"Nobody is allowed between these pretty little thighs but me....and if anyone tries...𝐈'𝐥𝐥 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦."
~
They call him The King-a ghost who rules the world's most powerful mafia from the shadows. No face. No mercy. No mistakes.
And beside...
-"A lot of people struggle with sleep because sleep requires peace."
_______________________________
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He tossed and turned. Sighed and yelled.
He couldn't do it. He couldn't stand it.
His head hurt every time he thought about it. The thoughts about the possibilities. The memories and all the things he looked over. The hints.
When he first came to New York to make the deal, that first night, a woman came into the conference room and poured his drink. Poured all of their drinks. Later, he realized that woman was the right hand.
She had hidden in plain sight and it worked. He hadn't even given her a second glance. The way she hid made him think of things that night and the nights after.
The right hand had hidden in plain sight and poured his drink. What was stopping the King from doing the same thing? All those months ago, when he first came to New York and met Kaia, he had been thinking of one possibility. And that possibility was that the King was the right hand.
The theory that the King was her. That the right hand and the King were the same.
The theory is that only a woman would have the power to achieve world peace. Kaia had fooled everyone into thinking that she was a man so what if she was fooling everyone again by being the King and being her own right hand?
And now...after what has happened in the past few weeks, it all made sense.
♕
The news station looked too ordinary for what it had done.
Steel and glass. Sleek hallways. A front desk with fake orchids and an underpaid receptionist sipping lukewarm coffee. You'd never guess this place had just detonated a secret the entire criminal underworld would kill to possess.
Oscar adjusted the cuffs of his jacket as the automatic doors slid open. Antonio entered beside him, silent and unreadable in all black, while Thea trailed just behind—eyes scanning every camera, every window, every person in the lobby.
She walked close to Oscar's side. A shade too close. But neither of them moved.
They didn't belong here. But they didn't care.
The receptionist glanced up, a polite smile already forming—until she saw them. Saw him.
Oscar's face. Recognizable now. Not just from the underground circles. From the broadcast. From the fallout.
Her breath caught.
"Can I—help you—?"
"We're here to speak to your managing director," Oscar said, his voice all velvet steel. "Now."
