Sebastian

I sat upon a majestic cushioned throne in my stone-walled dungeon, entertaining myself by punishing a traitor. The metallic scent of blood hung heavy in the air—intoxicating, just as I preferred.

“Ah! Please, Master! Have mercy! I beg you—please forgive me,” he cried, desperation thick in his voice. A smirk slowly spread across my face.

John Robinson—once one of my most trusted assassins.

Bound to a chair, beaten mercilessly, his nails plucked and teeth torn from his mouth, he was a broken man. And yet, the one clear thing in his eyes was unmistakable—the fear of death.

His shirtless torso was lacerated and bleeding, crimson droplets pooling beneath his chair, soaking the cold stone floor in blood. Still, he pleaded for mercy.

Apologies came too late…

Alexis, my loyal right hand, had been interrogating him for two agonizing hours—dissecting truth from flesh with each deliberate cut.

I poured a glass of whiskey, drew a cigar from the box beside my chair, and lit it, savoring the fiery smoke.

Alexis adjusted the camera to capture every moment of the man’s suffering.

I took cold pleasure in his agony, the goblet of whiskey steady in my right hand, my favorite cigar clenched between my fingers of the left. His screams were like a twisted symphony to my ears.

Betrayal among the mafia’s ruling family was a rare wound. I treated my gang as family, believing every member should defend each other as fiercely as family does.

I had rescued them from the streets, clothed and fed them, offered shelter and skills to those who deserved it. And this was their thanks: spying, undermining, betraying and using me.

A glance at the man reignited the raging fire within me.

Because of this traitor, I had lost not just thirty million dollars, but also two loyal men—losses heavier than mere currency.

I had built this empire with sweat, blood, and tears. No one had the right to shatter it.

Those thoughts stoked my fury even more.

“Please, Alexis! We grew up together! Have mercy on me!” the traitor sobbed, but his pleas were met with cold, disgusted eyes—mirroring my own.

I sneered at his folly. His words were empty echoes in a void.

"Nicholas Demitri," a name slipped through his lips. Although it was just a whisper but still it was enough to filled a burning rage inside me.

Finally, he yielded the secrets we demanded, reduced his value now to nothing but a broken husk.

I drew my gun from its holster, tilted the lining of my coat, and aimed carefully at his forehead.

Bang!

The thunderous crack of the gunshot echoed through the stone chamber, silencing him forever. Blood trickled from the hole in his brow as his eyes dilated in shock.

Though betrayed, I felt no remorse nor pain. My heart had long been hardened.

I was called Lucifer—and deservedly so.

Alexis slit the man’s throat next, spraying blood across the walls already adorned with countless tales of death.

“He does not deserve burial. Feed him to my pets,” I ordered, my voice icy and merciless. Alexis nodded assent.

Rising from my throne, I left the basement dungeon and walked through the opulent hallway toward my study.

I opened the door with a fingerprint sensor and settled into my leather swivel chair behind a grand oak desk by the large glass window.

This room was my sanctuary, filled with all my favorite things.

Wooden and glass bookshelves lined the ceiling, heavy with volumes from diverse genres.

I unclasped my diamond cufflinks, rolled my shirt sleeves to my forearms, revealing muscular arms marked with a tattoo carefully inked in homage to someone dear.

I powered on my laptop and returned to my work. The contracts grew more complicated, deadlines tighter, and thanks to that traitor, I had lost valuable time and resources.

In the mafia, even paperwork demanded the utmost precision.

An hour later, the door opened. I did not look up but knew who had come.

Only two men besides myself were allowed on the third floor: Alexis and my cousin, Rmeta King. Neither ever knocked.

“Your wish is fulfilled, Master,” Alexis said, placing the camera on the desk. Without waiting, he bowed and began to leave.

I was a man of few words, and my silence was respected.

“Take that with you. Play it every morning at breakfast for a month. Let them remember what befalls traitors,” I commanded.

Alexis paused but returned, retrieving the camera.

“Tell Sofia to be ready at nine,” I added, watching his reaction.

His face betrayed no emotion, eyes cold as steel. Yet his fingers tightened around the camera, jaw clenched. Silent pain flickered in his gaze.

This was the loyalty I demanded—the exact loyalty we needed.

I had long suspected something between them but had never extracted a confession. Clearly, he valued my wishes above all else.

“Yes, Master,” he replied, bowing his head as he left.

I leaned back in the swivel chair and let my mind drift to distant, happier memories. They were painful, yet sometimes offered comfort. I fought back tears—until one escaped from my left eye, tracing a silent path down my cheek.

My phone vibrated, pulling me back to the present. Ryan’s name flashed on the screen.

“Seb, it’s done. The invitations are sent. I know you hate it, but the banquet happens only once every five years. You must remind them who truly reigns,” Ryan said.

Ryan was my closest friend in this cutthroat world—the only man I trusted with my life.

Together, we had risen. Without him, I would not be king, and he would not hold sway over the Italian mafia.

He called me Seb, saw my tears, endured my frustrations, drank with me without judgment, and heard my endless rants patiently. He was the brother I never had.

“Fine. If you say so, I’ll attend the banquet. Happy now? Hang up. I need rest,” I muttered, disconnecting. He would understand.

I begrudgingly prepared for the tedious event known as “Auction” and returned to my work.

Later, I glanced at the clock—seven o’clock in the evening.

Dinner was served at six. I was an hour late. I should not keep them waiting. I rose and walked toward the dining hall.

Everyone sat silently in their assigned seats, food untouched.

The unspoken rule was clear. My elite squad of twenty assassins had lost one today.

His seat remained empty—for now.

As I entered, all stood. I took my place at the head of the table, and without a word, we began to eat.

*****************************