"Just curious what the Spanish mafia is doing in London."
He waved a hand. "Relax. Nickname. Been stuck to me since I was your age."
Maxwell appeared beside me like a shadow stitched to the room.
He's lying, and you know it, he whispered.
Don Esteban gestured toward the glass wall. Floor-to-ceiling windows spilled city lights into the room. "Come. Somewhere more comfortable."
⸻
The high-rise apartment was absurd in its perfection.
Marble floors, minimalist art, furniture designed to remind you of how little you belonged. London below stretched out like a model, roads glinting like silver threads. I didn't sit. I didn't move. I only absorbed the feeling of power and control siphoned to me.
Don Esteban poured himself a drink. Didn't offer me one.
"You're wondering why you're alive," he said.
"If I were dead," I replied, "we wouldn't be having this conversation."
He smiled faintly. "Practical."
Then he snapped his fingers.
One of his men brought a duffel bag and dropped it at my feet. Heavy. Purposeful.
"Seventy thousand pounds. Cash."
I crouched and unzipped it. Stacks of banknotes, crisp, real. My eyes flicked to Maxwell. He grinned.
Pick it up. Feel it. Weight matters.
I did not. Not yet. My hands hovered over the bag, absorbing the magnitude of the gift.
"For what?" I asked.
"For your time, your silence, and the inconvenience of your apartment."
I nodded. "Generous."
"In the meantime you can stay here. Private. Comfortable. As long as necessary."
He turned to leave. "Tomorrow, ten a.m. An escort will take you to headquarters. Rest well, Dan."
⸻
The night passed slowly. The bed swallowed me whole. I could not sleep. I stared at the ceiling and replayed every motion of the men, the rifles, Don Esteban's subtle tests.
Morning came bright and unforgiving. The shower seared my skin awake. I dressed carefully, double-checked my gun, then looked in the mirror. Same face, same eyes.
The Mercedes Sprinter waited in the lobby. Six men inside. All armed. All silent. I slid into the vehicle, measuring their faces. Paranoia coiled in my stomach.
"This could be a setup," I said.
Maxwell tilted his head.
Look at you. In a moving armory and you're still panicking. Classic.
"How did they get AKs here?" I muttered.
Look at you, Maxwell said. You've got a gun too.
"...Fair enough."
⸻
The castle loomed outside the city like a relic grown of stone and iron. Gates ancient and unyielding. Inside, modernity clashed violently with history: glass walls, LEDs, security cameras observing everything. A war room waited at the centre of it.
Wood-paneled walls. Long, polished brown table. Don Esteban at one end.
Seven men stood as we entered.
"These are my capos," he said. Slowly, deliberately. "And this is Dan."
He gestured around the table:
Javier Morales — ports and coastal logistics (Spanish; eyes like knives)
Enzo Bellini — internal enforcement (Italian; scarred, commanding)
Arthur Blackwood — acquisitions & domestic ops (English; polite, lethal calm)
Li Wei — international procurement (Asian; expression unreadable)
Étienne Moreau — finance & laundering (French; immaculate, cold)
Markus Vogel — security & counter-intelligence (German; posture military, deadly efficient)
Then Don Esteban's gaze came to me.
"This is Dan. He is... solutions."
Don Esteban continued, his voice calm but sharp:
"This is your first official meeting. Agenda is simple: you are now part of the capos. You will be briefed on operational responsibilities. Each of you will receive documentation, outlines, and your immediate tasks. Dan, your first assignment will be handled in coordination with the rest of the team, but your authority comes from me. Understood?"
Heads nodded, men eyeing me, measuring. I nodded back, swallowing the spike of panic in my chest.
A page of paper was passed to each capo. Don Esteban slid a folder towards me. I took it, noting the weight of the documents, the crisp instructions. Inside: operational maps, shipment schedules, personnel lists, contact names, procedural outlines.
I read:
Meet Alfred Green in Luton. Next shipment of firearms and narcotics arriving off the coast of Ipswich. Ensure delivery confirmation and transfer of £1,000,000 to Don Esteban's account. Operate with discretion. Report only to Don Esteban.
Don Esteban stood, arms crossed.
"Questions?"
I shook my head. None would be adequate. I already knew the weight of wrong answers.
As the room cleared, Don Esteban lingered. "The men in your van—answer to you. Only you. Treat this seriously."
When we arrived, the place was wrong in a way that felt deliberate.
Too empty. Too quiet. The kind of industrial dead zone where no one went unless they had a reason to disappear for a while. Cracked concrete, dead grass pushing through asphalt, a single warehouse squatting at the edge of the lot like it had given up trying to look useful.
The man was already there, leaning against his car, smoking. Mid-forties. Clean clothes, cheap watch, expensive shoes. Eyes that didn't stop moving.
He looked me over once. Slowly.
"You're not Victor," he said.
"No," I replied. "Victor made mistakes."
His jaw tightened. "What kind?"
"The kind that get you replaced."
He laughed, sharp and humourless. "You expect me to believe that?"
I took a step closer. Not aggressive. Casual. Closing distance without announcing it.
"I don't expect you to believe anything yet, Arthur" I said. "I expect you to listen."
He shifted his weight. Hand hovering near his jacket.
"Who the fuck are you?" he asked. "And why are you saying my name like you own it?"
I met his eyes. Held them.
"I work with Don Esteban."
The reaction was subtle—but it was there.
"Everyone works with someone," he said carefully.
"I don't," I said. "I work for him."
"Victor was late," I continued. "He talked too much. He forgot who his protection came from. Don Esteban doesn't tolerate delays, and he doesn't tolerate curiosity."
The man's hand slipped fully into his jacket now.
"So why are you here?" he asked.
"Because Don Esteban is keeping the shipment on schedule," I said. "And because he trusts me to deliver the message."
I reached into my coat slowly. Deliberately.
Not for my gun.
I pulled out the folded document from the war room. One page. Clean. Typed. No logos. No signatures. But precise in a way only power bothers to be.
I didn't hand it to him.
I let him see it.
"Ipswich," I said. "Three nights from now. Offshore transfer. Same method Victor used. Same contacts. Nothing changes except the name you answer to."
He scoffed. "And why should I trust you?"
I smiled, just slightly.
"You shouldn't," I said. "You should trust Don Esteban. I'm just the man he sent so you don't have to meet him yourself."
"You're young," he said. "Too young to be sitting in his chair."
"I'm not sitting in it," I replied. "I'm standing where he told me to stand."
The man studied me for a long moment.
Then he nodded once.
"Victor used to say the same thing," he muttered.
"And look where that got him," I said.
Silence again.
Finally, he exhaled and gestured toward the boot of his car.
"Money's there," he said. "Full amount."
I didn't move.
"Open the boot."
He frowned. "You don't trust me?"
"I don't trust anyone," I replied. "That's why I'm still breathing."
He opened the boot.
The cash sat there in vacuum-sealed blocks, packed tight. Clean. Organised. £1,000,000, exactly as promised.
I didn't touch it.
"Good," I said. "You'll hear from me again if there's a problem."
"And if there isn't?" he asked.
"Then you won't," I said.
He closed the boot.
"Tell Don Esteban," he said carefully, "that things run smoother when messages come early."
He met my eyes one last time.
"Now I know you too," he said.
I nodded.
"That was the point."
The castle was quiet when I handed over the duffel bag. Don Esteban gave me a measured nod, then slid another smaller one across to me.
"Fifty thousand," he said. "For your discretion. Well done."
I lifted it, feeling the weight, the crisp notes beneath my fingers. Maxwell appeared immediately, hovering somewhere between shadow and commentary.
"Look at you. You've got a hundred and twenty grand now. That's... irresponsible if you don't spend some of it on something shiny."
"Thanks, Maxwell," I muttered, ignoring the dead bastard. "Very helpful."
He snickered.
"I'm literally your conscience with better jokes."
"No". I replied. "You're a hallucination of a man I shot dead in a fucking slave quarter underneath the fucking school."
He laughed sarcastically.
"Relax no need to get defensive."
I slid both bags into the Sprinter, the weight pressing against me. One hundred and twenty thousand pounds.
By the time I arrived, the hotel suite felt impossibly small, the city lights spilling across the floor-to-ceiling windows. I unzipped the bags, letting the notes tumble out onto the bed. They made a satisfying rustle. Not enough for swimming, unfortunately.
Really? You're just going to lie there and stare at it? You've officially peaked in life, Dan. Congratulations.
I ignored him. Instead, I ran my fingers through the stacks, feeling the sheer weight of it.
You planning on licking them, too?
Maxwell was relentless. I rolled my eyes and grabbed my phone. Brooklyn's name glowed on the screen.
I typed: Hey, want to go out tonight?
Her reply was instantaneous: Yes!
Whoa, Maxwell whispered. She said yes. That's huge. Also, how fast do you think you can screw this up?
I ignored him. Pockets packed, I went down to the lobby. The Sprinter waited, engine purring quietly.
Then I saw her—a girl standing near the reception desk, sunlight catching the curve of a delicate gold necklace around her neck. I walked over, weighing options. Impulse won.
"Ten grand," I said.
She raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
"Ten grand. That necklace."
She laughed, disbelief mixing with curiosity. "Fuck it."
I handed over the cash, no hesitation. The necklace was mine—or rather, hers, but now in my possession.
I slid into the Sprinter, the girl's delicate gold glinting faintly beside me, and drove off. Brooklyn was waiting. I parked, taking a deep breath before stepping out.
She smiled at me immediately. "Nice car," she said. "What happened to the Bentley?"
I froze, heart hammering. Maxwell muttered something I didn't need:
Oh, this is going to be hilarious.
"Sold it," I said, calm, collected. Too calm. Brooklyn didn't press. The necklace rested in my pocket, a subtle reassurance.
We walked together through the restaurant, dim lighting, intimate corners. Conversation flowed, casual, but charged—like every word had an unspoken weight behind it. I could feel her watching me, measuring, curious.
I kissed her at the table later. Long, insistent, hungry. My hands were shaking just slightly—just enough for her not to notice.
She leaned closer, eyes intense, lips pressed against mine. Everything else—the cash, the castles, the war room—faded. For a moment, it was just her, just us, and the city beneath our feet.
Later, outside, as the night air cooled my adrenaline, one of my men approached me and whispered in my ear,"two of the four you sent home... they're dead."
Panic hit full force. My chest tightened. Every muscle locked, every instinct screamed.
"Is everything okay?"
I took a deep breath, keeping my voice calm, smooth for Brooklyn's ears. "Everything's fine," I said, even though it wasn't. Her hand in mine grounded me, reminded me that some stakes weren't just about money or power.
The city moved below us, indifferent. Lights flickered, cars traced paths like glowing threads. And I knew that no matter how much cash I had, how many necklaces I bought, how well I kissed, or how high I climbed, the cost of the life I'd chosen would always be there.
Maxwell's voice, smug and annoying as ever, finished the night:
You're officially a criminal with a taste for jewelry and romance. Congrats, Dan. Don't fuck it up.
I laughed softly, a short, tight laugh. "I'll try," I said.
And for the first time that night, the chaos felt almost... manageable.