05: His Soul Is Mine To Collect.

“You try to chastise me, but your voice falters as your heart races; there lies a wicked thrill beneath your piety.”

Ezreal’s Pov

The ride back to the mansion was quiet, too quiet for the storm clawing inside my chest. The city lights passed in a blur, the neon lights zooming against tinted windows, but I barely registered them. My fingers drummed against my knee, restless, impatient, as if some invisible itch gnawed at my bones.

Baron’s face haunted me.

His trembling lips beneath mine, the fire in his eyes, the way his body betrayed him even as he begged for me to stop.

Pathetic. Weak. Fragile.

And yet I couldn’t shake the taste of him.

“Boss.”

Vincent’s voice snapped me from my thoughts. He sat across from me in the limousine, posture crisp as always, sharp eyes studying me like a hawk. I tilted my head, raising a brow.

“You’ve been staring at me for way too long, Vincent. Spit it out before I cut your tongue.”

He didn’t flinch.

“You’re distracted,” he said simply, his tone respectful, but firm. "Is it because of him?" He asked.

A cold smile tugged at my lips. “And who, pray tell, is him?”

Vincent leaned forward slightly, the shadows cutting sharp across his jaw. “The priest.”

Baron.

A name I wouldn’t allow on Vincent’s tongue.

I chuckled darkly, loosening the cuffs of my sleeves.

“Distracted? Vincent, I tortured a man to death last night without blinking. I slit his femoral artery and watched him bleed out, and I didn’t so much as break a sweat. Does that sound like a distracted man to you?”

His gaze didn’t waver. “No. It sounds like a man compensating. The more you think about him, the more violently you tear at everyone else. It's like they're a distraction for you. A way to get your mind off him.”

For a moment, I almost lunged across the seat, almost wrapped my hands around his throat for daring to say aloud what even I didn’t admit to myself.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I smirked, leaning back into the velvet seat. “You give him too much credit. He’s nothing but a ghost from my past. A reminder. Nothing more.”

Vincent sat back, unconvinced. His silence was louder than words.

The car slowed as we reached the wrought-iron gates of the mansion.

They opened and I found guards stationed at every corner of the place.

The fortress Rodrigo once ruled was mine now, and yet, no amount of marble halls or gilded chandeliers filled the hollow ache that lingered in my chest.

As the limousine rolled into the courtyard, Vincent’s phone buzzed. He answered, muttering in Spanish before hanging up. His expression tightened, though he masked it quickly.

“What is it?” I asked, my tone lazy but edged with steel.

“A message from Santiago.”

The name soured whatever good mood I had instantly.

Santiago. That vulture dressed as a man.

He was one of Rodrigo’s old rivals, who had been kept in check only by fear and alliances forged. Now that Rodrigo was rotting in the ground, Santiago saw me as fresh prey. A baby.

I arched my brow. “And what does the rat want?”

“He questions your legitimacy,” Vincent said. “He says Rodrigo’s empire shouldn’t have passed to an outsider. He’s planning a meeting. A show of power.”

I laughed, sharp and humorless. “Let him question or plan whatever he wants. He’ll discover soon enough that I’m not Rodrigo, and I don’t believe in mercy.”

Vincent nodded once, but his eyes flickered with warning. “Be careful. If you let your… obsession… cloud you, he’ll exploit it.”

I didn’t answer. I simply stepped out of the car, inhaling the night air as though it would cleanse the poison inside me.

But it didn’t. Nothing did.

***

The mansion was heavily guarded, that was sure.

Guards patrolled the corridors, their footsteps echoing faintly against marble floors. The walls bore heavy portraits of Rodrigo. I had ordered most of them removed, but one remained above the grand staircase, staring down at me as if judging whether I was worthy of his throne.

I rolled my eyes.

I poured myself a glass of scotch in the study, its warmth burning down my throat. The silence was deafening. Even the ticking of the antique clock grated against my nerves.

I closed my eyes and I saw him again. Baron, kneeling at the altar, whispering prayers not for himself, but for me.

‘Lord… deliver Ezreal from his demons…’

My jaw clenched, the glass nearly shattering in my grip.

Demons? He still thought he knew me.

Maybe he thought that he could save me with scripture and half-hearted prayers.

Pathetic. And yet…

I could still feel the way his body trembled beneath mine, the pulse of desire he tried to choke down with piety.

His faith was his last defense, and I wanted to crush it.

To tear down the altar he hid behind until he had no one left to pray to.

Vincent entered without knocking, carrying a folder. “Intel on Santiago, Boss. He’s moving weapons through the East docks tomorrow night.”

I flipped through the papers absentmindedly, my mind elsewhere. My lips curved into a wicked smile.

“Good. Let him gather his men. I’ll send him a message he won’t forget.”

Vincent’s sharp gaze lingered on me. “And the Priest?”

I drained the last of my scotch, setting the glass down with deliberate care. “Why the fuck do you keep bringing him up?”

“You can’t keep going back there,” Vincent said flatly. “It’s reckless. And also people might... Notice."

A low laugh rumbled in my chest.

“What led you to the opinion that I give a shit what people think? Let them notice. Let them whisper. Do you know what makes this game beautiful, Vincent? He hides behind robes and sermons, pretending to be untouchable. But I’ve already seen him stripped down, trembling, begging. No prayer can wash away that stain.”

Vincent’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

I leaned forward, eyes burning with a hunger I couldn’t disguise. “Baron will never escape me. Not in this life, not in the next. I will own him—his body, his faith, his every trembling breath. He sold his soul the day he betrayed me, and I’ve come to collect that debt."

The words hung heavy in the air, darker than any vow I’d ever made.

***

Later that night, I stood at the window of my room, watching the city lights flicker. A storm brewed in the distance, thunder rolling low across the horizon.

I should be planning the docks and the inevitable bloodbath that awaits Santiago.

But all I could see was the lake. The water clinging to Baron’s skin. The way his lips parted when he whispered my name.

Fifteen years hadn’t been enough to erase him.

I hated him for it.

I hated myself more.

Lightning split the sky, and with it, clarity struck.

Next time, I would visit him as what I had become, a predator, a sinner... the devil himself.

I wouldn't go there to confess my sins.

I would be there to claim.

And no God would stand in my way.