CONTRACTED TO DIEON MAFIA KING

His Own.

Chapter4

Mustapha’s POV

I hate this night.

Every year. Same speech. Same cameras. Same partners pretending they enjoy my father’s voice. The Dieon Grand Ball at the Stockholm Royal Exchange. Two hundred years of marble, chandeliers that weigh more than cars, flowers flown in from Holland at 3 AM.

I’m standing at the window of my penthouse, tie loose, jacket off. Stockholm is dark below me. 7 PM. I should be in the car. Instead I’m counting minutes until I can leave.

“Zinc,” I say without turning. “How many debtors this quarter?”

“Forty-three, Boss.” My right hand man’s voice is steady behind me. “Six still running. The Lundqvist file is messy. He’s hiding assets in his son’s name.”

The Lundqvist file. Eight million kronor. Four years old. The man thinks his kid will protect him. Kids don’t protect you from Dieons.

“I could skip this,” I mutter. “Send Stills. He loves speeches.”

“You know you can’t, Boss.” Zinc steps closer. Suit perfect. Gun perfect. Loyalty perfect. “The partners expect you. The press expect you. One absence and they start talking.”

Talking. Rumors. Weakness.

I was fourteen when I learned what weakness costs.

My sister was nineteen. Older than me by five years. The perfect Dieon daughter. Straight A’s. Ballet on Thursdays. She smiled at everyone, even the staff. Especially the staff. She thought the world was safe because our name was Dieon.

A rival gang took her after school. Three days later they dumped her body by the harbor. No note. No warning. Just a message: Dieons can bleed too.

My parents broke that week. Stills went cold. My mother stopped leaving her room. School still called me “the perfect boy” at the funeral. Top grades. Clean record. Good manners.

They didn’t see what changed at fourteen.

The day they buried her, I buried the boy who believed rules kept you safe. I chose the hard way. The Mafia way. The dangerous way.

I was fourteen. By seventeen I had blood on my hands. By twenty-two I had control of the Dieon Group. By twenty-five the word “Dieon” meant fear in every room I walked into. Not in two years. Not by accident. By choice.

Perfect boy died with his sister. The man standing here earned his name.

“Boss?” Zinc breaks the memory. “Everything is set and in place.”

“Have you given his family the letter?” I ask.

Lundqvist. The ledger. Names, accounts, transactions that would sink three politicians and a judge.

“Yes Boss.” Zinc hands me the envelope. Black paper. Gold DIEON seal. No words inside except coordinates and a time. His wife and son would get it if he didn’t talk.

I don’t threaten children. I just make sure fathers understand what happens when they do.

I stand. Adjust my cufflinks. Black on black. “Underground.”

Zinc nods. Two other men fall in behind us. Silent. Trained. The elevator takes us down, past the hotel, past the parking, past the city. Then stairs. Long stairs. Cold air. Concrete.

The underground room smells like iron and bleach. Standard. Three men inside.

One tied to a chair. Bruises on his face, one eye swollen shut. Lundqvist. The ledger keeper. Two others hang upside down nearby, arms bound. Associates. They talked too much in the wrong places.

I stop in front of Lundqvist. Look at him. Really look. He’s still breathing. Still blinking. Still alive.

I turn to Zinc. Displeasure in my voice, not my face. Dieons don’t show anger. We use it. “Is this how you do your job? He’s still looking very much alive to me when he hasn’t given me the information I need. Why?”

“Sorry Boss.” Zinc and the other two answer in chorus.

I kneel so we’re eye level. Lundqvist flinches. Good. Fear is honest. “Where’s the ledger? Your family isn’t safe as we speak. Give me the location and I’ll kill just you. Your family goes free. Think about your four-year-old son Samuel. What’s going to happen to him at that age?”

I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to. The name “Samuel” does the work.

Lundqvist’s good eye fills with tears. Fear, not pain. Fathers break faster than soldiers. “Please, Mr. DIEON, please. No harm to my family. I’ll tell you.”

He nods at his phone on the table. I pick it up. Open it with his face ID. He gives me the file path. The ledger. Every transaction. Every name.

Zinc verifies it in thirty seconds. Nods once. True.

I stand. Pull the gun from my holster. “Since you finally complied, though you wasted my time, I’ll make your death easy and peaceful.”

One shot. Clean. His body slumps. The chair rocks.

The two men hanging upside down start shaking. One cries like a child. They will talk now. They always do after they watch.

“Make sure you get what you need from them too,” I tell Zinc. “They die tonight. I need to go prepare for the get-together. Zinc, you and Sule are coming with me.”

I wash my hands. Change shirts. Black suit. No tie. Tie is for the ballroom. The ballroom is a mask.

8:00 PM sharp. Stockholm Royal Exchange.

The doors open and the noise hits me. Applause. Polite. Controlled. My father on stage, voice calm. “Welcome. Tonight we celebrate family. Partnership. The future of DIEON.”

He means control. He means reputation. He means nobody ever says “DIEON” and “scandal” in the same sentence.

I scan the room while he talks. Exits: four. Threats: zero. Cameras: twelve, all ours. CEOs in tuxedos that cost more than cars. Partners from Dubai, London, Tokyo. New faces every year. Different industries. Same hunger.

Bored. I’m always bored here. Same game. Different players.

My father gestures. “Father, this is Elias Nord. London real estate. My new business partner.”

I step forward. Introduce him myself. Handshakes. Nods. Camera flashes. DIEON controls the story. I control the introduction.

Blue steps in beside me before the cameras stop. Childhood friend. The one constant since boarding school. He’s got that look. The one that means he’s about to make trouble.

“Still stealing my wine?” he asks, glass full, red catching light.

“Still drinking it all?” I answer. My glass is empty.

We fall into old rhythm. Inside jokes. Boarding school stories. For them it’s a show. For us it’s two boys who grew up in war pretending it’s normal.

I lift my empty glass one inch. Signal. No words. Staff here read silence.

A bodyguard scans. Points. A girl near table 4. Small. Uniform. Head down like all the others. She looks up when he taps her shoulder and freezes.

I shift forward before she does. Motion without hesitation. The room moves around me but I’m already on course. She steps into my path a second later, eyes locked on me like I’m the only thing in her line of sight. The carpet edge is under her shoe and she doesn’t see it.

I’ve seen men die slower.

The tray tilts. Wine arcs. Crystal flashes. Her body crashes into mine, chest to chest, hands grabbing my shoulders. The whole tray empties down my suit. Cold. Red. Expensive.

Silence. The quartet misses a note.

I look down. DIEON No. 7 ruined. White shirt stained pink. Three years of perfect appearances gone in three seconds.

Frustration flashes. Cold. Sharp. The mafia king reflex. Someone pays for mistakes.

Then I look up.

Her eyes hit mine. Green. Wide. Terrified. Not staff-fear. Real fear. The kind that makes hands shake.

“Angel,” I say. Quiet. Only for her. The word comes out before I check it. I’m the one who says it.

She doesn’t understand it. Confusion, then panic. She drops to her knees on the carpet.

“Please I’m so sorry, please don’t fire me, I really need this job please.”

Desperation has a frequency. Dieons learn it young.

Dan, her supervisor, yanks her up. Face red, sweat beading. “Correction room. Now. Go wait for me.”

She runs. Leaving whispers behind her. Blue’s eyes narrow on me as she goes. He saw the half-second I softened. The crack.

I let her go. For now.

---

The correction room is a closet Dan uses to scare staff. No windows. One buzzing bulb. I have a key.

Dan is pacing when I step in. “Sir, I was just— we’re handling it—”

I raise one hand. He shuts up.

She’s sitting on the chair. Hands gripping the seat like it’ll save her. She stands when she sees me. Even terrified, she follows rules.

“You,” I say.

She starts begging. “Mr. DIEON, I’m so sorry. It was an accident. I’ll pay for the suit. I’ll—”

“Stop.” I step closer. One meter. Close enough to smell fear mixed with roses and the sweetest fragrance I have ever perceived. “You called me ‘sir’ four times. You begged. You dropped to your knees.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“You did mean it.” My eyes drop to her hands. Trembling. “You’re scared.”

Dan clears his throat. “Sir, I can process her termination now—”

“I didn’t ask you to speak.”

I turn back to her. “What’s your name?”

“Candy. Candy Monroe.”

Candy Monroe. Sweet name. Wrong for someone with hollow cheeks.

“How long have you worked here?”

“Three years, sir.”

Three years in DIEON buildings. Never noticed her.

“Look at me,” I say.

She does. Now I see it all. Red rimmed eyes. Uniform that’s been washed too many times. She’s not here for tips. She’s here because she has to be.

“You’re shaking. Not from the wine. From fear.”

“I’m not—”

“Don’t lie to me.” My voice drops. “The DIEONs can smell lies. It’s how we stay alive.”

She flinches at ‘alive’. Then words tumble out. “I have debt. If I lose this job, they’ll—”

She cuts off. Too late. Staff don’t talk about debt.

“You think I’ll fire you,” I say.

“Yes, sir.”

Dan shifts. “Sir, she’s not authorized—”

I turn my head half an inch. “Mr. Dan. When I want HR, I’ll ask for HR.”

Silence.

I step closer. “Stand up straight.”

She obeys. Spine straight. Chin up.

“You spilled wine on me. In front of Stockholm’s most powerful board members. You cost me three minutes of control.”

Her eyes close. She thinks this is the end.

“I heard what I heard.” Certain. “And now I can’t unhear it.”

The word echoes. Angel. From a girl with nothing. Nobody says it soft. Like a prayer.

I reach out. Pluck a rose petal from her hair. Holland roses. Ten thousand delivered at 3 AM. One landed on her.

I study her. Problem. Equation that doesn’t balance. Three years of silence, one second of chaos, now she’s all I can focus on.

“Mr. Dan,” I say without looking away. “Candy Monroe keeps her job. Same hours. Same pay. And she reports to me tonight. Directly.”

Her head snaps up. “Sir, I— I don’t understand.”

“You will.” Distance returns. Control returns. “You’ll follow me. Refill my glass when it’s empty. You won’t speak unless I speak to you. You won’t look at anyone else.”

“Like a waitress?”

“Like mine.”

The word lands. Mine. Not DIEON’s. Mine.

Dan opens his mouth. Closes it. He knows better.

I move to the door. Pause. Look back. Once. She’s still standing there, and she looked up when she wasn’t supposed to.

“Try not to spill anything else, Candy Monroe,” I say. Almost a joke. Almost not. “I don’t like repeating myself.”

I leave. Lock clicks.

In the hallway, Blue is waiting. Wine glass still in hand. “Angel?” he says, grinning slow. “Did you just call a cleaner Angel in front of Dad and half of Stockholm?”

I don’t answer.

Blue shakes his head. “You kept her. You put her on you. Mustapha DIEON, who fires people for breathing wrong, just claimed a girl who ruined his suit. You’re in trouble, brother.”

Maybe. But trouble is better than bored. And for three seconds in that closet, when she looked at me like I was air, I wasn’t bored.

I adjust my ruined cuff. Wine stains don’t bother me.

Control does. And she just took a piece of it.

Time to get it back.

---