THE LAST SPARE

Alejandro walked into the room. Derulo was seated, his attention fixed on the task before him, not lifting his head until Alejandro stopped behind him. Without turning, Derulo asked, “He let you come back?”

Alejandro gave no reply. The silence stretched, heavy between them, until Derulo rose and moved with unhurried grace toward him. He opened his arms, but Alejandro did not move. Derulo’s hands dropped, his face and shoulders betraying the faintest flicker of disappointment before smoothing over.

“There is no problem,” he said evenly. “You are welcome home.” He turned to return to his seat, but Alejandro’s voice cut through the quiet.

“You have been spying on me.”

Derulo acted as if he had not heard, and Alejandro repeated it, sharper this time. Derulo halted.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

Alejandro stepped forward. “You have trailed me since I was a boy.”

Derulo’s voice stayed calm, almost refined. “I know he fed you lies from his butthole, but I will not stand...”

Alejandro interrupted, his tone hard. “Do not twist this. I am not blind to what you have done.”

Derulo closed the distance, his eyes locked on Alejandro’s, unflinching against the fury burning there. “I let you walk through the empire of Matini, one that no infiltrator dares enter and leave alive. Is that a joke to you?”

Alejandro remained silent.

“Since you cannot let me have this room, I love you enough to give it to you,” Derulo said, moving toward the door.

Alejandro’s voice halted him. “I saw them. The pictures on the wall. I was among your list.” His words fell cold. “You knew I thought I had you under my hands, but all along it was you who had been waiting for me. All on that wall are dead except me. Why did you spare me?”

Derulo paused, savoring the weight of the question, and without a word he walked out, leaving Alejandro to watch him vanish.

---

George Willow reclined in his chair, posture impeccable, his long fingers tracing the edge of his wine glass as though time itself were his to command.

“My dear Simon,” he began, his voice smooth, deliberate, laced with quiet amusement, “you speak as though empire is built in the haste of a single season. It is not. It is stitched together with patience, like an exquisite tapestry. One misstep, one impulsive thread, and the whole fabric unravels.”

Simon leaned forward, eyes burning with urgency. “And yet, Father, you’ve taught me never to wait for vultures to circle. Camila’s father will not remain unguarded forever. If we let another family secure him, all,” his eyes sank deep into those of his father, “becomes dust in our hands.”

George’s lips curved in a faint, cold smile. “Vultures are only dangerous to the weak. To men like us, they are simply carrion birds circling the inevitable. Do not mistake their movements for power. Power is not taken with noise, my son. It is taken with silence, precision, and inevitability.”

Simon’s jaw tightened. “And if I fail?”

George’s eyes narrowed, though his smile did not fade. “Then you were never my heir to begin with.”

The silence that followed was thick and pressing, as if the very walls were listening. Simon stood, adjusting the lapels of his suit, his voice steady but edged. “I have somewhere to be, Father.”

Before George could reply, the rhythm of heels clicked against the marble staircase. Both men turned.

Camila descended, wrapped in a wine-red dress that clung like second skin, short enough to provoke envy, elegant enough to demand reverence. Her hips swayed with deliberate grace, her dark eyes catching the light.

Simon moved toward her, gaze locked. He offered his hand. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” she replied, her voice velvet-soft, carrying the weight of someone who knew her effect.

He guided her toward George, whose expression barely shifted, though his eyes gleamed with satisfaction. He had envisioned this union long before Simon believed it possible. To him, Camila was not simply beauty but a key to an inheritance.

“My son,” George murmured, his tone smooth as glass, “you finally learn the art of inevitability.”

Simon’s gaze flickered toward his father then, sharp and resolute, holding both defiance and recognition. With Camila’s hand resting in his, he subtly tightened his grip, as though sealing a vow in silence before turning away.

Simon guided Camila out, the heavy doors opening for them as their driver waited by the sleek black car. Guards pulled the door open, and they slid into the back seat together.

As the engine rumbled to life, Simon glanced at Camila. “I hope you don’t make me regret it.”

Camila’s eyes darkened with a quiet promise. “As long as you keep to your word.”

The car pulled away, leaving behind the looming figure of George Willow watching from the window.

---

Alejandro entered the room and found Derulo already seated, a glass of red wine in hand.

“Join me,” Derulo said smoothly, offering Alejandro the second glass.

Without hesitation, Alejandro nodded in acceptance, his eyes never leaving Derulo’s. “Sure. I’ll pour it myself,” he replied, stepping closer to the bottle.

As he tilted the bottle, his hand brushed against it. The red wine slipped from his grip, splashing across Derulo’s shirt.

Derulo chuckled, sitting back with an easy grin. “No need to worry, Alejandro. Accidents happen. Let me just...” He stood up, gesturing toward the bathroom. “I’ll change into something else.”

Alejandro watched him leave, the tension momentarily broken.

Alone, Alejandro reached into his pocket, taking out a small vial. He carefully added a few drops of the drug to Derulo’s glass. The powder dissolved instantly, and he stirred the drink with a subtle shake. Once satisfied, he placed it back in the spot where Derulo’s glass had been, then called for the cleaner.

The cleaner arrived and began tidying up the mess at the table. Alejandro held both glasses in his hands, with that of Derulo on his right, watching closely as the cleaner moved about. Once the table was cleared, the cleaner left, and Alejandro carefully moved both glasses to their rightful places.

Moments later, Derulo returned, stepping in wearing a casual outfit. His white T-shirt wasn’t buttoned all the way, exposing his well-defined six-pack and toned waistline.

The shirt hung loose, just above his three-quarter-length trousers, revealing white well-maintained trunks. He took his seat again, confident and relaxed.

Just then, Alejandro’s own phone rang. The sound felt muffled to him, as though it came from far away. He struggled to focus. Derulo looked at the phone for a moment, then back at Alejandro.

“I’ll take it,” Alejandro said quietly, though his voice was weak. He forced himself to stand, swaying slightly.

“Go ahead,” Derulo replied, though his gaze lingered on Alejandro, concern mixing with suspicion.

Alejandro walked a few steps away, holding the phone to his ear. “Agent Curtis,” he said, his voice faint. “I’ll call you back shortly. I’m tied up at the moment.”

He ended the call quickly, stepping back toward the table, now fully aware of the stillness in the air. Alejandro’s eyes narrowed slightly as he settled into his seat again.

Derulo reached for his glass and took a sip. Alejandro watched, his expression tense.

“You didn’t say this wine was so strong,” Derulo murmured.

“It’s a rare vintage,” Alejandro replied as he leaned back, keeping his face composed, his voice calm and steady. “It has a way of hitting you.”

In one smooth motion, Alejandro picked up his own glass and without hesitation, he drank the wine. The taste hit him like a wave, bitter, sharp. His body grew heavy almost immediately. He tried to hold it together, but the drug was already working. His thoughts started to blur.

Derulo’s eyes flicked toward him. “That was quick,” he said, a slight smirk tugging at his lips. Alejandro’s head felt heavy, his vision blurred but he was still aware enough to keep track of every movement.

Alejandro fought to keep his composure, but the room tilted. His hands trembled as he set the glass down.

Derulo’s expression shifted, the smirk fading. “You alright?” he asked, standing up and moving closer.

Alejandro tried to shake his head, but it only made the dizziness worse. His vision blurred again, and he slumped back into the chair, barely able to hold his head up.

Derulo stood over him, eyes narrowing.

“What the hell did you do, Alejandro?” he muttered, though there was no response.

Alejandro slumped back into the chair, eyes closing, his body heavy and unresponsive.

Derulo blinked twice as though struggling to clear a fog in his mind.

---

When awareness returned, Alejandro found himself on the bed and his body heavy, gaining consciousness.

Derulo loomed over him, straddling his legs, a strange hunger glinting in his eyes. Hands traced along Alejandro’s chest.

“No,” Alejandro forced out, his voice hoarse but resolute. He turned his face away, refusing the intimacy, his body rigid with defiance.

Frustration flickered across Derulo’s expression. He pushed back, standing in the center of the room, watching Alejandro struggle upright. Before another word could pass between them, Derulo snapped twice and the doors burst open.

Men entered, dragging heavy sacks that sagged with unnatural weight. They dropped them carelessly, the dull thud echoing. When one bag tore slightly, a pale hand slipped free, limp and lifeless.

Derulo’s gaze lingered on Alejandro, his lips curling into something between a smile and a threat.

“Tell me,” he said softly, “are you mine, or shall I have you sewn into one of these bags?”

Alejandro’s shocked expression locked in Derulo’s gaze.