Chapter 2

“Boss, they’ve arrived.”

The voice of Erza Slain Velleoti’s right-hand man was low, cautious, as if uttering those words too loudly might summon something dangerous.

Ezra took a slow drag from his cigarette, the ember at the tip burning bright in the dimly lit room. He exhaled a plume of smoke, watching it curl lazily toward the ceiling before dissipating. He didn't even acknowledge the announcement with a nod or a glance. His men were used to this. Ezra never wasted words unless necessary.

Before him, on a lavishly designed stage, women danced in near-nothing attire, their bodies moving in sensual waves under the flashing neon lights. Their gazes, hopeful yet hollow, sought the attention of the wealthy and powerful men scattered throughout the club. Ezra was among them, but unlike the others, he remained detached, unaffected.

These women were nothing more than background noise to him. Their attempts to seduce him and capture his interest were wasted efforts. They could bare their souls along with their bodies, and it wouldn’t make a difference. Ezra was a man who indulged only when he desired, and tonight, his mind was elsewhere.

At thirty-five years old, Ezra held a power most men could only dream of—power that wasn’t inherited but built, sharpened like a blade over the years. He had the ability to destroy anyone, anytime, without consequence. But he wasn’t reckless. He never acted without reason. He never touched someone unless they crossed a line.

And for those who did?

He never spared even a strand of their hair.

He finally shifted his gaze, steel-like and piercing, toward the direction his subordinate indicated. His expression remained unreadable, but there was a flicker of interest—just a flicker.

“Did they bring anything with them?” His voice was quiet, yet it carried a weight that sent a chill down his right-hand man’s spine. It was the kind of tone that signaled danger, like the calm before a deadly storm.

“No, Boss,” the man replied, his own voice betraying a hint of unease. “Only their terrified expressions.”

Ezra scoffed. Typical.

He crushed the cigarette into the glass ashtray beside him, reaching instead for his whiskey. The amber liquid burned down his throat, but he welcomed the sensation. It kept him grounded and kept his patience intact—what little he had left.

With a subtle hand gesture, he ordered his men to retrieve what needed to be retrieved from the other side of the room.

The music swelled, drowning the tension for a moment. Laughter, drunken chatter, the clinking of glasses—this place was a sanctuary for those seeking temporary pleasure, for men who thought power was measured by how much money they could throw.

Ezra despised it.

The mixture of alcohol, sweat, and desperation clung to the air, an unbearable stench that made his stomach turn. But he endured it. Business came first.

Even as women continued to flaunt themselves in his direction, their glances growing more desperate, Ezra remained unmoved. They meant nothing. They were just another distraction in a world full of meaningless things.

His eyes flicked to the side as one of his men returned, moving quickly through the crowd.

Ezra immediately caught the look on his face. Nervous. Hesitant. That alone was enough to sour his already thinning patience.

“B-Boss,” the man stammered, stopping just before him. “They... they’re asking for another month to pay their debt.”

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, a loud crash.

Ezra slammed his glass onto the table with such force that it shattered, sending shards of crystal flying. The club fell deathly quiet. The music stopped. The dancers froze mid-motion. Even those seated at the nearby tables held their breath, their faces paling as an unsettling aura filled the space.

All eyes turned to him, yet no one dared to move.

Ezra’s gaze darkened, and when he finally spoke, his voice was ice-cold, slicing through the silence like a blade.

“You will either pay... or you will die. Choose!”

No one spoke. No one even breathed.

The men at the table across from him—the ones who owed him a hundred million—sat frozen. Their leader, in particular, seemed to shrink under Ezra’s gaze.

The hesitation only made Ezra’s blood boil.

With a flick of his wrist, he grabbed his empty glass and hurled it straight at the man's head. The bastard barely dodged in time, the glass shattering against the back of his chair. Had he been even a second slower, his face would’ve been sliced open.

“F*cking coward,” Ezra growled, his patience now razor-thin.

The man flinched, swallowing thickly. Sweat dripped down his forehead, his entire body trembling.

“P-Please, Mr. Velleoti,” he stammered, barely able to form words. “Just... just one more month.”

Ezra let out a sharp exhale through his nose, leaning back in his seat as if contemplating. Then, he laughed.

It was a hollow, humorless sound.

“I have been hearing that for six months.” His voice, though calm, carried a venom that made the air feel suffocating.

The man continued to plead, his words a mess of desperation and excuses.

Ezra had had enough.

With one swift motion, he pulled out his gun. The metallic click echoed through the club, followed by a deafening bang.

A body dropped.

Blood splattered across the floor, the scent of gunpowder mixing with the already foul air. The victim—a bodyguard—didn’t even have time to react. He was dead before he hit the ground.

A chorus of horrified gasps and screams erupted around them. The dancers fled the stage, some customers scrambling to escape, but Ezra’s men swiftly blocked the exits.

“No one leaves,” one of them barked.

“Call the police!” someone yelled.

Ezra rolled his eyes.

Pathetic.

He turned back to the shaking man before him, raising his gun once more. The leader of the debtors was now on his knees, hands clasped together in a pitiful attempt at begging.

“Please, I swear I’ll—”

Bang.

The man took a bullet straight to the forehead.

The man collapsed lifelessly onto the floor, his plea unfinished. Blood pooled beneath him, soaking the expensive carpets.

The screams only grew louder.

Ezra’s men looked on without reaction. They had seen this before—many times. There was nothing new about it.

The remaining men—those who had accompanied the now-dead leader—were paralyzed with fear. None of them dared to move, afraid that the next bullet would be theirs.

Ezra, unfazed, stepped over the fresh corpse and scanned the room, his gaze sharp, predatory.

“You think you can borrow from me and run?” He scoffed, shaking his head. “You should’ve known better.”

One of the remaining men instinctively took a step back.

Ezra smirked.

“Try to move again... and you’ll be next.”

The man stopped dead in his tracks, his breath hitching.

Ezra knew he had already won. He had made his point clear.

But just to be sure, he turned back to the corpse of the debtor and, without hesitation, emptied the rest of his bullets into the lifeless body.

The horror in the room was palpable. Some people closed their eyes, others sobbed into their hands, praying this nightmare would end.

Ezra finally turned to the remaining men, his face an eerie mix of calm and sadistic amusement.

“Listen closely.” His voice was low, yet it demanded absolute attention.

“If anyone—anyone—breathes a word of this to the cops, you’ll all be dead before the next sunrise.”

His smile widened, but there was no warmth behind it. Only death.

“Now... clean this sh*t up.”

And just like that, the beast had spoken and left.