Storm knew who Robinson was,not on a familiarity level, perhaps,but he knew the man as Miguel's lover according to the jagged whispers of the underground. But it wasn't just a rumor that Robinson was also an unfortunate victim of the underworld's unspoken rules, collected by Miguel like he was a rare, fragile item for a display case.
Miguel treated the boy like a wife, never letting him do "male stuff," keeping him polished and secluded, even though the official status of their relationship had never been confirmed.
Miguel made sure Robinson only spoke to a chosen few, and that was what made Storm's confusion bleed into a raw, paralyzing fear. No matter what the reason for this breach of silence was, he was about to find out.
"Ah! Robinson..." Storm tried to force a casual tone, though his voice came out thin and brittle.
"What a surprise... now tell me, to what do I owe this unexpected call?"
"Cut the bullshit, Storm," Robinson fired back coldly, cutting Storm off like a blade through silk.
"Oh!" Storm breathed out, his face wrinkling and tightening with a sudden, crushing emotional fatigue.
He squeezed his eyes shut, trying so hard not to panic or let his limbs tremble in front of his butler, who remained standing like a silent statue.
"Is... is Miguel... How is Miguel?" Storm stammered the words out of a throat that felt like it was being cinched by a noose.
"Storm, cut the bull crap, you treacherous bag of takis!" Robinson sneered. His voice alone carried such a weight of disgust and irritation that you didn't need to see him to know he had a heavy, lethal grimace on his face.That line startled Storm so violently he couldn't control the slight jolt of his body.
The realization of the call's purpose began unravelling like a heavy veil being dragged off his face, exposing the raw nerves beneath. But the instinct to survive was a reflex; he still had to act oblivious, at least for a second longer.
"Excuse you!!... Please, Robinson, I am close and loyal to Miguel, but I won't tolerate you insulting me!" Storm blurted out. He tried to mask his voice, but it lacked stamina, wavering under the pressure of the lie.
Robinson let out a bristle of mocking laughter. "You and 'loyal' can't be in the same sentence, Storm. But I digress. My insults should be the least of what's at stake for you. As I am speaking with you, Miguel is on his way to your villa. And if I am correct, he is closer than you think." Robinson's voice dropped an octave, delivering the killing blow.
"He's coming to teach you how to play that game you think you are good at!"
Everything went ice-cold for Storm, except for the leather seat that suddenly became uncomfortable, burning and itchy against his skin.
He tried to swallow, but it felt like gulping down shards of broken glass as he perched on the very edge of his seat, ready to bolt.
"Ummm..."
"I would advise you stop wasting any more time and get out of that villa immediately," Robinson said, the urgency finally breaking through his icy exterior.
Storm tried to mutter a thank you, his mind spinning, but Robinson surged on.
"Stop thanking me. Make it out alive first," he fired, his tone dying down to an almost heartbroken, sad whisper.
"Make it out alive... I can't sleep well knowing I let something like this happen to another family." Then, his voice snapped back to a sharp, higher pitch.
"Next time, hire more professional men. Don't be greedy and economical when trying to kill a beast."
And with that—BEEP! The call ended.
"Wait—wait!" Storm rushed, but it was too late. The line was dead. Storm slowly lowered his hand, a moment of total, soul-crushing realization sweeping him away before the actual flood arrived.
The one word that kept ringing in his ear, rhythmic and mocking, was 'Fucked.' He was deeply fucked. He had single-handedly ruined his family's life and everything he had suffered to build.
"Oh, Scarlet, look what you did to me," he cursed himself inwardly, his heart weeping even as his eyes remained wide and dry.
As he rampaged internally, calculating a thousand impossible moves, his eyes shifted. He found the butler still standing there, watching him with a genuine, sickening look of concern.
"Don't stand there and look at me stupid!!" Storm barked, yelling out a jagged piece of his mounting frustration.
"Sorry," was the only thing the butler muttered in a startled tone before rushing his way out of the office, closing the door with a gentle, soft click that sounded like a coffin sealing.
Storm stared at the door for a while with pure irritation, letting out a deep, tired grunt before he completely lost his grip. He ran his hand violently across the desk, slapping his expensive pens and his marijuana case onto the floor in a clattering mess.
He flew to his feet, arms held firmly on his waist, his eyes scanning the room for anything of value. His survival instincts were rising into a frantic "papa bear" mode, fueled by pure, unadulterated panic.
Miguel was powerful, a god in their world, but Storm knew he couldn't just make it easy. He wouldn't watch himself be slaughtered or his loved ones be dragged away like prizes.
Storm dived into action. He grabbed a heavy leather bag from the nearby shelf big enough to hold the essentials. He began grabbing frantically: stacks of high-denomination bills, small gold bars, his encrypted bank cards, and several sensitive files, shoving them into the bag with trembling hands.
Then, he reached for the secret compartment in his shelf, pulling out the emergency gun he had stored there, unused for years. He cross-checked the cold metal, the weight of it heavy with a guilt that made him hesitate for a heartbeat. But fuck that. He was going to be killed; genuine guilt wasn't going to save his skin.
After shoving the dangerous steel into the bag, he zipped it up, his breath coming in short, ragged hitches. He grabbed his phone, his mind set on the run. He began pinching digits into the screen with a feverish intensity.
"Hello?" he screamed at the person on the other end as he reached for the office door, yanking it open.
"Yes—yes, set the chopper ready as fast as you can... Don't ask me stupid questions, motherfucker, just...."
The door creaked open, and Storm froze in his tracks. His mouth hung ajar, mimicking the door, while his eyes widened until the red veins were visible against the white. His words trailed off like the engine of a failed car test-run.
At that moment, Storm forgot what inhaling and exhaling looked like. His throat tightened so hard he made several failed attempts to swallow. The only mercy left for him would have been for the marble floor, which felt like it was filled with gallons of Araldite gluing him to the spot, to simply open up and swallow him whole.
The room went cemetery dead. The tension was thick enough to become a pandemic of its own, broken only by the faint, tinny voice seeping out of Storm's forgotten phone: "Hello? Hello? Sir? How do you want the chopper arranged?"
As a faint silhouette slowly emerged out of the dim shadows of the hallway, Storm's eyelids grew heavy with involuntary, hot, growing tears.
Those sharp, predatory jaws; those gallant and agile edges he knew so well, they belonged to no other than the beast himself.
Miguel.