The city was quiet under a layer of fog, tall buildings marked by shadows. Away from the constant sound of car engines and nightlife, a black SUV drove through the empty streets, its tinted windows concealing its content.
Ambrose Romero was in the back seat, his eyes focused on the blurry streetlights. His phone vibrated with a message from his private assistant, the one who handled things too sensitive for normal company emails.
"Found the loose end. Warehouse 17."
Ambrose with a slight smirk.
"Finally,"
His voice was quiet and controlled. He put the phone in his coat pocket and leaned back, as the car made a quick turn.
During the day, Ambrose was known for his sharp suits and polite manners, a man of numbers, choices, and agreements. People who invested in him trusted him, workers looked up to him, and the world only saw his calm and collected side.
But the night had a different name for him.
Don Romero.
The warehouse was located at the edge of the industrial area, a big steel building surrounded by fences and armed guards.
The men standing outside straightened up as soon as the SUV stopped, their silence showing their respect or was it fear.
Ambrose got out, the sound of his shoes on the gravel breaking the silence. He fixed his tie, his movements planned, like a routine.
Inside, the light was low, the sound of water dripping mixed with quiet cries.
Two men in black suits stood by a chair in the middle of the room.
The man tied to it was barely awake, bloody, and short of breath.
"Mr. Romero,"
One of the guards said softly,
"We found him hiding in the east docks. He tried to run, but didn't get far."
Ambrose looked at the person captured.
"And the debt?"
"Still not paid. You're two months late."
Ambrose nodded, walking closer until he stood right in front of the man.
"You've been busy hiding," he said quietly. His voice wasn't loud, but it was clear and had a scary undertone.
"You took money that wasn't yours. And thought I'd forget?"
The man shook his head quickly, his swollen lips shaking. "I, I didn't mean to upset you, Mr. Romero. I swear, the deal didn't go well, I lost the shipment,"
"Everyone loses something," Ambrose said.
"But not everyone takes from me."
He turned to one of his goons and held out his hand. Without saying a word, a gun was placed in his hand.
He didn't even look at it, just held it there, his thumb scraping the edge of the trigger.
"I'll ask one more time," he said.
"Where's. My. Money?"
The man shivered in fear and shook his head.
"I, I can get it. I just need some time, please!"
"Time," Ambrose repeated.
"That's what everyone wants. But here's the thing about time, Mr. DeLuca…" He tilted his head up.
"It's never enough."
The man broke down in tears, then spilling everything, the names of go-betweens, where things were hidden, and the contacts still available.
He spoke until his voice cracked and could barely talk, every word showed how desperate he was to live.
Ambrose listened without showing any reaction. When the man stopped talking, shaken from being so badly beaten up, Ambrose chuckled.
"You see? That wasn't so difficult, was it?"
The man felt a wave of relief.
"So… Please can you let me go now?"
Ambrose looked at him for a while, then gave a small smile, it almost felt like pity.
"No."
The gunshot was very loud and echoed all over the warehouse, swift and final.
The sound hit the metal walls and then… silence.
Ambrose gave the gun back to his guard, using a white cloth to wipe off a small spot of blood from his sleeve.
"Take care of this." he said, already heading for the door.
Outside, It had started raining again, a light drizzle that made his hair and shoulders wet. He didn't seem to care.
To Ambrose, death wasn't a mess. It was a way of showing what happens when someone doesn't understand what betrayal costs, a way of putting things in order.
But hidden this cold persona was something else, a tiredness that never left him, a type of pain only he could recognise.
He got into the SUV. The driver was too scared to say anything, just waited for the quick nod that meant it was time to leave.
"Where to, sir?"
Ambrose looked at his reflection in the window, a vague image of a man in a perfect suit, his eyes too tired for his age.
"The restaurant," he said.
"I'm supposed to have dinner."
By the time the SUV got to the restaurant, the city had changed again. The light rain stopped and the streets glowed with bright lights.
Ambrose got out, carefully fixing his tie and the ends of his sleeves, as if he was shifting another persona.
The person at the door greeted him with a wide smile.
"Mr. Romero, your table is ready. Miss Reyes got here a few minutes ago."
Ambrose nodded slightly, his calm returning.
"Good."
As he walked in, gentle piano music filled the room. He walked through the people, not rushing, but confidently, like a man who was comfortable anywhere.
But on the inside, the two separate parts of his world fought quietly.
Hours before, he'd spoken of death as a man took his last breath. Now, he would speak in a gentle way to a woman who looked at him as if he was simply only interesting, not scary.
Near the window at a table, he spotted her, Nadia. Her eyes were looking down at the menu, and her hair falling around her face. She wore a plain but pretty dress, and the dim light made her skin glow.
For a very short moment, something new moved within Ambrose's heart.
She has no place in my life, he considered. But maybe that is the reason I can't stop looking at her.
His face appears relaxed. Then he moved in her direction.
"Miss Reyes," he said, his tone easy and controlled.
"I hope I haven't made you wait long."
Nadia tilted her head up and smiled.
Ambrose took a seat across from hers, and light flickered in his dark eyes, hiding what his hands had done only one hour ago.
And as the server poured the wine, Don Romero, the man who was in charge of the night, quietly disappeared behind Ambrose Romero, the businessman she believed she was familiar with.