Beautiful Scar

Seeing red

KAEL'S POV

Immediately after entering the club:

I take in the back view of the lady disappearing into the club, and a smirk unknowingly makes its way to my lips. She is quite a brazen woman, I must say.

I motioned to my driver to disappear. I don’t fancy the idea of him loitering around me. He’s very good at his job, but I prefer to go low-key and unnoticed. His menacing face is already scary enough—it’s a miracle the girl from earlier didn’t piss off her pants after his confrontation.

Speaking of which, I must admit, I’m in awe of her brazenness. That she didn’t gush over me or act coquettish was new—and did it strike my ego? Yes.

I knew her, which was why I helped her out. I don’t go around helping random people—I’m not that good of a person.

She’s an acquaintance of my assistant, Elijah Stone, and she makes really delicious coffee. I’ll give her that. I don’t use the company's coffee maker mainly because hers is so unique and different.

But I’m still awed by her backwardness in not recognizing me. Even though we’ve never met before, it’s like not knowing what Beyoncé looks like.

I make my way through the private corridor exclusive to the top members of the club. By top members, I mean the most elite men of New York—the underdogs who control the political realms of Italy, Mexico, and America. One might think this is just a club, but no, this is the playground of the rich. They gamble their fortunes, and I profit off their hands while being the primary link between them in top-class information exchange. The American underworld revolves at my fingertips.

This club is their playground, but I’m the gamemaster who builds the playground. The actual one percent of the one percent.

The music here isn’t as blaring as the one in the outer court, as I like to call it. The big boys are engaged in whatever they are engaged in—gambling, enjoying the strippers, getting drunk, and closing business deals that could shake the entire country. Whatever they can’t do in the open, I provide the security for them, and my men handle their dirty dealings, since these men are too scared to get their hands dirty.

As I stroll through the private halls, I can only think about the brazen girl from earlier. My thoughts wander—was she lying? Her brother, in this kind of place? They don’t look like they can afford it. My club is the most exquisite in the city, and she dressed like she was—a janitor? I doubt she had any intentions of coming here.

I shake my head at my silly thoughts. Whatever she does is really none of my business.

The low hum of murmured conversations, occasional bursts of laughter, and unmistakable moans of pleasure escaping through the doors create a background symphony in my ears.

I reach my private booth at the end of the hall, type in my passcode, and settle in. It’s safe to say this is a control room where all hidden CCTV camera footage is stored. On one side of the room, a massive screen displays every private room in the club, both in the outer and inner courts.

See, these people are like babies—sometimes irrational, sometimes revolting. This is my way of maintaining checks and balances. I don’t want anyone dying in my territory. Not that it hasn’t happened before.

On the other corner, I moved to my workspace. Sometimes, I pull all-nighters here instead of in the company office—some things are better handled in complete privacy.

My phone buzzes just as I begin unbuttoning the top of my shirt.

ABUELITA.

That’s what flashes on my screen.

I immediately swapped to answer.

"Hola, cariño, buenas noches. ¿Cómo estás?" My face softens a notch.

"Mi corazón!" Her agile voice rings through the phone, and a broad smile spreads across my face without me knowing.

"Abuelita, how are you?" I stood in my swivel chair and walked to the small refrigerator.

"Ahh, chiquito! I am so healthy that I went with your Tía to the Maldives for a holiday. "A really nice trip, I tell you!" She sounds excited.

My grandma is an ever-young old lady. Many people sometimes mistake her for my mother, which doesn’t surprise me since there’s a resemblance. But don’t be fooled by her bubbly charisma—she may smile, but she wields a gun. The woman who taught me everything I know and helped me build my start-up when I wanted to break away from the family business has always been my anchor. It’s no secret that I have more affinity for her than I ever will for my parents.

"Sounds exciting," I say absentmindedly, taking out a can of energy drink and closing the fridge with my foot.

"Uh-huh! And I hope you are not at work again? Mi Vida, you need to cut down on your workload. "No woman wants to marry a workaholic, totally obsessed with work." She tuts.

I know where this is going. I prop my phone on my shoulder, open my drink, and sip.

"I’m not at work, Ma. "I’m at the club," I reply.

"At the club—your work! Same thing! I know you’re holed up somewhere, buried in work—more work, work! Mi amor, you’re not getting any younger. You need a family!"

Not again. I knew she’d go down this road, and once Abuelita started, there was no stopping her.

"Abuelita, I have you, Mami, Papi, and Tía. I have a family, okay? Besides, who will do the work if I leave it unattended? "These men are like babies—I have to keep an eye on them, ready to clean up their mess."

She scoffs. "Babies? "Hmph!" I hear a ruffle in the background. You are the Mafia King and the most feared man in America and beyond. You can’t be bothered by those small fries! Will you come to terms with the fact that you are controlling and obsessed with work? Hah! Cleaning up their mess indeed."

She gets like that sometimes, and it makes me smile. A doting smile.

Maybe she’s right, but I choose to dwell in my delusional web.

"Speaking of babies, I need a grandchild too, cariño. I’m not getting younger. My birthday is next month—my glamorous 70th! You had better put in effort with my gifts this time."

I shake my head. Abuelita has her game on. I know what she’s driving at.

As I focus on the CCTV screen, a familiar figure catches my eye in one of the rooms.

The coffee girl from earlier. The situation looks tense. I immediately picked up my tablet and zoomed in on the footage.

"What do you want for your birthday, Abuelita?" I ask, my eyes still fixated on the screen.

She lights up in the hole I just dug myself. "Hmm! Simple. I want you to go with a girl—a serious relationship. And don’t try to fool me with those emotionless hookups. I know a fake when I see one."

I know I don’t have any prospects, but to give her peace of mind, I foolishly say:

"Consider it done, Abuelita."

"Oh, Chiquito, my sweet! I knew you loved me after all—"

I don’t catch the rest of her words because something catches my eye.

The coffee girl’s bag is being searched. Laughter erupts.

Then, a stubby man grabs her jaw and slaps her.

My hand, mid-motion with my drink, freezes. My grip tightens on the can, nearly crushing it.

Then, when he gropes her, my body reacts before my mind does.

I shot to my feet.

And I see red.