SAVAGES (BARGAINING CHIPS)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN : THE KING BELOW

The stench of blood clung to the velvet-draped walls, masked with sandalwood incense. Somewhere deep in the underground manor of the Hayven cartel, a scream was muffled by stone.

King stood in the shadows of his father’s throne room—his lean frame cloaked in obsidian black, his silver piercings glinting beneath the low lights, his eyes colder than frostbite. They called him "The Prince of Ash," the boy raised by the deadliest mafia organization outside the law’s breath. But that name was outdated.

Now, he was simply King.

He didn’t blink as the traitor before him begged for mercy, wrists shackled, blood dripping from his mouth. King tilted his head, then spoke—his voice, a terrifying lullaby.

“Mercy is for children and saints. Are you either?”

The man sobbed. King gave the nod. A single bullet. Silence returned.

Behind the curtains, his uncle—Don Matteo—lit a cigar. “You’re getting colder by the day.”

King only smirked. “The world doesn’t warm up for monsters.”

That was how it worked in the underground. His family—an empire that smuggled diamonds, handled assassinations, and controlled global black-market arms—was feared, worshipped, and hated. King was their heir. Their weapon.

But lately... he'd been skipping the meetings. Ignoring deals. Staying longer at that elite school above ground. Watching her.

Amazon.

He didn’t understand what it was yet—curiosity, challenge, or something more primitive. But when he saw her standing tall against Snow, refusing to be bent by wealth or power, he found himself wanting to see more. Not to possess. But to... understand.

No one—not even his family—knew that the cold-hearted mafia prince, feared in eight countries and seven underworld circles, had spent the entire last night replaying the way she rolled her eyes when annoyed.

His phone buzzed.

A message from his sister: "Father wants you back. They're questioning your loyalty."

Another from his bodyguard: "The Osaka shipment arrived."

And one more—from the Black-Vale Elite group chat. A picture of sss, caught mid-smile in the hallway. She didn’t know someone had taken it. She was laughing.

His thumb hovered over the image, not tapping, not zooming in. Just watching. Like she’d disappear if he blinked.

He shut off his phone, leaned back, and whispered to the shadows, “I’ll handle both worlds. One fire at a time.”

~ FLASHBACK ~

The lights in the underground war room were dimmed. Only the large wall of data screens and the cold metallic hum of servers filled the silence. King stood at the center, arms crossed behind his back, face carved from stillness.

On the screens, names of corporations glowed faintly—among them, one shimmered in red:

RIVERS CORPORATION

"Cripple them," King had said four months ago.

No reason. No hesitation. His men had obeyed.

“Done,” replied one of his lieutenants now, watching the screen as the final nail went into the financial coffin. Rivers Corp stock dropped another 19%. Their shipping licenses in Southeast Asia were frozen. Their offshore accounts were being audited—ironically, tipped off by a “concerned competitor.”

He hadn’t told anyone why he did it.

Flashback.

Three months ago, in a quiet old cathedral where he went sometimes to read alone, he had overheard something strange. A girl—thin, bruised, brokenly quiet—was kneeling at the back pews, crying softly as she recited poetry under her breath.

“...I am not their daughter. I am their debt.”

Then silence. A shaky breath.

“I’m not running away from home. I’m escaping captivity.”

He hadn’t seen her face clearly, but he remembered the trembling voice. Something about it stuck in his mind like a splinter.

It wasn’t until weeks later at Black-Vale Elite that he recognized the voice behind the face—sss Rivers.

Later, bored and irritated by one of Snow's fake crying fits, he'd done some digging.

And what he found made his blood boil.

The Rivers family had cut off their daughter, blackmailed her with fake medical debts, forged her signature to cover illicit deals. Treated her like an investment gone bad.

He never asked sss about it. Never confronted her. Never told her what he had done.

But after that night, one simple command changed everything:

“Pull the roots from the river.”

And so they did.

In six weeks, his men poisoned contracts, rigged auctions, exposed secret loans. They were bleeding dry.

All without ever knowing who was behind it.

Now, in the present—

King leaned against the chrome railing, eyes glinting as he watched Rivers Corp flicker and crash. His cousin came up behind him.

“Want me to finish it off?”

King shook his head.

“Not yet. Let them suffer. Let them crawl.”

He didn’t tell anyone why. He never explained emotions.

But deep in that cold, brutal heart of his, there was one rule he never broke:

No one hurts what he has touched. Not even the girl who doesn’t know he’s watching.

Hermit sat at the head of the long obsidian conference table in his private suite atop MH Corporation, the skyline bleeding dusk behind him. The room was silent—too silent. Only the faint clinking of ice in his untouched glass broke through. His aura was like frozen steel—poised, calculating, dangerous.

Three heads bowed in front of him. His most elite analysts.

“I didn’t give the order,” he said quietly, eyes unmoving from the flickering hologram of Rivers Corporation’s rapidly failing stock.

The temperature in the room seemed to drop.

“Sir… that’s why we came to you,” one of the analysts stammered. “There’s… another hand at play. Someone… methodical. Someone with access and intelligence.”

Hermit leaned back, hands clasped in front of his mouth. "Who would dare touch what’s mine?"

He didn't raise his voice. He never needed to.

But the weight of his words made the analyst visibly tremble.

Another offered, “We traced the pattern—whoever it is, they’ve been silent, precise. They leaked confidential contracts, rerouted clients, froze assets with legal snags. They knew Rivers’ foundation inside and out.”

Hermit’s knuckles whitened.

The implications were clear.

Someone was interfering in his territory. Someone was hunting sss’s family—and he wasn’t the predator.

But who?

He opened the internal surveillance file, names glowing faintly in blue.

His list was short:

Aqua? No. She’s too busy dressing royalty.

Leo? Not his style.

Athena? Petty. But not this good.

Pisces and Scorpio? Busy with their own entanglements.

Snow? A snake, but not this lethal.

Then his finger hovered over a name:

King.

Hermit’s gaze darkened, flickering with a rare storm of curiosity.

King. The silent one. The smiling liar. The one who watched more than he spoke.

Hermit pressed a button. A surveillance photo popped up—King at the Black-Vale campus, seated like royalty on stone benches, sunglasses hiding his gaze. Students passed by like ants. Yet he was still. Too still. Almost calculated.

Hermit narrowed his eyes.

“Background. Now,” he said.

His assistant hesitated. “Sir, we tried. The King family records are… nearly nonexistent. They don't show up on international registries. Their assets are hidden behind ten layers of ghost corporations. It’s like they don't officially exist.”

Hermit slowly stood.

“That’s not possible.”

The analyst looked up, fear heavy in his voice. “And yet, sir… his father doesn’t even have a photo online. His mother’s name is listed as ‘deceased,’ but no records confirm it. Their entire lineage disappears past one generation.”

Hermit’s jaw ticked.

Someone was playing in the dark. Someone unafraid of getting blood on their hands. Someone who dared move before he did.

And he hated being second.

He walked to the window, stared down at the glowing city below.

“Keep digging. I want to know who dares touch what belongs to me.”

---

Elsewhere, in the dark corners of the underground—

King scrolled lazily through his phone, leaned back in his seat while a crimson ledger updated before him. One of his men leaned in.

“Boss… he’s looking for you.”

King didn’t lift his eyes. “Let him look.”

“And if he finds you?”

King finally smirked, the corner of his lip tilting upward with silent amusement.

“Then it’ll get interesting.”