The stillness shattered. When Grayson shoots at his direction, the butler's silenced pistol zipped towards him, but he moved with such fluidity that shot only disturbed his hair. Vincenzo, who the butler had mistaken for assassin, straightened up from his seemingly impossible crouch and closed the distance with terrifying speed, stopping just inches from the butler's face. The butler stood frozen, the gun still pointed at an empty space behind his target. "Your reflexes are sharp," he said, his voice calm despite the near-lethal encounter. "But a little jumpy."
A deep, gravelly voice echoed from the shadowed study doorway. "Grayson, stand down. He has already passed the test."
The butler, Grayson, lowered his pistol and nodded at his master. "Forgive me. The boss's instructions were...vague"
Vincenzo looked past Grayson to the imposing figure in the doorway. "No harm done. I am not here to kill anyone. Just to meet you in person."
"And to pass remaining tests, before actually joining the organization," the boss grumbled, stepping into the light. "The butler's reflex was only small challenge. A shame I missed the shot. I haven't seen a blur like that since the old days."
Vincenzo smiled wryly. "I honed this skill through years of practice."
The boss nodded, a hint of respect in his eyes. "I am sure you will pass all tests, welcome to the family in advance."
***
The handshake was firm, the boss's grip calloused from a life of command. He spoke of trust and brotherhood, and Vincenzo nodded, the scent of expensive cigar smoke and cheap whiskey filling his nose. He noted the intricate stitching of the boss's tailored suit, the slight tremor in his hand, the way his gaze strayed to the heavily guarded door behind him. All weakness, filed away for later use.
He believes in this illusion so completely. He's surrounded himself with men who mirror of his loyalty, and in doing so, he has blinded himself. Vincenzo watched the guards of the so called 'family'. He saw them as gears in machine, each with a crucial and exploitable function. He would begin with the youngest, the one whose loyalty was more naive than hardened. He would poison the well, one drop at a time, until the whole operation drank from the same tainted water.
***
As his eyes tracked the guards, his mind already calculating trajectories and weak points, the boss's voice cut through the air like a sudden crack of thunder. The sound wasn't loud, but deep and heavy, vibrating with unspoken authority that made Vincenzo's attention snap back to him with a physical jolt. The boss sat behind a large oak desk, his face half-hidden in shadow, a slow smile playing on his lips.
"The test with the gun was child's play", the boss said, his words low and resonant. "It proved you can kill from a distance, like a coward." He leaned forward, the smile widening. "But a true artist can kill with their bare hands. There is another test you must pass. A test of close combat, to see if you are a predator even without your claws." He gestured toward a steel door at the back of the room, a challenge in his eyes. "You'll face someone whose name brings whispers to the toughest men. No weapons. Just you and him."
***
The steel door groaned on its hinges, a sound like a condemned man's last breath, and Vincenzo stepped through. His gait was a study in practiced efficiency, each movement devoid of excess energy. He didn't look at the hulking cage dominating the center of the warehouse or the silent crowd gathered to watch; his gaze was fixed on the far wall, as though counting the rust stains. His face was a mask of utter vacancy, eyelids heavy with disinterest. This wasn't the calm focus of a predator, but the weary resignation of a man watching play he'd seen thousand times.
The underworld boss, Alexander, watched him from his perch on a raised metal catwalk. A scarred grin streched across his face, but his eyes were calculating, running an inventory of the man's every subtle shift. He saw the Vincenzo's effortless stride, the looseness in his shoulders that suggested readiness, and most of all, the deep, impenetrable boredom in his eyes. Alexander had seen that look before, but never in a man so young. He'd known killers who relished the violence and others who saw it as a grim necessity. But this one? He just looked like he was waiting for the subway.
"This is not a street brawl, boy," Alexander's voice boomed, echoing in the cavernous space. " This is close-quarters, no weapons. Just you and a problem that needs to be solved."
Vincenzo finally moved his eyes, letting his gaze sweep over Alexander with a flicker of acknowledgement before settling back on the wall. He offered no verbal response.
Alexander's grin tightened, a sliver of annoyance creeping in, "My man here, he's a different kind of challenge. He won't just crumple. He will enjoy what's coming. He gestured toward the large steel cage. "And when he's done with you, you won't look so...bored."
***
The crowd of underworld men shifted in their seats, their low murmurs rumbling like distant thunder through smoke-filled warehouse. This wasn't the usual fever-pitch energy that preceded a death match. Their eyes, hard and calculating, were all fixed on Vincenzo standing in the center of the pit. He didn't pace or snarl; he just stood there, arms slack at his sides, his expression a mask of profound, almost disrespectful boredom.
A thick-necked man in the front row, whose knuckles were scarred white from a lifetime of brawls, leaned toward his companion. "Look at him. The disrespect," he muttered, his voice a low growl. "He thinks this is waste of his time."
"Maybe it is," the other man replied with a shrug, flicking ash from his cigar. "Thinks he is going to make a name for himself."
Behind them, a younger goon with a fresh scar running down his cheek shifted anxiously. "He's not even lookin' at our boss", he whispered, a nervous edge to his tone. "That's how they get you. Lull you into thinkin' they're not a threat."
"Relax, punk," a seasoned veteran snarled without turning his head. "He's a threat. That's the point. It's a message for the new boss. But it's a boring one. He's not even tryin' to make it a spectacle."
"Maybe he ain't feelin' it tonight," a low voice slurred from the back of the row. "Tired of the tests. You can see it in his eyes. He ain't got the bloodlust anymore."
"He doesn't need bloodlust," a different voice cut in, cold and sharp as a razor. "He's got a reputation. And tonight, he's just reminding everyone why." The murmuring swelled and faded, a tide of a cycincal commentary, before being cut short by the bell's sharp, metallic clang.
To be continued...🤍