𝑷𝑶𝑾𝑬𝑹 𝑩𝑬𝑳𝑶𝑵𝑮𝑬𝑫 𝑻𝑶 𝑻𝑯𝑶𝑺𝑬 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒖𝒅𝒂𝒄𝒊𝒕𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒆𝒊𝒛𝒆 𝒊𝒕. To rip it from the hands of the weak. To bleed for it.
It didn't matter how it was taken—confiscated, stolen, wrenched from the grasp of the unworthy. Power was never given freely. It was claimed with violence, with blood, with the ruthless certainty that only those who feared nothing could wield it.
Men like my brother, Ruben, understood that.
He was a living disaster. The kind of man who burned everything in his path while tearing through whatever's left standing. A walking explosion, a hurricane wrapped in wildfire, the embodiment of beautiful, unapologetic destruction.
You don't stop him. You don't contain him.
You survive him.
"Wow." Ruben let out a low whistle, his sharp eyes scanning the grand foyer as he stepped inside. The golden lighting bathed the marble floors in a soft glow, casting long shadows against the towering columns and antique furniture. His lips curled into something between amusement and admiration. "This place is something else."
I rolled my eyes. Of course, he would say that. To someone like Ruben, luxury was never just luxury—it was a statement. A power play.
"Good evening, Mr. Rossi," Teresa greeted warmly, her voice soft yet steady as she reached for my coat with practiced ease. She was always a constant—a quiet, grounding force in a house where power shifted like tides.
