The abandoned warehouse was swallowed by the deep, indifferent silence of the city's industrial outskirts. The only sound that dared to interrupt the grim stillness was the bright, ludicrously chirpy sound of Candy Crush echoing through the vast, cold, concrete room.
The contrast was absurd—obscene, even—pitting the cheerful digital jingle against the grim backdrop of metallic tang of violence, sweat, and blood that hung heavy and humid in the stagnant air.
Under the harsh, unsparing glare of the fluorescent lights that hummed overhead, a man lounged with utterly casual indifference. His legs were crossed, one hand resting on his knee while the other held a sleek smartphone. He flicked gemstones across the screen with deliberate ease, the speed of his play indicating a mastery born of boredom, acting as if he were simply waiting for afternoon tea instead of overseeing an act of calculated torture.
This was Luciano Solis De La Vega.
His platinum-blonde hair, immaculately cut, caught the fluorescent light like sharpened silver, lending him an almost ethereal, dangerous glow. It framed a face that was strikingly beautiful, too refined, too sculpted for a place this brutal and coarse.
But it was his eyes—those piercing, icyblue-gray eyes—that commanded and stole all attention. Eyes that never softened, never warmed, eyes that saw through lies and pretenses the way a razor-sharp blade slices effortlessly through silk.
Luciano was the kind of man who didn't just walk into a room; he owned the atmosphere. The kind of man who made the world step aside, not because he was large or loud, but because his presence demanded a profound, terrified respect.
The kind of man who didn't need to raise his voice because the inherent threat in his silence was infinitely more compelling.
Right now, he looked profoundly bored.
And for the terrified men standing guard, that was always the most immediate and dangerous problem.
Across from him, slumped haphazardly in a steel chair and anchored to it with thick, industrial-grade rope, was what used to be William Baker. His face was swollen almost beyond recognition, a mask of purple and yellow contusions, his skin split and lacerated in several places. Blood had crusted thickly along his jawline and neck, and his breath came out in wet, shaky pulls, each one an audible struggle.
Whatever veneer of dignity, success, or confidence he once carried—the same facade that had charmed Eloise—had been thoroughly and systematically beaten out of him long before Luciano Solis De La Vega decided to grace the scene with his presence.
Luciano didn't bother looking up from his game as he spoke, his voice a low, musical drawl that barely lifted above the chirping jingle of the phone.
"Tell me," he drawled, crushing another virtual candy with a victorious swipe of his thumb, "when is he planning to wake up? I am genuinely two seconds away from dying of pure, unadulterated boredom."
One of his subordinates stiffened immediately. This was a broad-shouldered man, visibly nervous, who had been pacing the perimeter of the room since the moment Luciano walked in.
"S-sir, we tried everything," the man stammered, his eyes flickering fearfully to William's bruised form. "He kept blacking out, sir."
Luciano clicked his tongue in mild, almost gentle annoyance, still focused on his screen. "When I said persuade him to talk, I did not mean beat him into a medically induced coma, Marcos," he replied, his tone conversational. "I meant he should be awake before I get here—preferably terrified, functional, and ready to beg."
He finally flicked his eyes up from the phone, and the cold, glacial intensity of his stare settled heavily on the subordinate.
"Even if he's fucking dying," Luciano finished. His tone remained perfectly polite, almost gentle, which was precisely why it terrified everyone in the room far more than any shout could.
"Apologies, sir," the subordinate, Marcos, swallowed hard, sweat beading on his forehead. "He… he refused to say anything, boss. He kept insisting he had nothing to confess."
Luciano responded by slowly raising one elegant platinum eyebrow—just one. It was a minuscule movement, yet a visible chill rippled through the already cold concrete room.
"Of course he refused," Luciano said, his lip curling slightly in distaste. "Why would he make your job easier? Marcos."
He waved one hand dismissively toward the corner. Immediately, another man stepped forward carrying a bucket. The water within hit William's face in a stinging, ice-cold splash.
William gasped violently, choking and convulsing, the shock forcing consciousness back into his battered mind. His eyes fluttered open with a moment of confused, agonizing disorientation before the full, brutal weight of memory slammed back into him all at once.
Memory hit him like a physical blow, worse than any punch he had taken.
Eloise. The restaurant. The humiliating public spectacle. The wine. The searing slaps. The disgust in her eyes. The condoms tossed like diseased things.
And then—the men in black. They had appeared immediately after he staggered out of Le Papillon, his reputation ruined, his pride crushed. Men he recognized. Men who were supposed to be his associates. Men he had worked with on sensitive projects. Men who were now standing around him like a silent pack of wolves.
He forced his eyes open, blinking past the crust of blood and the stinging cold water, only to freeze completely.
Luciano Solis De La Vega had finally paused his game. He leaned back in the steel chair, bored, resting his cheek against the knuckles of his hand, the picture of refined menace.
"Well, well… good evening, Will," Luciano drawled, pulling the name out slow and mocking. "For a second there, I thought I was going to have to wait another minute and risk death by boredom. You can't imagine how dull Candy Crush gets when you are waiting on a corpse to reanimate."
William struggled desperately against the industrial ropes, the thick fibers digging into his swollen wrists, panic flaring like a sudden, scorching fire.
"Sir De La Vega," he choked out, forcing the title past his cracked lip, "what is the meaning of this? Why am I here? There has been a terrible mistake!"
Luciano's lips curved into a faint, utterly chilling smile. He settled deeper into his chair. "Meaning? Oh, please. Spare me the trembling confusion. It's entirely unbecoming. And Will, you, of all people, should know I don't waste my evenings—or my expensive cigars—without very good reason."
He smirked, tilting his head slightly.
"By the way—your little performance at Le Papillon?"
He brought his hands together in a slow, precise, mocking clap, the sound sharp and isolated in the cavernous space.
"Award-winning. Truly. I haven't enjoyed a dinner show like that in years. You managed to capture both tragedy and farce. I truly clapped."
William's stomach churned violently, the humiliation compounding the physical agony.
Luciano's entire demeanor sharpened in an instant—a lethal, instantaneous shift from bored spectator to predator.
"But that," he said, the word cutting through the remnants of the silence, "is merely a consequence, not why I'm here."
He stood, rising slowly, and the entire temperature of the room seemed to drop with his ascent. One of his subordinates immediately stepped forward and offered him a pair of smooth black leather gloves and a sleek, narrow knife.
Luciano accepted them with a practiced, careful grace, sliding the gloves onto his pale, elegant hands with unhurried precision. His voice was smooth as velvet, but each word cut with surgical sharpness, demanding attention.
"Now," he said softly, looking William directly in his swollen eyes, "I won't ask twice, and I despise unnecessary theatrics."
He held the knife between two fingers, admiring its clean, flawless edge in the harsh light. The sight was terrifying in its absolute lack of emotion.
"Who sent you, Will?"
William's throat bobbed painfully as he tried to swallow down the fear. "I don't know what you're talking about. I've been loyal to you for years. I am a partner in your firm. I would never betray you."
Luciano tilted his head, studying the bruised face with an expression of amused disbelief.
"Yes, yes, the 'I've been loyal' speech. Very touching, the dedication to the script." He made a languid, dismissive rolling gesture with his hand. "Blah, blah, blah. Try something original, Will. Try something that is not borrowed from a mediocre spy novel."
His eyes flicked up again—icy, deadly.
"But I did not ask for poetry. I asked for the truth. Who. Sent. You."
William tried one last time, desperate, pathetic. "I swear—I don't work for anyone! I just—"
His sentence collapsed into a terrible, agonizing scream.
Luciano Solis De La Vega had moved so fast, so seamlessly, that no one saw the exact moment the knife plunged deep into William's thigh. Blood pulsed instantly, hot and vividly dark, staining the coarse fabric of his trousers.
William convulsed violently, shrieking, his eyes bulging with the shock of fresh agony layered upon old pain.
Luciano didn't flinch. His expression remained utterly calm. He pressed the knife deeper, twisting the blade almost thoughtfully, meticulously enhancing the pain.
"Did they tell you," he murmured, his voice calm, clear, and perfectly audible over William's ragged cries, "to share the heartwarming story of how your father abandoned you? How your poor, mother struggled to raise you alone, selling everything to pay for your education? Did they tell you to make yourself pitiful so I'd take you in, and trust you?"
William stared at him, the fear momentarily replaced by a look of profound, agonizing betrayal.
"You… you knew?"
Luciano smiled, a slow, cold stretch of his refined lips that never reached his eyes.
"Oh, Will." He leaned close enough for William to smell the faint, expensive scent of sweet citrus and to see the frost in those blue-gray eyes. "Don't be surprised. I am a very patient man."
William's voice cracked with disbelief and a horrifying dawning understanding. "And yet you… you kept me at your side. Gave me work. Trusted me. You even gave me that estate, the promotion… knowing I was sent by the someone?"
Luciano withdrew the knife with a practiced, effortless flick, blood staining the immaculate blade.
"Yes," he said simply, his voice carrying the finality of a death sentence. "Because patience reveals far more than panic ever will."
He wiped the knife meticulously clean on the front of William's ruined, bloody shirt, then tapped the side of his own temple with an elegant glove.
"You see, Will, I don't get angry first. I observe first. I let people play their designated part on my stage. It is much more instructive for me, and far more terrifying for them." A slow, ghosting smile crossed his face, chilling and utterly elegant. "And then, when the time is right, I remind them who they were foolish enough to deceive."
He stepped back, surveying his broken prey. He gestured imperiously to his men, his patience clearly expired.
"Now, gentlemen… let's start again, shall we? This time, I want the name of your employer before the next virtual candy explodes. I suggest you oblige."