Barcelona, Spain.
The deep bass of reggaetón pulsed through the hazy, neon-drenched interior of La Sombra Roja, one of the city infamous late-night dens. Velvet-lined booths disappeared into shadows. Bottles of overpriced whiskeys sparkled under the crimson lights. On the stage, dancers slithered around chrome poles, all hips and half-lidded gazes, the air thick with sweat and lust.
In the darkest corner of the club, lounging like a king amid lesser men, sat Emilio Navarro "El Patrón"—of the great Navarro dynasty.
A dark suit clung to his broad frame, the jacket abandoned on the booth seat beside him, leaving him in a black shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. His tan skin gleamed under low lights, the sharp angles of his face relaxed into a smirk of cruel amusement. Ebony-black hair with countable silver strands brushed back neatly, a salt-and-peppered beard outlining the smirk that rarely reached his cold eyes—eyes that weighed men like gold in a scale.
Perched on his lap, a brunette with tanned skin in a lingerie giggling against his throat, trailing manicured nails down his chest.
She whispered few words into his ear. He grunted approval, finished his drink in one swallow, and allowed himself to be led—up a private staircase to one the velvet rooms reserved for the club's best customers.
The door clicked shut behind them.
The girl pushed him onto the plush bed, straddling him with practiced grace. His hands went rough on her waist, eyes half-lidded, a growl of appreciation rumbling from his throat. He smooched her lips violently; his hands running up to her chest, and sneaking through her bralette, there, he found her breasts that stood firm like whinstone. He first caressed them softly, when he saw the pleasure on her face, he began squeezing harder, pinching her nipples as she moaned out loudly. Her moans were pleasing to his ears, which made him stroke harder.
She leaned down, and began unzipping his pant when—
Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrzzzzzzz.
The vibration of his burner phone rattled on the nearby nightstand. Not once, not twice, but three times.
Emilio's hand shot up like a cobra.
He hurriedly grabbed the phone without looking at the screen, but his body went still. Only a few had this number. Only a few would dare to call at this hour.
He shoved the girl off his lap roughly, ignoring her gasp of protest. Standing, he turned his back to her, already pressing the phone to his ear.
"what now?" his voice was a blade, low and dangerous.
"El Patrón…" the man on the other end sounded breathless, almost jubilant.
"we have him—Raúl. He tried to run to the port. Bastard didn't make it far."
There was a beat of silence. Then: "we are at the old junkyard—the one opposite the parish."
Emilio exhaled slowly, his anger a calm, cold tide. He tucked his shirts back into his slacks, fastened his cuffs with brutal precision.
"I'm on my way."
He hung up. The girl, confused and pouting, slid off the bed.
"¿Que pasa?" she asked, attempting to approach.
Emilio reached out to his wallet, picked out few bills and threw them on the bed, without a glance back and walked out leaving a scent of expensive cologne and unfinished violence hanging in the room
>>>> <<<<
The junkyard was a domicile of rusted cars and twisted metal, the moonlight casting long, skeletal shadows across the broken earth. Rats scattered as headlights sliced through the darkness—a black Mercedes Benz pulling up a cloud of dust.
Emilio stepped out, flanked by two of his guards. His face was blank now, no trace of pleasure or rage—just a terrible, heavy calm.
A bonfire blazed in a barrel nearby throwing the scene into stark relief. There, wrists cuffed and chained up to two strong and tall iron poles, was Raúl—Emilio's former runner. His face was already a mess: lip spilt, one eye swollen shut, blood trailing from his temple. His shirt was torn, his body sagging against the restraints.
At the sight of Emilio, Raúl whimpered. "patrón…please…" his words came out broken, desperate.
Emilio said nothing. He approached with slow, deliberate steps.
One of his men, Ramiro—the one who had called Emilio—handed him a leather glove and a crowbar.
"he's been lying to us for months, patrón. Selling bricks on the side. Skimming the profits. He even tried to set up his own route to Madrid." Ramiro informed.
Emilio slipped on the glove with a chilling nonchalance, weighing the crowbar in his hand.
"who else is with you" he asked softly, neck tilting to reach him.
Raul shook his head frantically.
"no…no…no one. I swear."
Emilio shook his head slightly—like a teacher disappointed in a failing student.
He picked up his chin with a hand, as though he was scanning the injuries inflicted on him, then he dropped his face and stood upright again, re-adjusting his glove.
He turned back to him.
The first blow cracked two ribs. Raúl screamed, a high, thin sound swallowed by empty lot.
The second blow broke his right knee, sending him crumpling in agony against the pole.
The third, a vicious smash to the right hand, left it dangling uselessly.
Ramiro and another guard held Raul up whenever he sagged too low, forcing him to stay awake, to feel every second.
Through it all, Emilio stayed silent. Only when Raul was barely conscious, gasping for air, did he crouch down beside him and pulled him by the hair.
"you stole from me, Raúl." His voice was almost gentle. "That is stealing from my family. Stealing from my blood. Do you know what happens to traitors?—One who messes with a Navarro?"
Raúl tried to sob an answer but could only choke.
Emilio stood up straight again, crowbar dripping blood. He was going to hit him one more time when—
"patrón," Ramiro suddenly called. Emilio gnashed his teeth.
"what?" he groaned, turning back furiously and shooting daggers towards Ramiro.
"Don texted, he says Aria returned to the Villa earlier this evening" Ramiro added, bowing his head— a way of avoiding his master's ruthless gaze. The words struck Emilio like a bullet. He froze, the bloodstained crowbar dropping from his hands.
"What! How? When?"
"This evening patron…"
"Shut up!!"
There was a sudden silence. Everyone was mute, even the sounds from crickets that once filled the air suddenly died off. His men passed glances among themselves, all palpitating, clueless of what he might do next.
He inhaled deeply, trying his best not to lose his cool.
"what happened to Paris?" she is not supposed to be in the Villa—she is not supposed to be in Puerto Oscuro. It's too dangerous…what is wrong with that child!!" he tried not to, but he lost his cool. A furious curse ripped from his lips. He spun away from the bleeding traitor, a hand running through his hair, ruining its slicks.
His men remained silent, still exchanging glances among themselves, no one dared to say a word—but Ramiro.
"Don says she informed no one, she arrived through a commercial flight. No private escort. It was when she landed, she called for an escort." Ramiro added.
Emilio let out a loud groan, scampering around in panic. She can't be in Puerto Oscuro! No way!
A month ago, they had attacked her, those sons of bitches—the Corazon brothers. He knew they orchestrated the attack, but he couldn't attack yet, not when his daughter was still in the city. She was his weakness, they knew—everyone knew. So, he had sent her to Paris—to keep her safe. She was not supposed to be back until his issue with the Corazon brothers was resolved. But it had only been two weeks, and she returned.
That child!
"But patron, she has school to attend, perhaps that was the main reason she returned" Ramiro interrupted his thoughts—again—head still bowed, hoping he didn't get punched, worst still, fired.
Emilio paused. Heaved. He walked hurriedly towards Ramiro, with an instant urge to flip him over. Ramiro breath fastened as Emilio approached him. But Emilio halted just when he stood close to him, he didn't say anything wrong after all, it was his daughter—his rebellious daughter—who never listened to him.
Oh Aria!
He heaved again, taking few steps back, and turned away from Ramiro who sighed, relieved.
Emilio now stood, totally thrown out of composure.
He ran his fingers into his hair.
"Wait!" he turned suddenly to Ramiro again.
The boy—the new guy who is to replace Raul. When does he land Puerto Oscuro?"
Ramiro rolled his eyes.
" I don't know patrón…"
"Call Jairo, confirm if he is around,"
"If he is, change of plans." "Tell Jairo he is not running product anymore. I want him on Aria. Day and night. If she breathes wrong, I want him to know.
Ramiro lifted an eyebrow. "You trust him with her?"
Emilio's jaw tensed.
"I don't trust anyone!"
No He glanced back at Raúl, who was already drenched in his own blood.
"But sometimes you don't have the luxury of choosing saints." His gaze shifted back to Ramiro.
A gust of night wind blew through the junkyard, rattling the towers of crushed cars. In the distance, a dog howled.
Emilio smelled wet dust, he looked up and the clouds rumbled; it was going to rain.
He picked up a knife from the ground and approached Raùl with calm, measured steps. Without another word, he drove the blade deep into Raúl's throat, ignoring the agonized screams that echoed into the night sky. Seconds past, and the scream diminished; Emilio watched him die, slowly. He pulled out the bloody knife from his throat and dropped it by the side, and turned away.
"Clean up here." He said over his shoulders, pulling out the glove from his hand. His men swung into action, only Ramiro stayed.
"Four more days. Set up those deals as fast as you can. We live for Puerto Oscuro in four days" Emilio faced Ramiro, his voice calm.
Ramiro nodded.
Emilio walked towards his vehicle, signaling his guards. One quickly rushed to open the door, ushering him into the back seat before joining the other at the front who already sat, ready to start the vehicle.
"Let's go!" he ordered.
At once the engine revved to life, headlights came on, in a spilt second, they zoomed off into the darkness of the night.