"That godforsaken bastard, the Butcher!" he roared, his voice echoing off the high ceilings. He slammed the tumbler down on the mahogany desk with such force that a splash of scotch arced through the air, staining the blotter. “He struck again last night. We had a shipment prepared, everything in place. And he destroyed it all. My men are gone, the trucks ruined, the whole operation in shambles. And the women? Freed, vanished without a trace. As if he’d erased the entire thing in a single night.”
I settled into one of the armchairs, crossing my legs with deliberate nonchalance. The leather creaked under my weight as I lit a Cuban cigar, the flame from my gold lighter flickering briefly before I drew in deeply. The smoke filled my lungs, a calming ritual amid the chaos. I watched my father through the haze, my expression neutral.
I had known about his operations for years. About the trafficking, the empire built on chains and silence. I never touched it, never entered that world, but knowing and staying away were two different kinds of guilt. Every time he spoke of “shipments” and “cargo,” a part of me recoiled, but distancing myself had been the only way to keep whatever was left of my conscience intact.
Anton, my brother, was already there, perched on the edge of the opposite chair. At thirty-five, he carried himself with a seasoned edge. Lean but solid, his dark hair cut in a deliberately carelessstyle that gave him a rakish charm rather than boyish youth. There was a sharpness in his features, the kind of confidence honed from nights spent in power rather than play. His fingers drummed incessantly on the armrest, a nervous habit he'd had since childhood. And his blue eyes, a mirror of our mother's, darted between Marcus and the floor, trying to absorb every detail.
Marcus continued his tirade, gesturing wildly. “And the insult, hah, he… he left one man alive. Barely breathing, choking on his own blood. Enough to say it. Enough to show it. Carved into him,‘The Butcher is always one step ahead. Your empire crumbles.’ He’s… he’s laughing at me! Mocking me! Ripping everything apart. Everything I built. Piece by piece!”
I exhaled a slow plume of smoke, letting it curl lazily toward the chandelier. The cigar's rich, earthy flavor grounded me, a counterpoint to the storm raging in the room. "Sounds like he's escalating, Father," I said calmly, my voice cutting through the rant like a knife. "Bold move, leaving a survivor to deliver the message. Maybe it's time to rethink our security protocols. Double the guards, install more surveillance. Or better yet, let's turn the tables. Hunt this Butcher down. Hiding behind a moniker like that won't protect him forever. Everyone has a weakness; we just need to find his."
Anton leaned back in his chair, twirling a pen between his fingers, his tone casual, almost bored. “So… what’s the deal with this guy, Dad?” he asked, half a grin tugging at his lips. “Any camera footage, witnesses, secret-agent stuff like that? Or are we just shooting in the dark again?” He gestured lazily toward the files on the desk. “I mean, if there’s a pattern like weapons, entry points, whatever. Great. If not, maybe the guy’s just having fun.”
Marcus waved a dismissive hand, still pacing, his scotch forgotten on the desk. "Patterns? The site's a goddamn slaughterhouse. Blood everywhere, bodies twisted in ways that turn your stomach. No clear footage. The cameras were smashed first, professionally done. No witnesses; the location was remote, as always. He's like a ghost. Slips in, does his damage, slips out. But he's human. He'll make a mistake eventually. And when he does, I'll be there to crush him. I'll,"
His monologue was interrupted by the sharp buzz of his phone vibrating on the desk. He snatched it up, glancing at the screen, his expression shifting from unbridled rage to a cold, calculated mask. Whatever was on the other end demanded his full attention. "I have to take this," he growled, waving us away like errant flies. "Both of you, out. We'll pick this up later. And Keith. Keep your ears open on your end. This could spill over."
Anton and I didn't argue. You didn't with Marcus when he was in this mood. We rose in unison, the chairs scraping against the rug, and made our way out into the grand hallway. The mansion stretched out before us, a labyrinth of marble floors that echoed our footsteps, crystal vases perched on antique pedestals, and gold, framed mirrors that multiplied the space into infinity. Servants moved like shadows in the periphery, polishing silver or adjusting floral arrangements, always out of the way but ever-present. The air was cooler here, scented with fresh-cut flowers from the greenhouse.
As we walked toward the massive front doors, flanked by suits of armor that our grandfather had collected as a hobby, Anton clapped me on the shoulder. His grin broke through the tension. "Hey, bro. Before I forget, congrats on the new project. Elysian Haven, right? That's insane levels of ambition. I'm happy for you,man. You carved out something that's all yours, away from Dad's shadow."
I returned the gesture, my hand landing solidly on his back. "Thanks, Anton. It's shaping up nicely. Not just a resort, it's a vision."
He nodded, his eyes lighting up. "Yeah, I saw the renders online. Looks like a floating utopia. Proud of you, Keith. Just don't get so wrapped up in it that you forget to live a little. But seriously, happy for you. No sappy stuff, just facts."
“Appreciated. But Anton. You’re thirty-five. Don’t waste it on clubs and parties. Your business is booming; revenue’s up thirty percent. Expand it, build a brand, make it last. Legacy comes from focus, not hangovers.”
Anton rolled his eyes, but there was a smirk tugging at his lips as he adjusted the cuff of his tailored suit. A deep charcoal piece that fit him like it was made for his arrogance. The crisp white shirt beneath and the subtle gleam of his cufflinks added to his effortlessly polished look, a sharp contrast to the mischief in his eyes. He carried the air of someone who could charm his way through a boardroom just as easily as he could a late-night bar.
"Oh, here we go. Keith lecture time. I'm on top of it. The club's not just blooming. It's a beast. VIP lists a mile long, celebrities dropping in unannounced. Profits are rolling in, and yeah, maybe I enjoy the perks, the women, the vibe. But life's short, man. Why grind 24/7 when you can have fun? You've got your island. I've got my empire of nights. Don't worry about me. I'm not Dad's mini-me. I know the line."
I shook my head a little from frustration. He was sharp but impulsive. "Just advice, big brother. Take it or leave it. One day, you'll see the value in focus. Don't dismiss it outright."
"Yeah, yeah. Noted." He waved a hand dismissively, already pulling out his phone to check messages. "Catch you later. Got a meeting with some promoters. Stay safe out there." With that, he veered off his steps light and unburdened.
I pushed open the front doors, the cool afternoon air hitting my face like a reset. The mansion loomed behind me, all marble and silence. My Aston Martin waited in the drive, gleaming like something alive. Gravel crunched under my boots as I approached and slid into the driver’s seat. The engine came to life with a low, steady growl. The only sound that ever felt honest in this place.
Before pulling out, I fished my phone from my jacket pocket and dialed Victor, my right-hand man. He answered on the second ring, his voice crisp and professional, laced with that Eastern European accent that made him sound perpetually serious.
"Boss," he greeted, straight to the point.
"Victor, give me the latest on Elysian Haven."
"We're holding steady on the timeline, sir. The foundational dredging is complete. The island's base platform is fully stabilized with reinforced concrete and eco-barriers to handle ocean currents. Eighty percent of the structural framing for the main resort complex is up. Villas are in the roofing phase, and the central pavilion's glass atrium is being installed next week. The marina's docks are ninety percent done; we're testing the berthing systems for yachts up to two hundred feet."
I nodded to myself, visualizing the blueprints in my mind. "Excellent work. I'll be on-site next week for a walkthrough. Keep the updates coming. Any shifts, I want to know immediately."
"Will do, sir. Safe travels."
I ended the call, slipping the phone back into my pocket. The driveway curved ahead, flanked by ancient oaks that shaded the path. But before accelerating, I reached into the glove compartment and retrieved a burner phone. Cheap, prepaid, utterly untraceable. It was a habit born of caution, a tool for conversations that couldn't afford digital footprints. I thumbed open the little keypad, typed the single number saved in its memory, and instead of calling, I sent a terse text: "Need update. Now." Then I leaned back against the headrest and waited.
The screen blinked once. A reply arrived, the notification lighting up the cheap display. I read it, and felt my jaw tightening, then watched the text vanish as I deleted the thread. The phone suddenly felt too light, too breakable in my hand. I twisted until it snapped. A clean, brittle crack, like bone giving way. The pieces slipped from my fingers, hitting the gravel outside the window and crunching under the tires as I shifted the Aston into gear. I lit another cigar, drew in a slow breath, and let the smoke fill the cabin while the engine’s growl rose to match the storm building in my chest.
The road ahead wound through the estate's private gates, opening onto the highway where the city skyline loomed in the distance. My mind raced ahead to Elysian Haven, the island that would be my masterpiece. But beneath the excitement, an undercurrent of calculation persisted.
Chapter 3
Aurelia
