After the successful mission dealing with the rival Nile Empire, firing his men even before they reached the illegal ship, moving swiftly toward the Blax Dynasty Shipping Clearing Coast, his men moved ten times faster, taking their enemies unaware.
Once again, he was winning the battle.
Vincent Carpel drove alone at 2 a.m. to the country club in the city, one of the most exclusive in all of Italy. The moment he walked in, dressed in a style that was dark, dangerous, and imposingly perfect, the club calmed.
For a moment, everything stilled, because Vincent always had that effect.
He was known for his wealth.
For his power.
For his name.
Vincent Carpel's name rang in the mouths of many.
The girls turned their eyes toward him, even the ones who had come with partners. He wore a wristwatch worth billions and a suit that screamed luxury.
Vincent hadn't changed after last night, when he had shot Israel.
He walked calmly to the reserved area, reserved for him by the owner of the club, a man who held him highly and respected him. After all, Vincent had once given him 2 billion to save the elite club when he had come begging for help after losing everything at the Blax Dynasty gambling tables. Vincent had agreed, but only on the condition that he repaid with an interest of 3 billion.
The man hadn't hesitated to accept it.
Vincent had saved his club. Paid him the 4 billion.
Only 1 billion left of their agreement.
As Vincent sank into the velvet seats, the club owner, a light-skinned man wearing a designer cowboy hat and a flowing white male gown, hurried over. The man served him like a king, and believed he was one.
As he approached, he ordered a young servant to come quickly, to serve Vincent Carpel, secret name: Blax.
The name Vincent had given himself on the night he started the organization that made him powerful and unimaginably wealthy.
"Mr. Vincent," the owner breathed, bowing slightly. "Oh, my honor to see you here again. Here, have a drink. My treat. The club's treat."
Vincent didn't speak.
He watched the man with tinted yellow hair pour out the most expensive liquor in the club, Vincent's favorite, his exact taste.
Vincent leaned forward, picked up the tumbler, and threw the drink back. He let it burn.
As he swallowed, he finally spoke, not looking at the man's face. "Where is my money, Derek?"
Only then did he raise his head.
Derek stuttered instantly, Vincent's gaze burning through him. The man perched nervously beside him, voice trembling.
"The club is successful… I—I promise to raise the one billion for you. Vincent, please, we just need more time until the deadline."
Vincent crossed his legs slowly, settling into authority.
"The deadline is in two days," he said coldly. "If it's not met, you know the agreement. The papers are signed. Blax Dynasty will take over your club. And I will be willing to."
His tone was merciless.
He knew why he was cold.
People had turned him cold.
After watching his father die, his mother shot in the head, his sister raped and killed right in front of his eyes, Vincent held the trauma. A grudge carved inside of him.
Humans had shown him no mercy.
So he would show them none.
Derek swallowed hard.
"S-sure," he whispered, defeated. "Sire… there are girls willing for you to spend time with. Hot ones. They all want you."
Vincent only stared at him, and Derek instantly took the message. He stood and rushed away.
Moments later, he commanded the sexiest and prettiest girls, those desperate to be noticed, maybe even claimed by the world's mafia leader. They came inhaling and exhaling excitedly, their clothes barely there. Some wore nothing but bras and panties.
Fifteen of them headed toward Vincent's reserved spot.
Vincent poured another glass of wine and swallowed it, letting the burn keep him sharp. He never allowed himself to get drunk. He had enemies. He was a trillionaire. One mistake could ruin everything.
The fifteen girls hesitated, then began dancing to the music that now played exclusively in his section. Their waists rolled to the melody, hips swaying, trying to seduce him, to make him choose one of them.
But Vincent stared into the thin air past them, unmoved.
Then his phone vibrated.
He read the message immediately.
Sir, urgent matter. Nile organization is attacking the ship. Their leader sent more men before the ship could reach Italy tomorrow. He didn't back off. Reports show we lost 23 trillion worth of goods while sailing.
Vincent blinked once.
Then he was calling and slipped his AirPods in.
"Gonzalo," he said darkly. "What is it I hear?"
His assistant replied, breath heavy. Our men are fighting back. Latest reports, we've killed more than forty of their men. Few left. We lost five. We're holding still.
"Who is this Nile Corporation?" Vincent demanded. "I want every bit of information immediately. What do they want from us? Send firearms from the warehouses to the men. Use our normal trap. Our way. Bring Nile's leader to me."
"Noted, sir."
The call ended.
Vincent stood.
He was supposed to go home, to the mansion always cold and lonely, where staff only came and went as needed. The private chefs prepared meals daily whether he ate or not. The mansion he built in three months, worth $200 trillion, had curtains closed every day. His instruction.
He turned, only to find a girl mustering the courage to place a hand lightly on his shoulder.
His dark gaze snapped to her face.
She flinched and withdrew her hand.
"Vincent," she whispered, breath trembling. "My pleasure to see you tonight. I'd be… delighted to be your guest."
Vincent looked at her for a long moment.
She held his gaze, desperate.
She knew she had crossed a boundary.
Vincent chose.
Not the other way around.
"Your nipple is hanging out of your underwear," he said flatly, without even glancing down.
The girl gasped and looked down as her fingers scrambled to adjust her dancing-shifted bra. She hadn't even realized they had popped out.
"Fix that first," Vincent said coldly, walking away. His presence chilled the air behind him, leaving the desperate girls staring in disappointment.
Not one of them had won his attention.
Not one had made Vincent Carpel lust.
They had failed.
One girl gulped down the remaining drink in Vincent's tumbler, sighing in frustration.
Vincent entered his dark, luxurious car and started the engine.
Halfway down the road, his phone rang again. His assistant's voice filled the car.
We have trailed his right-hand man. He's at a birthday party in a club. He will lead us to the leader. Files and records sent. He's surrounded. No escape.
Vincent's grip tightened on the wheel.
"Kidnap him. Bring him to the Danger Room. I will interrogate him myself. Drill him if he acts stubborn."
"Noted, sir."
"Bastards," Vincent muttered. "How dare they try to destroy what I built. They will learn the hard way."
He changed his direction.
Instead of heading home at 4 a.m., he drove toward Red Hills, where vultures fed at dawn.
As he stepped out of the car and stood on the ridge, he saw them, thousands of them, feasting on the body that had arrived hours earlier.
Bones cracking. Wings beating. The air thick with death.
One vulture lifted its head and stared at him.
Vincent, for the first time that night, grinned.
"Enjoy."