Chapter 5: The Heartless King
1328 Words
Evans Alberto sat at the head of a long mahogany table, fingers laced as he studied the three men kneeling before him. The room was dim, the air heavy with tension. A single chandelier above cast flickering shadows across the glossy marble floor, where beads of sweat gathered beneath the bowed heads of the men who had failed him.
Peter, the accountant, knelt in the center, his crisp white shirt soaked with sweat, clinging to his trembling frame. To his left was Simon, the enforcer who had been tasked with overseeing the deal, his jaw clenched so tightly his teeth might crack. To the right, Tony, a logistics officer, muttered prayers under his breath, his lips moving soundlessly.
Evans leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking softly. He radiated an unnatural calm, like a predator biding its time before the kill.
"You assured me," Evans began, his voice low and deliberate, "that everything was secure."
Peter’s head snapped up. "Sir, I—I don’t know how she—"
Evans slammed a hand onto the table, the sharp sound making all three men flinch.
"Don’t waste my time with excuses," he snapped. "Do you know what $170 million means in my world? It’s not just money. It’s respect. Fear. Power."
The room fell silent. Even the faint hum of the air conditioning seemed to fade, as though the atmosphere itself feared interrupting him.
Evans stood, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored suit with precise movements. At his full height, he was an imposing figure, his sharp gray eyes cutting through the dim light.
"You three failed me." He stepped away from the table, his polished shoes clicking against the marble as he circled them slowly, a wolf pacing its prey.
Peter dared to speak again, his voice cracking. "I—I’ll fix this, Mr. Alberto. I swear. I’ll—"
"Fix it?" Evans interrupted, his tone icy. He crouched in front of Peter, his gaze piercing. "Can you bring back the money? Restore the reputation I built with blood and sweat? Can you undo the humiliation of being played like a fool?"
Peter’s lips trembled, but no sound came out.
Evans straightened, his calm expression making the fury behind his eyes even more terrifying. He turned his back to the men, gazing out the large window overlooking the city skyline. "In my world," he said, his voice soft now, almost contemplative, "loyalty and competence are not optional. They are law. And breaking the law has consequences."
With a flick of his wrist, two enforcers stepped out of the shadows. Their faces were blank masks of professionalism, their movements swift and calculated.
The punishments were quick, precise, and terrifying.
Simon, the enforcer, was the first to go. His loyalty had never been in question, but his overconfidence had been his undoing. When one of the enforcers grabbed him by the arm, Simon didn’t resist—at first. But when the muzzle of a silenced pistol pressed against his temple, he bucked, his instincts kicking in too late.
The muted shot echoed briefly, and Simon slumped to the floor, his body lifeless, blood pooling beneath him.
Peter’s breath hitched as he watched, his face pale as death.
"Please," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I have a family . . ."
Evans tilted his head, his expression one of detached curiosity. "Did you think of your family before you failed me?" He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Do you even think your life makes up for the loss?"
Tony, the logistics officer, broke next. He fell to his knees fully, hands clasped together in a desperate prayer.
"Mercy," he begged, tears streaking down his face. "Please, Mr. Alberto."
"Mercy," Evans repeated, almost as though tasting the word. He glanced at the enforcer beside Tony and nodded.
Tony’s cries were cut short as a garrote tightened around his throat, the enforcer’s hands precise and unrelenting. The man’s struggles slowed, then ceased entirely.
Peter, the last of them, began to sob openly.
Evans walked back to his chair, picking up the crystal glass of whiskey that waited for him. He swirled the amber liquid as he observed Peter, who was now on his knees, his hands clasped in a silent plea.
"Look at you," Evans said, his tone almost amused. "So pitiful. Do you think your tears will change anything? That they’ll bring back the money?"
Peter shook his head rapidly, his words tumbling out in a desperate rush. "No, sir. I’ll do anything! Anything you ask!"
Evans raised the glass to his lips, taking a deliberate sip. Then he set it down carefully, the sound of the glass meeting the wood impossibly loud in the silence.
"Anything?" he asked, his tone sharp.
Peter nodded frantically. "Yes, sir. Yes!"
Evans leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table as he locked eyes with Peter.
"Good," he said. "Then serve as an example."
At those words, the enforcer stepped forward, pulling Peter up by the collar. The accountant’s screams echoed through the room as he was dragged away.
Evans didn’t flinch. He simply reached for his glass again, taking another sip as the screams faded into silence.
When it was over, the enforcers cleaned the room with practiced efficiency, removing the bodies and scrubbing the blood from the floor. Evans poured himself another glass of whiskey. Rage burned behind his calm as he swirled the amber liquid, then took a slow sip. Someone had dared to steal from him. Him!
His lieutenant, a lean, muscular man with sharp features named Rocco, entered the room. He didn’t so much as glance at the empty space where the three men had knelt.
“I think you need to see this, Boss,” he said.
Evans turned slightly. “See what?”
“She wiped all footage of herself from the aviation office, but one of the staff—a guy who thought she was hot—snuck a photo. We got it.”
Evans didn’t react. No flicker of emotion. Just a hand, stretched out toward the tablet.
“Let me see.”
He took it.
The image lit up, and for the first time in hours, his expression cracked. His eyes widened. “Isn’t this the—” He stopped.
“Yes, Boss. Her look’s changed, but it’s the same woman we ran into at the coffee shop.”
Something stirred in him. Not just rage. Excitement. Curiosity. A pull he couldn’t explain. He didn’t just want her found. He wanted her broken, owned—his.
“You must capture her,” he said. “At all costs.”
“We believe she’s the Chameleon,” Rocco added. “Our contacts—”
“I don’t care about your contacts.” Evans’ voice turned cold. “I want a team. Hackers, investigators, psychics. I don’t care who they are or where you find them, but I want the best. No one steals from me and lives to tell the tale.”
Rocco hesitated. “Psychics, sir?”
Evans’ lips curved into a cold smile. “Yes. If this woman . . . this chameleon . . . if she is as smart as I think she is, we’ll need more than brute force to catch her.”
Rocco nodded. “And when we find her?”
Evans’ smile widened, but his eyes stayed ice cold.
“You just worry about finding her, Rocco,” he said. “What I do to her after that is none of your business until I say it is.”
Rocco didn’t respond. He gave a low bow, turned, and walked out.
The night remained quiet as Evans sat in his office, the city lights twinkling in the distance. The rage inside him simmered, controlled but unrelenting.
He didn’t know who this woman was, but she’d made a mistake—a fatal one.
Evans Alberto always got what he wanted.
And now, he wanted her.
- Writer
