Chapter 4

Rodrigo's POV

Ever since I was a child, my father raised me for one purpose only:

Perfection.

Not happiness.

Not freedom.

Not love.

Perfection.

Every lesson he taught me came wrapped in violence, discipline, or fear. He molded me into a weapon because one day he expected me to inherit the empire and keep the Valdino name ruling long after he was dead.

And apparently, according to him, that responsibility also included producing heirs of my own.

I’m thirty-five years old, and there’s one question he never stops asking me.

When are you finally getting married?

As if marriage sits anywhere within my priorities.

As if I’ve ever wanted children.

I already knew where tonight’s conversation was heading before I even arrived.

“Don, we’re here.”

The driver’s voice pulled me from my thoughts.

I adjusted my cuffs, slipped on my shades, and stepped out of the car.

Power is a strange thing. The more of it you gain, the more people move at your command without question. Men opened doors before I touched them. Others lowered their eyes when I walked past.

And to be fair, I earned that respect.

I built my reputation with blood, strategy, and years of hard work.

But none of it ever truly belonged to me.

Because no matter what I accomplish, people hear my last name before they hear Rodrigo.

Valdino.

The name itself carries weight strong enough to suffocate everything beneath it.

At meetings, my father is praised as the architect of success while I stand beside him like some extension of his legacy instead of a man who built his own empire from the ground up.

Everything I have, I earned.

Not Hermes Valdino.

Not the Valdino name.

Me.

I am Rodrigo Valdino — the most dangerous man in California’s underworld.

Maybe even more dangerous than my father.

And still, somehow, I remained trapped beneath his shadow.

I walked through the long hallway toward his office while one of his men opened the doors for me without a word.

The scent hit instantly.

Tobacco. Whiskey. Agarwood. Cedar.

The smell of power.

The office looked exactly the same as it always had — expensive, imposing, suffocating. Every inch of it carried memories of my father forcing perfection into me one brutal lesson at a time.

And there he was.

Don Hermes Valdino.

The tiger of the underworld.

My father.

He paced slowly behind his desk with a half-empty glass of whiskey in one hand, dressed sharply as always in a dark waistcoat and pressed shirt. Age had streaked silver through his hair, but it hadn’t weakened him. If anything, it made him look more dangerous.

He didn’t acknowledge me immediately.

Just kept pacing.

Thinking.

Calculating.

Even now, he still carried a presence capable of silencing an entire room without raising his voice.

As if sensing the shift in tension, the men stationed around the office quietly excused themselves, leaving us alone.

I sat down carelessly and rested my feet against the edge of his desk.

His eyes immediately dropped to my shoes.

Then slowly lifted toward me.

That glare might’ve terrified twelve-year-old me.

Now it just annoyed me.

Eventually, he stopped pacing.

“Haven’t I given you everything necessary to become the man you are today?”

What a strange way to begin a conversation.

I didn’t answer.

Responding too early only gave him control of the discussion.

So I stayed silent and waited for the real attack to come.

And it did.

“How does a Valdino allow a consignment to fail?” he asked coldly. “Worse, how do you still not have the person responsible?”

“I caught someone.”

His eyes narrowed.

“And?”

“He refused to speak.”

“Incompetent.”

The word landed sharply.

My jaw tightened instantly.

“I’m not incompetent,” I snapped. “I handled the situation, and I’m still tracking every lead. I’ll find who caused the loss.”

He stared at me for a long moment.

Not with anger.

With disappointment.

Somehow that felt worse.

“You don’t behave like a Valdino,” he said quietly. “You should already have the culprit begging for mercy. Instead, you’re scrambling around like some common detective trying to solve a street crime.”

His voice hardened.

“Millions are at stake, Rodrigo. Or have you forgotten what our name represents?”

“I have everything under control,” I shot back. “So stay out of my business.”

That only amused him.

“Your business?” He gave a dry laugh. “And what exactly do you do besides make mistakes and sleep with prostitutes?”

I exhaled heavily.

Here we go.

“Instead of giving this family an heir,” he continued, “you waste yourself on cheap women and meaningless pleasure. I raised you better than this.”

My patience finally snapped.

“If this conversation is over, I’m leaving.”

I stood abruptly and headed for the door before he could continue.

He said something else behind me, but I stopped listening halfway through it. My blood was already boiling too loudly in my ears.

By the time I reached the car, my hands were clenched so tightly my knuckles hurt.

Every conversation with him ended the same way — with me feeling like a child all over again.

I hated it.

I slid into the passenger's seat and slammed the door shut ignoring my bodyguard's protocol gesture.

I needed a distraction.

A release.

Because after tonight, the frustration under my skin felt unbearable.

And that girl Esteban sent earlier had done absolutely nothing for me.

I grabbed my phone and dialed immediately.

“Send someone to me now,” I ordered the second Esteban answered.

Then I hung up without waiting for a response.

My grip tightened forming a fist.

One thing was certain now:

Whoever interfered with my consignment had just declared war.

And I wouldn’t stop until I buried them for it.