Chapter 5

Diego

I’ve been up since six. My body wakes before the alarm—trained, disciplined, relentless. Sleep is a necessity, not a luxury, and I never indulge in more than I need. I start the day in my home gym, pushing through a brutal circuit of weights and cardio. No music. No distractions. Just the sound of breath and metal, the rhythm of exertion. By the time I walk upstairs, it’s eight o’clock and my muscles hum with exertion, my mind honed to a blade’s edge.

I take a cool shower, letting the water run over me in silence. The hiss of the spray, the echo of droplets on tile, the steady cadence of my breathing—it’s a meditation. I scrub away the sweat, the tension, the residue of sleep. When I step out, I feel like steel—clean, sharpened, ready.

In the closet, I select a charcoal gray pinstripe suit. Classic. Sharp. Intimidating. I lay it out with precision, alongside a black button-down and matching shoes. From the dresser, I retrieve a pair of black boxer briefs and slide them on. Dressing is a ritual—slow, methodical, like assembling armor. Every button, every fold, every line is deliberate.

Downstairs, I take my usual seat at the head of the dining table—dark mahogany, clawed feet, high back. It’s not just furniture. It’s a throne. I’ve always liked the symbolism: power, permanence, control.

Jones enters, announcing breakfast. The maids follow with platters—eggs, fruit, pastries, meats, juices. A feast fit for ten. I never asked for this much, but I allow it. Excess is a language in my world. Still, I don’t tolerate waste.

“Make sure you’re donating the leftovers,” I say without looking up. “Not trashing them.”

Jones nods. “Yes, boss.”

I make myself a plate—simple, balanced. I eat slowly, chewing with intention, sipping coffee between bites. I don’t rush meals. I don’t rush anything. When I’m done, I dab my mouth, set the napkin on the plate, and finish my coffee.

Jones approaches with my coat. “First on your schedule is a meeting with Mr. Barelli. The car is waiting to take you there now.”

I glance at him. “And where will we be meeting, Jones?” My voice is quiet steel.

He hesitates. “The warehouse, sir.”

I smirk. “So it’s that kind of meeting.”

My gaze drifts down his body. Objectively, Jones is attractive—tall, lean, well-groomed. If he weren’t the help, I would’ve fucked him already. But I have rules. After watching the man who raised me fall for a maid and crumble when his wife ordered him to kill her—pregnant and pleading—I made a vow. No ties to the help. No exceptions. Doesn’t matter if they’re men who can’t get pregnant. Most of them are just looking for a way up. I won’t be their ladder.

Jones hands me my gloves. I slide my fingers into the cool leather, flexing my hands. I love the feel of broken-in gloves—soft, responsive, molded to me. I ball my fists and watch the leather move like muscle. I smile at Jones, then turn and head for the door.

Time to deal with Barelli.

He’s been siphoning off drugs and money for months. I didn’t act until I was absolutely sure. Now, either someone’s done a piss-poor job of framing him, or he’s the one pocketing my profits.

Outside, the driver opens the car door. I slide into the backseat. He jogs around to the front. “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes, sir,” he says, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

I nod and look out the window. My security team follows in two other cars, flanking us like shadows.

We arrive at the warehouse shortly after. It’s squat, nondescript, tucked into the industrial outskirts—far from neighbors, far from questions. Ideal for quiet resolutions.

Antonio and Dante wait outside. My second and third. Loyal. Efficient. Ruthless.

I walk over. “Report.”

Antonio clears his throat. “Barelli says he wasn’t behind it. Claims he was doing the bidding of a third party. Says they never met face-to-face.”

I chuckle, mirthless. “So Barelli isn’t as scared of me as he should be. He should’ve known—it’s never wise to do anyone’s bidding but mine.” I glance at the warehouse doors. “Let’s go. Let’s get this over with.”

Inside, the air is cool and smells faintly of oil and copper—shadows pool in corners. Barelli sits tied to a chair in the center of the room, his face a mess of bruises and blood. His head hangs low, blood dripping steadily onto the concrete. I stand to the side, watching him.

There’s a strange beauty in a broken body—skin blooming in shades of black, blue, and purple. Pain made visible.

I walk to the table and pick up a small blade. It’s clean, sharp, and familiar. I approach Barelli and use the knife to lift his chin. His eyes meet mine—wide, wet, terrified.

Too late.

He should’ve been afraid before we got here. Now, there’s no going back.

I smile, slow and sinister. “My men tell me you don’t have much to say. So I won’t draw this out. Any last words?”

He shakes his head rapidly. “Please, Mr. Fuentes! Please! I’ve got a fami—”

His plea is cut short as I slide the knife across his neck. His blood splashes my arm, stains my suit.

I step back, watching him gurgle and slump in the seat. “You should’ve thought of your family before you crossed me,” I say coldly.

I glance down at my suit. “Shit.”

Someone hands me a towel. I wipe my hands clean. “Clean this mess up,” I say, already walking toward the door.

Outside, the sun is warm and bright. I check my watch. It’s not even noon.

I slide into the backseat and tell the driver to take me home.

When we arrive, the driver opens the door. I step out. Jones greets me at the entrance, taking my coat and gloves.

“The shower is already running in the master bath for you, sir,” he murmurs.

I nod and head upstairs.

In my room, I shed my bloody clothes and walk naked into the bathroom. The water is hot now, steam curling around me. I step under the spray, and the blood washes away in ribbons. I lather my loofah and scrub every inch of my skin. I rinse, step out, and grab a towel. I dry off and wrap it around my waist before heading back into my room.

A knock sounds at the door.

I open it to find Jones standing there, shifting nervously. His eyes flick to my chest, then away.

“M-Mr. Morales will be here in half an hour for the meeting he scheduled with you,” he stammers.

I smirk. “Anything else?”

“N-no, sir.”

“Okay. You can go.”

I shut the door and walk deeper into the room.

I let out a sigh. There’s no rest for the wicked.

I chuckle to myself and walk to the closet, selecting another suit—this one navy, with a subtle pattern. I dress slowly, adjusting the cuffs, straightening the collar.

Time to see what Mr. Morales plans to lay on the table.

And whether he’ll walk away from it.