Mag-log inRodrigo’s POV
I’ve always hated resorting to methods like this. Now I’m standing over a sink, washing blood from my hands while the metallic scent still lingers in the air. It wasn’t supposed to go that far. All I wanted was a name. Just one fucking name. Who sabotaged my consignment? The idiot had an entire week to talk. I even promised I’d let him walk if he cooperated. After all the torture he endured, you’d think survival instincts would kick in. Some people are just born stupid. “Boss, we’ve disposed of the body.” I dried my hands slowly with a towel. “Good. Is the girl here yet?” “Yes, Boss. She’s waiting in your room.” After a night like this, I needed a distraction. Something to quiet the rage clawing at the back of my skull. Usually sex worked. Violence and pleasure had always existed too close together in my world. Whenever frustration built up, I buried it in expensive liquor, cigars, or women sent over by Esteban. Mostly women. Too many women. Lately, though, none of them did anything for me anymore. I entered my bedroom to find her exactly where she’d been instructed to be — sprawled across the sheets, waiting patiently like a gift wrapped for my convenience. Normally that sight would’ve sparked something in me. Tonight, it didn’t. “Turn around,” I ordered flatly as I loosened my tie. She obeyed immediately. Good. At least someone in my life still understood instructions. I tried to lose myself in the moment, tried to drown out thoughts of the failed shipment, the money lost, the betrayal somewhere inside my organization. But the irritation only kept building beneath my skin. Every sound she made grated against my nerves instead of easing them. “P-please…” The shaky whisper finally snapped whatever little patience I had left. I pulled away abruptly, disgust curling in my chest — not at her, but at myself. At the fact that even this wasn’t enough anymore. I sat at the edge of the bed and lit a cigar, inhaling deeply while smoke filled the silence between us. Without looking at her, I opened the drawer beside me, grabbed a wad of cash, and tossed it onto the mattress. “Take it and leave.” She scrambled to collect the money before disappearing out the door without another word. The room fell quiet again. Still unsatisfied. Still angry. I rubbed a hand over my jaw before grabbing my phone and dialing the one man currently responsible for wasting my damn time. “Esteban.” “Ah, Rodrigo—” “I don’t remember giving you permission to address me by my first name.” The nervous silence on the other end almost amused me. “My apologies, Don Rodrigo,” he corrected quickly. “I hope the girl was satisfactory?” “That’s exactly why I’m calling.” I took another slow drag from my cigar. “The women you keep sending me are becoming unbearable. They whine too much. Flinch too much. Everything feels rehearsed.” “My apologies, Don. I can send Madrigal next time. She’s one of my finest—” “No.” I cut him off sharply. “I don’t want another one of your ‘best girls.’” A pause. “Then… what exactly are you looking for, Don?” I stared at the smoke curling toward the ceiling. Something different. The problem was, I didn’t fully know what that meant yet. “You’re not stupid, Esteban,” I said coldly. “Figure it out.” “Y-Yes, Don. Of course. I’ll arrange something more suited to your tastes.” I hung up before he could continue apologizing. The silence returned once more. I leaned back against the headboard, still half-dressed, irritation simmering beneath my skin. Then came a knock at the door. “Don, it’s time for your meeting with Don Hermes.” Of course it was. My mood darkened instantly. If there was one thing I hated more than incompetence, it was dealing with my father. And with the failed consignment hanging over my head, I already knew exactly how tonight would go. He’d lecture me. Tell me how he would’ve handled things better. How there should never have been loose ends. How I still had things to learn. Fuck that old man. I crushed the cigar into the ashtray and stood from the bed before heading toward the shower.A lot happened after Mexico.The moment I was done with Javier Morales, I was on the next flight back to California.Satisfied I’d cracked the mystery behind my failed consignment, yes. But the revelation itself sat like poison in my gut.Dante Gambino.The old bastard hadn’t sabotaged me for money. He hadn’t wanted my routes. He hadn’t considered me a threat.He did it because of my father.To men like Dante, I wasn’t Rodrigo Valdino. I was Hermes Valdino’s son. Collateral damage. A tool. A convenient weakness to exploit.That was what pissed me off. Not the lost money. Not the damaged routes.The disrespect.Everything I built belonged to me. The coastal routes. The partnerships across Europe. The business relationships stretching through Portugal, South Africa, Zimbabwe, Nigeria, and Colombia. California. All mine.Yet every time these old men looked at me, all they saw was my father’s son.Javier swore loyalty in exchange for relocating his family out of Dante’s reach. Business. N
Counting the days to my demise.Yes.My demise.The day I have to see that brute again.The same brute who wrecked my ass so thoroughly that I spent weeks walking like I had a stick shoved permanently up my spine. The same brute who somehow looked at an entire human body and thought, "Yeah, no lube necessary."Like genuinely.Who does that?What kind of upbringing produces a grown man who sees lube and decides it's optional?I have questions.Many questions.And absolutely no desire to ask him any of them.I'd tried talking to Esteban about it.And by talking, I mean I complained every single chance I got.Could I get another client?Could Rodrigo get another escort?Could Silver Slippers suddenly develop a policy against attempted murder by dick?Apparently not.Esteban didn't care.Actually, scratch that.He cared enough to laugh at me.Which somehow felt worse.The more I brought Rodrigo up, the more obvious it became that he wasn't just another client. He was
Rodrigo's POV The following day after the call, I made my way to Mexico.Right now I'm inside my Mercedes-Benz S-Class, moving through the rural roads of Tepito. The landscape outside is grey and waterlogged — cracked concrete, rusted iron gates, the kind of poverty that doesn't ask for your pity. It just exists.All that's on my mind is Javier.Getting those answers out of Javier.And for once, I have a good feeling about this. Because this one — this one has something to lose.A wife.A son.And yes, I will go that far. If he doesn't talk, they get it too. In this life, nobody has time for sentiments. You mess with my business, you pay for it. Hard. Simple as that.The car halts in front of what looks like an abandoned warehouse.My warehouse.The exterior is deliberate — designed to blend into the decay around it, to avoid any reason for suspicion. And in a place like Tepito? A slum law enforcement barely bothers to drive through? It was the perfect place to disappear. W
Chris's POV It’s been a little over a week now.Paid my tuition. Well — ninety-five percent of it. The remaining five percent is something future Chris will figure out after the next gig. Present Chris is choosing not to think about it.My ass has also been doing fine, since I know you were worried. The pain’s gone. Healed faster than expected, which honestly says more about how often my body’s had to bounce back from things it shouldn’t have had to bounce back from than it does about my resilience. Got fresh bruises courtesy of my father — but you already knew that chapter. Nothing new there.Mostly I’ve just been healing, attending classes, and sitting with my new goal:Move out.Get out of that apartment. Find somewhere — anywhere — that doesn’t share walls with the man who technically gave me life and has spent every year since trying to take it back.Simple goal. Expensive reality. Story of my life.Today I was meeting Aubrey at the café on campus.I’d been drowning in m
Rodrigo's POV Javier Morales.That was the name. The missing piece of this whole fucking puzzle. The source of the migraine that had been boring into my skull for weeks, a dull, persistent ache that no amount of whiskey or pussy could quiet.He had a family. They always did. A wife. A son. A neat little life tucked away in Mexico, far from the reach of my world. But distance was never an obstacle for consequences. I’ve crossed oceans for less.“Keep a close eye on the pest for me,” I said into the phone, my voice flat, measured. “I’ll be in Mexico soon. It’s time to nip this in the fucking bud.”I ended the call. The city sprawled beneath my window, a glittering grid of lights and shadows, of people who had no idea what moved in the dark spaces between their lives. For the first time in weeks, I felt it — that low thrum in my blood, the hunter’s pulse. The anticipation of getting closer. Closer to the truth. Closer to whoever thought they could compromise me, cost me millions, em
Rodrigo's POV It’s been one week since I buried myself back into investigating who caused my failed consignment.A shipment worth millions on the black market — intercepted by Customs. Thirteen crates of cocaine stacked into tight bundles. Guns. All of it. Gone. And with it, one of the few secure routes I’d spent years carefully threading through Mexico, Moscow, and Colombia — exposed. Just like that. Years of work. Years of trust built on silence and fear and blood.Compromised.I’ve lost money.I’ve lost trust.And worst of all — I’ve lost face.The question that keeps eating at me is devastatingly simple:How?No ordinary person could have done this. Not against me. Not against my operation. Every road I follow, every thread I pull, every name I trace — it all eventually circles back to the same place.The High Table.The council that houses the most powerful mafia bosses across multiple continents. Men who govern the underworld with truces, sanctions, favors, and the ki







