The storm outside roared against the windows, wind rattling the glass like an impatient visitor. Inside, Dominic Vasari sat behind his desk, unmoved by the chaos beyond the walls.**

He had seen worse storms—ones that came with bullets instead of rain.

The dim light from the desk lamp cast deep shadows over his face, accentuating the sharp angles of his jaw, the silver creeping into his black hair. Forty-eight years old, and he felt every damn one of them.

Across from him, a man sat trembling, hands clasped like a man in prayer. Dominic hated desperation. It was messy, weak. He preferred control.

"You stole from me."

The words were simple, spoken in a voice that barely rose above a whisper. And yet, the man flinched. Good. He should be afraid.

Dominic leaned back, tapping ash from his cigar. He had built his empire with blood, sweat, and fire. He had survived betrayals, wars, buried men who thought they were untouchable.

And now, this pathetic fool sat before him, thinking he would be the exception.

“I didn’t—” the man started, voice cracking.

Dominic held up a hand, silencing him. “Don’t insult me.” His tone was quiet, even. That was when he was most dangerous—not when he yelled, but when his voice barely rose above the rain outside.

The man swallowed hard. Dominic already knew the truth. He always did.

He stood, adjusting the cuffs of his crisp black shirt. “I trusted you,” he said, stepping around the desk. “That was a mistake. I don’t make the same mistake twice.”

The man’s breathing turned ragged. “Please, Mr. Vasari, I—”

A nod. A simple, silent command.

Two of Dominic’s men stepped forward, dragging the man to his feet. His pleas became muffled as they pulled him toward the door.

Dominic exhaled slowly, watching the rain streak down the glass. Betrayal never ended any other way.

He poured himself a drink, the ice clinking softly against the glass. Outside, the storm raged