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1

Emmauel's Pov

The warehouse echoed with a sickening thud. Silence, thick and heavy, followed each rhythmic thump against the concrete floor. I maintained a poker face, my gaze fixed on the crumpled figure at my feet. This line of work left no room for sentimentality. The man I'd offered clemency to yesterday could just as easily be the one putting a bullet in my back tomorrow.

Rising to my full height, a steely resolve settled in my gut. "Why?" My voice cut through the oppressive silence, a question laced with icy calm.

The man on the floor, his blood painting a crimson bloom on his chest, offered no reply. His eyes darted around the room, refusing to meet mine. With a sigh of impatience, I punctuated the tense quiet with a sharp crack – a gunshot that echoed through the cavernous space. The bullet found its mark on his toe, a cruel reminder of the consequences of silence.

A strangled scream ripped from his throat. "This ain't the time for silence, boy," I said, crouching before him. My voice was a low growl, a warning laced with menace. "Don't test me."

"Th-they..." he stammered, a sheen of sweat beading on his forehead. "Offered me a fortune. A higher position in their outfit." Greed. The root of all betrayal.

"Since you've chosen your path," I said, a cold smile playing on my lips, "it would be a shame not to reunite you with your new family." My words dripped with a lethal irony. He flinched, his fear palpable. With a sigh that spoke volumes, I ordered, "Untie him."

My men obeyed swiftly, the ropes falling limply to the floor. The traitor scrambled to his feet, a flicker of defiance momentarily replacing his terror. I raised my gun, the weight of it a familiar comfort in my hand. "Arrivederci," I murmured, the single Italian word a death knell.

His eyes widened in a silent plea as the world dissolved into a deafening crack. The warehouse echoed with the gunshot, the metallic tang of blood filling the air. I didn't waste another glance on the fallen figure. "Burn the body," I instructed my men, my voice devoid of emotion.

Leaving the warehouse behind, I stepped into the cool night air. The metallic tang of blood clung to my senses, a grim reminder of the day's events. As I entered my mansion, my stoic facade faltered for a moment. Awaiting me in my office, the ever-reliable Alfred informed me, "Your mother is here, sir."

I nodded curtly, the familiar tension coiling in my gut. My mother's visits were never a welcome respite from the brutality of my world. Stepping into the office, I found her engrossed in a magazine, a picture of studied nonchalance.

"To what do I owe this pleasure, Mother?" I inquired, my voice a touch colder than usual.

"Good afternoon, son," she countered, her sharp gaze snapping towards me. Her icy blue eyes held a glint of something akin to exasperation.

I settled into a chair, mirroring her composure. "Let's get straight to the point then."

She adjusted her designer jacket with a theatrical sigh. "Nuel, I'm at my wit's end with your games!" she declared, her voice laced with a cutting edge.

I raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement dancing in my eyes. "Games, Mother? You traveled all this way for a minor inconvenience called marriage?"

Her jaw clenched, and a muscle ticked in her temple. "For crying out loud, you're in your mid-thirties! And I'm not getting any younger. Why can't you just settle down?"

This was the crux of our frequent clashes. Commitment. A concept as foreign to me as peace talks.

"Let me cut to the chase," I said, my voice betraying a hint of weariness. "I'm not built for commitment. If grandchildren are what you crave, there's always adoption."