"I believe that makes us even," Fedora added. Miguel remained speechless, marveling at how Fedora possessed a lethal comeback for every single statement, delivered with such precision it was as if he'd spent his mornings memorizing them in a mirror.
With the sheer wit the boy was displaying, Miguel knew the argument was a lost cause. He had no choice but to let it slide, especially with the weight of the "important business" currently pressing against the back of his mind.
"Okay." Fedora's voice pitched upward, punctuated by a sharp exhale. One hand flew up, landing lazily against his thigh in a gesture of finality. It was time to go.
"See you... Never again!"
Fedora finished the sentence as he slipped past the man. He had intended to head further down the main strip, but seeing Miguel's fleet of cars idling there, he felt a wave of exhaustion. He was fed up with the drama.
Instead of walking into the lion's den, he pivoted, pretending to take an alternate route just to avoid another round of theatrics.
Papa and his food can wait for a bit, he told himself, lengthening his stride.
Miguel stood his ground, watching the boy's retreating figure.
A pang of genuine sadness flickered in his chest. "No Goodbyes?" he yelled out, his voice echoing off the pavement. Fedora didn't break his rhythm.
Miguel shook his head; he'd expected as much.
"Yoo!" he called again.
Finally, Fedora halted. The constant shouting would draw attention, and he figured it wouldn't hurt to hear the man out one last time. He turned his head slightly, offering Miguel a sliver of his profile.
"Don't bother to pay me!" Miguel yelled back, a smile tugging at his lips. Fedora's response was a tired, guttural scoff.
"You wish!"
"Don't worry, okay? I'll get another one. Hope we're good?" Miguel asked.
Fedora offered a slight, begrudging nod.
Perhaps the man was done being an annoying dickhead and was finally tapping into a vein of reason, Fedora thought, his sharp edges almost softening into his sweeter side.
"I'll have to get a new one for privacy, though," Miguel added, his voice dropping into a devious purr. "I still can't fuck you in this one—you ruined it."
Miguel blew a seductive kiss into the air, a gesture that caused Fedora's face to sour instantly, while Miguel's own face gleamed with mischief and a syrupy, upside-down grin.
" Just when I thought...!" Fedora hissed. He rolled his eyes so hard it hurt, his nose scrunching in pure distaste.
"We would definitely meet again, cutie pie!"
Fedora didn't offer a word in return. Instead, he aggressively flashed a perfectly manicured middle finger and continued his walk. This time, he didn't look back once.
Miguel remained there, anchored to the spot, watching the boy until he was nothing but a speck on the horizon. His blood hummed with a cocktail of adrenaline-triggering emotions.
The boy was a hell of a comedic relief, and the warmth Miguel felt was terrifyingly genuine, a 'free spirit' vibe he hadn't encountered in years.
But the moment he turned toward his car, the warmth died.
His expression shifted, transitioning back into a state of brutal lethality. He reached for the door, slamming it shut with a heavy thud that sealed out the world, before relaxing nonchalantly against the soft, expensive leather.
His anger began to simmer, rising higher than before.
It wasn't just the mission this time; it was the fact that he could have spent quality time with "Mr. Rot-Mouth." He might have had a real chance, but the boy had slipped through his grasp again—all because of Storm.
That execution was going to be excruciating.
"You don't look like someone who just had a great time after a stranger smashed their rear window," Navarro's voice cut through the silence. It was sarcastic, syrupy with implication. Navarro watched the distorted horizon through the ruined glass of the mirror before swinging his gaze back to Miguel.
Miguel almost smiled, a brief flicker of a memory of Fedora's fire, but he quickly gathered his composure into a cold mask.
"Let's get out of here," he ordered.
Without hesitation, the engine roared to life, and the street poles began to blur into a gray smear against the windows.
The sun beat down through the open architecture of Mr. Storm's villa, casting long, golden rays over glistening pools and floors of smooth, seamless gravel. The atmosphere here was curated to a fault, pristine, sophisticated, and soothingly quiet.
It was the kind of atmosphere that existed at the blurred line where morning meets afternoon, an expensive taste that felt untouchable. It was a statement of wealth so loud it made most people feel overwhelmed and insecure just standing at the gates.
Nothing was out of place.
Everything was maintained with surgical precision: from the blooming gardens to the aisles of flowers trimmed so perfectly they looked like sculptures dancing in the breeze. Beyond the statue-carved fountain sat a fleet of luxurious cars, guarded by men in jet-black shades and suits.
Each guard stood with a life-threatening stiffness, a human extension of the villa's iron-clad security.
Deep inside the main building, past the grand hall with its surreal French Chateau architecture, the air changed. It smelled of lavender, dried roses, and the dusty scent of ancient books. At the very end of the hallway, a gold template was etched elegantly into polished wood: [STORM].
Behind those doors, seated at a desk stacked with heavy files, bars of solid gold, and vacuum-sealed stacks of currency, was Storm. He was a pot-bellied, middle-aged man, holding a silver-coated marijuana blunt with a practiced, stylish grip.
Thick curls of smoke drifted upward, tainting the room's pristine air.
The office was a monument to excess. The furniture alone cost more than a decade of most men's salaries. A large window offered a panoramic view of mountain peaks and blooms, letting the sun seep in to catch the gray strands in his slicked-back hair.
The space was hauntingly quiet, but the worry etched into the deep furrows of Storm's forehead was loud. He crushed the blunt back into its case, exhaling one last drag as he sank into the depths of his chair. His eyes remained fixed on the door in a state of suspended anticipation.
"It has been up to a week..."
If only he knew.
To be continued...