His Crimson Obsession

Nigel's POV Drug warehouse: “Blood stains are hard to wash out.” My voice was cold as I stripped off the bloodstained pair. “Now I’ll have to throw these gloves away. And who’s to blame for this misfortune?” I turned back to the man kneeling before me, trembling like a wet rat. His hands were tied behind his back, his face bloody, his mouth gagged so I couldn’t hear his pathetic pleas. I don’t like begging. It’s weak. It wastes my time. “Prince,” Vato muttered beside me, his voice steady as he handed me another pair of gloves. “He stole from the shipment. Everyone knows.” Everyone did know. And everyone was waiting for my decision. The warehouse was silent except for the faint hum of fluorescent lights. My men stood in a line behind me, watching, waiting. No one dared shift or breathe too loudly. My word was law. And law was about to be delivered. I stepped forward, boots clicking against the concrete. The man flinched as I towered over him, bowing his head so low his forehead nearly kissed the floor. I crouched, tilting his chin up with my gun. “You thought you could play with me, Paul? No one plays with me.” My voice was soft—almost gentle. That terrified him more than shouting ever could. He shook his head violently, tears streaming down his face. I smiled. “Then why is my money missing?” No answer. Just muffled sobs. Traitors don’t deserve mercy. The only thing they can pray for is a quick death. Lucky him—I had other brains to blow out tonight. Click. The gunshot rang out, quick and final. Silence filled the warehouse, only the faint drip of blood on the concrete could be heard. I stood, sliding the gun back into my coat. No one moved. No one breathed wrong. That’s how it should be. The power of control. I was Nigel Caruso. The mafia’s “Prince of the Underworld.” And mercy was a luxury I didn’t believe in. “Clean this up,” I ordered coldly. “We’re done here.” Vato nodded, already barking commands. I walked out into the night, the cool air brushing my face. The city lights stretched ahead, glittering like lies. For a moment, I felt nothing. I looked down at my hands—the gloves clinging tightly to my fingers. Warmth was something they hadn’t known in years. Not ever since she left. Vato approached me, lighting my cigarette before he lit his own. “Prince, you didn’t have to come personally,” he said with a smirk. “I could’ve killed him and brought you his head. Maybe tortured him a little—you know.” Vato was no better than me. “It’s hard to find trustworthy people these days. If they were sold on the black market, we could build an army,” he sighed. I exhaled smoke, watching it vanish into the lonely night. “What wishful thinking.” “Wishful indeed. Every goddamn asshole wants your head or your money. Everyone’s a snake.” He groaned, running a hand through his hair—a stress habit I’d noticed him do. Could never be me. I don’t know stress. “Well, let them try,” I said calmly. “They’ll end up as fertilizer in my garden.” Vato shivered at my tone, then chuckled nervously. “Ha—ha… you terrify me.” I shot him a cold glare. “I’ll round up the men and prepare for departure.” I gave him a nod, and he walked off. --- The Palacito: The maids and my men greeted me as I entered the palacito. “Welcome back, master. Your coat, sir,” Grace, the head maid, said. I handed it to her without a word. Within minutes, I was at the bar, pouring myself whiskey. Nothing beats whiskey—especially after cutting out a thorn in your side. Behind me, a low voice floated across the room. “For two, please.” I turned, meeting a pair of sharp blue eyes. Long straight hair, fading between red and brown dye, lips framed with a smile laced with poison. A gentle flower that would tangle you in thorns if you got too close. “Lora. What are you doing here?” My tone was calm, cold, like her presence barely registered. “Nigel, that’s no way to treat your baby girl,” she purred, her smile widening. “Especially when I bring good tidings.” I raised a brow. “Fine,” she grinned. “I’m your date to the gala tomorrow.” She was too happy about that—far too happy. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. You know I’m a party girl,” she teased, slipping behind the counter to pour her own glass of whiskey. My eyes never left her. I moved closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “I don’t care what you do or who you play with. Be a bad girl all you want. But don’t mess with my chessboard, Lora. I don’t take kindly to interference. I’ll kill anyone who touches my playground—even if it’s dear little old cousin.” Her trembling smile betrayed her act. “Of course not. I’m going to party, not cause trouble. Right, Luke?” Her twin brother, Luke, finally stepped forward from the shadow. If Lora was fire, Luke was ice. Polar opposites, yet equally dangerous. “I’ll keep her out of trouble,” Luke said firmly. “Good. Because if she tries anything, I’ll kill you both.” My voice was flat, devoid of warmth. I drained my glass in one go and headed for my office. Behind me, I heard Lora mutter under her breath: “I almost peed my panties.” In my office, I combed through documents. Drug and gun shipments were moving smoothly. A few rats here and there—but nothing a bullet couldn’t fix. My father is the most feared mafia boss alive. And me? I am his unholy heir. At twenty eight I had built and destroyed empires—a king. But unlike my father, I wasn’t born a king. I was made one—through blood, scars, and her sacrifice. I sighed, pinching the bridge of my nose. Silence filled the room. Then, a thought sliced through the emptiness. The gala tomorrow. A den of spoiled brats, desperate heirs, and pretty girls dressed like trophies. Normally, I hated these events. But this time— The gala will be my stage. And someone's fate will be rewritten.