Vincenzo stepped out of the loading bay, a thin spiral of smoke already curling from his lips. The scent of ozone and stale blood was a familiar, comforting perfume. Some of the others would have brutalized the fighter, put on a show of raw strength for the boss, but he knew that was fool's errand. Bragging and excess only attracted unwanted attention. His method was precise, efficient, and spoke more of undeniable, disciplined skill than any display of rage ever could. The old man valued results and direction, and this cold, professional display was meant to earn both. The fighter's last ragged gasp had already been filed away, just another piece of the larger plan, another small, quiet investment in a future he intended to own.
Vincenzo exhaled a slow, thoughtful plum of smoke that dissolved into the damp evening air. The orange tip of his cigeratte glowed in the twilight. He sensed a presence behind him before he heard the footsteps crunching on the gravel. Without a word, he turned, bringing the cigeratte up to his lips for one last drag. Alexander's advisor, a man named Marcus who moved with the quiet authority of a predator, was approaching.
***
He met Marcus's gaze with the practiced calm of someone for whom murder was a business, not a passion. He crushed the cigeratte under his shoe, the sound a sharp, final period to the wait. The silence between them was thick, a shared language of violence and unspoken understanding.
"I expected you," Vincenzo said, his voice a low rumble.
Marcus didn't smile. "The boss was impressed with your close-combat test. It's time to make things official."
"And if I say no?" Vincenzo asked, a hint of something that might have been a challenge, or just curiosity, in his tone.
"You don't," Marcus replied, his expression unchanging. "You're already here."
Vincenzo knew it was true. He had always known where this path would lead. He nodded once, a terse acceptance. "Tell him I'm in."
"He already knows," Marcus said. "Welcome to the family."
***
The Marcus's cordiality vanished with a flick of his wrist. With a curt, downward gesture, he motioned to the Vincenzo to follow him, turning on his heel without waiting for a reply. He fell into step behind him, an unspoken promise of obedience hanging in the air. Inside, the opulence of the main hall gave way to a slick, corporate aesthetic: polished marble floors reflected the sterile white light of recessed fixtures. As they approached the elevators, Marcus's gaze remained fixed forward, while Vincenzo's eyes darted with a hunter's instinct, cataloging the faces of the silent guards and the subtle cameras in the corners. The elevator doors slid open with a whisper, and they stepped into the silence, the numbers on the panel indicating a descent far below the foundations of the building.
***
The ding of the elevator was a sharp, note in the sterile silence of the marble hall. The brushed steel doors parted, Marcus stepped out- a man whose expensive suit seemed a costume in this barren surroundings. He didn't look at Vincenzo, but gestured with one white-gloved hand toward a set of massive, unadorned double doors at the end of the hall. What was more unsettling that the gesture was the profound quiet. There were no bodyguards, no nervous flunkies, his polished shoes clicking on the stone.
Vincenzo's gaze, a weapon in itself, flicked between the man and the empty hallway. He'd been taught that a boss's inner circle always travelled with a retinue. This lack of a protective detail was a glaring vulnerability, or a flagrant display of utter confidence. He leveled a silent question at Marcus, his eyes doing the talking. Marcus, as if reading a telepathic message, offered a thin-lipped smile.
"This chamber is reserved for one," he said, his voice as smooth and emotionless as the stone floors. "The future human weapon of our boss. A man like that needs no audience."
Vincenzo gave a inward scoff. So much trust, earned with a single close-combat test? How naive they were. They had misjudged him, confusing his ruthless effectiveness with loyalty. He was tool, not a pet, and their blind faith was a weakness he was already calculating how to exploit.
***
Marcus's curt bow was a rustle of silk and a whisper of a finality. The weighty, cold keys left a metallic imprint on Vincenzo's palm as the man turned, his polished shoes tapping a rhythm that faded with unnerving swiftness down the long hall. The elevator's soft chime and the muted grind of its doors sliding shut sealed the silence, leaving an oppressive emptiness in the air. For a long beat, he simply stood, the keys now feeling impossibly heavy, before turning toward the vast, double doors. The brass handles gleamed under the low light, a silent promise of the violence waiting beyond.
The key's metallic scrap was the only sound in the otherwise silent corridor, a piercing prelude to the violence he intended to unleash. As the double doors of the chamber swung inward, a cold, clinical darkness settled over him, extinguishing the last flicker of his humanity. His gaze, now as calculating as a predator's, swept over the sterile room reserved for the underworld's new human weapon.
***
The trust he once held for human nature had long since soured into a bitter, unwavering cynicism, a poison he'd ingested one betrayal at a time. Each smile was a mask for deceit, every promise a fragile lie waiting to shatter. Now, all he saw a collection of self-serving creatures driven by greed, power and a desperate cowardice. This was why, Vincenzo could not longer trust their actions, their allegiance, or their fragile morality. He was beyond the petty games of loyalty. His single purpose was to dismantle this organization brick by treacherous brick, to purge this particular filth from the world. It was a task that required not brute force, but the patient, cold precision of a surgeon. And for that, his calculative self had returned.
To be continued...🤍