Blood as a Message

The old man looked up in surprise as a young man entered the private room inside the club.

Inside, the old man sat at the head of a table, a glass of liquor in hand, while two bodyguards stood silently behind him. The atmosphere was heavy, thick with authority and unspoken danger.

“If it isn’t the young devil of the De Luna Syndicate,” the old man said, his tone amused yet cautious as he watched the newcomer walk in with two men dressed in black suits.

“Mr. Romero. Nice to meet you too,” the young man replied with a faint smile before taking the empty seat across from him.

“I don’t wish to speak with you,” Romero said coldly, already preparing to stand. “I want to talk to your father. If it’s not the head of your group, then I have no business here.”

He was about to rise when-----

BANG!

The young man slammed his hand against the table.

The sharp sound echoed through the room, instantly thickening the tension.

Both of Romero’s bodyguards reacted immediately, pulling out their guns and aiming at the young man.

In response, the two men behind Rafael drew their weapons just as quickly, pointing them straight back.

For a moment, no one moved.

“What’s with the rush?” the young man said calmly, as if the room wasn’t on the brink of violence.

He casually picked up the glass of liquor in front of him, bringing it close to his lips, but he didn’t drink.

“You’re bold for a young pup,” Romero said, narrowing his eyes. “Have you forgotten who you’re dealing with?”

“Of course not,” the young man replied, placing the glass back on the table.

Romero’s gaze shifted.

Right beside the glass, exactly where the young man had struck the table was a ring.

His eyes widened slightly.

“That ring—” he began, his voice faltering as he stared at it.

“Oh, you recognize it?” the young man said with a faint smile.

He picked up the ring and slid it onto his right middle finger.

With a small gesture of his hand, he signaled his men to lower their weapons. They obeyed immediately, tucking their guns back into their coats.

“This ring represents the head of De Luna,” he said calmly. “Whoever wears it… is the head.”

Romero let out a low chuckle and slowly sat back down, gesturing for his men to lower their guns as well.

“So you expect me to believe that you’re the head of Penumbra?” he said, shaking his head. “You’re too young, boy. At best, you’re your father’s errand dog. Far too inexperienced to lead an organization of this scale.”

The young man leaned back slightly, completely unfazed.

“The younger generation has a lot to offer,” he said smoothly. “Fresh ideas. Stronger bodies. Faster minds. We adapt… while others struggle to keep up.”

“Smart mouth,” Romero muttered. “But a ring alone isn’t enough proof that you are—”

The door suddenly burst open.

Two more men in suits entered, dragging someone between them.

The man was beaten badly—blood smeared across his mouth, bruises darkening his face. He could barely stand.

They forced him to his knees in front of the table and pressed a gun against his head.

Romero’s eyes widened in shock as he recognized him.

His grip on his glass tightened.

The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly.

This was no longer a negotiation. It was a message.

“I see, Your reaction tells me you know this man.”

The young leader’s voice cut cleanly through the dim-lit room, smooth and controlled yet carrying an edge sharp enough to draw blood. His eyes, cold and unwavering, remained fixed on the old man seated across the long mahogany table.

“He’s apparently a spy,” he continued, almost conversational.

“We caught him stealing information. He was planning to sell it to our enemies.” A faint smirk ghosted across his lips. “

And the most interesting part.” His gaze darkened. “He told us who sent him.”

The air shifted.

The old man’s jaw tightened, his fingers curling slightly against the armrest of his chair. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he shot back, his voice edged with restrained anger.

“Are you accusing me?” He let out a humorless scoff. “Your father and I built this empire together. We’ve bled for this organization. And now you dare question my loyalty? This is an insult.”

A beat of silence.

“I know,” the young man replied, his tone almost indifferent. “You’ve been my father’s most trusted partner for years.” Slowly, deliberately, he tilted his head.

“Which is exactly why you should understand, how much we value loyalty.”

Then, In one fluid motion, he raised his gun and pointed it straight at the old man.

Time seemed to fracture.

Chairs scraped sharply against the floor. The two men standing behind the elder reacted instantly, drawing their weapons and aiming at the young leader without hesitation. At the same time, his bodyguards stepped forward in perfect, lethal synchronization, guns raised, fingers poised on triggers.

The room plunged into a suffocating stillness.

No one breathed.

No one moved.

The old man did not draw his weapon, but his hand slid beneath the table, gripping the cold steel of the gun hidden from sight. His eyes locked with the young leader’s, searching, measuring.

“What exactly are you trying to prove?” he asked, his voice low, dangerous. “With actions like this are you declaring yourself the new head?” A pause. “That you can do whatever you want?”

The young man took a step forward.

Unhurried. Unshaken.

Authority radiated from him, not loud, not forced, but absolute.

“As the new head of the De Luna Syndicate.” he began, each word deliberate, echoing faintly against the walls, “I want this message to be clear.”

Silence pressed in from all sides.

Then, “Death will fall upon anyone who dares to become my enemy.”

The words had barely settled when he moved.

A blur.

No warning. No hesitation.

His arm shifted, redirecting the gun toward the kneeling man at the center of the room, still bound, still trembling, and without even turning his head to look at him.

He pulled the trigger. The gunshot exploded like thunder.

For a split second, the world seemed to stop. Then reality crashed back in.

The bullet struck dead center, clean, precise. The man’s head snapped back, his body collapsing lifelessly onto the floor with a dull, final thud. Blood spilled rapidly, staining the pristine carpet in dark, spreading crimson.

No one spoke. No one dared.

Beyond the sealed walls, music pulsed and laughter echoed oblivious, distant, almost unreal against the brutality inside the room. The old man stared.

His breath caught somewhere between his chest and his throat as the weight of what he had just witnessed settled heavily upon him.

And then, It came rushing back. The stories. The whispers.

The name that commanded fear in the shadows of the underworld.

The sole heir of the De Luna Syndicate. Heartless. Ruthless.

Far more dangerous than the father who came before him.

A man who did not hesitate. Did not doubt. Did not feel.

A man who could kill. Without even blinking.

“Now, shall we talk about our business?” the young man asked, finally setting his gun down on the table.

The old man stared at him, disbelief etched across his face, still processing what he had just witnessed.

“You are as fearless as they say,” the elder said, a faint, impressed smile tugging at his lips. Slowly, he nodded to his men, and one by one, they lowered their weapons.

The young man simply shrugged, his expression unreadable, before picking up a glass filled with amber liquid and taking a measured sip.

The old man followed suit, lifting his own glass in silent acknowledgment, their eyes locking for a brief moment before he took a slow, deliberate drink.

The tension remained, taut and unspoken, as if the room itself was holding its breath, two men of power, testing each other’s boundaries with nothing more than a glance and the clink of glasses.