He lounged in his corner booth, a fortress of leather and steel, overlooking the sprawling club. Tequila in hand, he half-listened as Mateo droned about the night's final shipment counts and the week's profit percentages. The numbers were always good. They were always exactly what they were supposed to be.
The truth was, Darren liked nights like this—the low, steady hum of music, the shifting colors on the dance floor, the constant, hypnotic flow of cash and laughter. He liked being seen, admired, envied. He found people underestimated how valuable it was to be liked in his business. Fear made men cautious, but loyalty, earned with a flash of his disarming smile, made them powerful allies.
He tilted his head toward the dance floor. "See that bachelor party?"
Mateo groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Not another bet. Please, Darren, I'm trying to go over the P&L from last quarter."
But Darren was already smiling, the charming, disarming smirk that always preceded mischief. The dimples flashed. "Ten minutes before one of them pukes on his friend's shoes. I'm giving them a generous time limit."
Mateo sighed, a sound of weary resignation. "You're insufferable."
"Richly insufferable," Darren corrected, raising his glass in mock salute. "It's a luxury I've earned."
The waitress returned with fresh drinks, her movements stiff and careful. She set them down with a clatter, the sound too loud in the quiet of their booth. Darren noticed her hand shaking. He caught her wrist gently, his touch a silent command, forcing her to meet his eyes.
"You all right, hermosa?" he asked softly, a disarming surprise in the chaos of the club. His voice was low, a private conversation in the midst of a public spectacle.
Her lips parted, startled by his sudden attention. "I—yes, Mr. Delgado. Just… a long night." Her gaze flickered over his face, a mixture of fear and awe in her eyes. The rumors about him were true, then. He was a devil, but a handsome one.
He slipped a folded hundred-dollar bill into her palm, closing her fingers around it. "Then go home early. Tell your manager I said so."
Her eyes widened, brimming with a gratitude so pure it made him almost uncomfortable. "Thank you, sir."
Darren let her go with another lazy smile. Mateo, ever the realist, watched the exchange, unimpressed. "You spoil them."
"I invest in loyalty," Darren said simply, a hint of steel in his voice. "Fear makes men obey. Kindness makes them protect you. It's a far more profitable transaction."
Mateo opened his mouth to argue, but a buzz in Darren's pocket cut him off. Darren glanced at the message on his phone and his smirk faded. The playful glint in his eyes was replaced by a cold, quiet intensity. The shift was so instantaneous it was almost frightening.
"Trouble?" Mateo asked.
"Maybe," Darren murmured, his gaze sweeping the casino floor. "They've got a thief in the cage."
The casino's money cage was sacred. Untouchable. It was the temple where the high priests of finance counted their blessings. Anyone stupid enough to steal from it was either suicidal or working for someone with a death wish far greater than their own.
Darren rose smoothly, sliding his jacket back into place. His movements were fluid, deliberate. The king had left his throne and was heading for the battlefield. "Let's see who wants to die tonight."
The cage was a fortress of bulletproof glass and steel, a place where millions in chips and cash passed hands daily in a ritual of wealth and power. Now, it was silent except for the muffled sobbing of the man kneeling on the tiled floor. Blood streaked his face where security had "persuaded" him to cooperate, a blunt reminder of the cost of transgression in this place.
Darren stepped inside, calm as ever, his presence heavier than any weapon. He didn't need to speak. The air itself seemed to grow still in his wake.
The thief looked up—and froze. Recognition, stark and chilling, dawned in his eyes. Darren's reputation had reached him, clearly.
"Mr. Delgado," he babbled, his voice a pathetic whimper. "Please, I didn't—"
"You didn't?" Darren crouched, his expensive suit a sharp contrast to the man's disheveled clothes. His eyes were sharp, calculating, but his voice was smooth, almost conversational. "So the camera feeds lied? The witnesses lied? My men lied?"
The man stammered, shaking his head violently, his desperation a palpable thing. "I—I was paid! I swear! Some guy outside offered me a percentage to—"
Darren's hand shot out, gripping his chin with a crushing force that silenced him. He leaned close, his breath warm against the man's cheek, the dimples flashing with a smirk that was anything but kind. It was the smile of a hunter who had already cornered his prey.
"You walked into my house," Darren said softly, the words a chilling whisper. "You touched my money. Do you know what that means?"
Tears spilled from the man's eyes, mixing with the blood on his cheek. "Please, I've got kids—"
Darren tilted his head, studying him, a flicker of something human passing through his gaze. A memory of a cramped kitchen and a tired smile. But it was gone as quickly as it came, dismissed as an unnecessary weakness.
"Mateo," he said without looking back. "Find out who paid him. A name, a face, a number. I don't care what it takes."
The man gasped in relief, misinterpreting the order as a reprieve. "Thank you—thank you, Mr. Delgado, I'll—"
Darren's voice cut like glass, sharp and final. "I didn't say you'd leave alive."
The thief's sobs choked off, replaced by a hollow, guttural sound of pure terror.
Darren rose, brushing his hands against his jacket as though wiping away dirt, as though the man's pitiful existence was a mere stain. He didn't raise his voice, didn't issue dramatic threats. He didn't have to. His men knew what to do. The silence that followed was more terrifying than any scream.
As they dragged the thief away, Darren poured himself a drink from the cage's minibar, his movements unhurried. He hated scenes like this—not because of the blood, but because of the stupidity. Stupid men always thought they could beat the odds. They never remembered who set them.
He stepped back into the hallway, his expression unreadable. Mateo followed, his face grim.
"Cold, even for you," Mateo muttered.
Darren smirked, dimples cutting deep. "You think kindness would have stopped the next one? The word would get out. People would think they could get away with it." He took a slow sip of his drink. "This city runs on perception, Mateo. Not on mercy."
Mateo had no answer. He knew, as Darren did, that a display of mercy was a sign of weakness in this city.