Victor #2
My grip tightens around my crystal tumbler, ice long melted in forgotten scotch. Two and a half years I've watched, waited, planned. I trace the rose tattoo on my hand as I track her movement toward the house.
I wait until patio doors swing shut behind her, then follow, footsteps silent against marble floors. Years fighting to build my empire from nothing have taught me how to move undetected when necessary.
The guest room door sits slightly ajar—the one with the en-suite bathroom where she always changes.
Music from the party pulses distantly, matching blood hammering in my veins.
I hear water running in the bathroom, soft rustling of fabric.
Patience has carried me from street thug to kingpin. It won't fail me now.
I slip into the bedroom, a shadow among shadows. Her tote bag sits on the bed, sundress draped beside it. On the floor, partially hidden under the bed's edge, lies a scrap of white lace—her panties, fallen from her bundle of clothes in her rush to change. Not luck. An offering.
I retrieve them, fabric still warm from her body. The bathroom door remains closed, shower running—she's washing off summer heat before putting on her swimsuit. I pocket my prize and retreat, leaving no trace of my presence.
Back in my study, door locked behind me, lamp throws harsh light against dark wood as I sink into my leather chair.
I remove the lace from my pocket, fingers steady now.
They're exactly as I knew they would be—delicate, expensive despite her modest background.
A glimpse of the woman beneath the shy exterior.
I press them to my face, inhaling deeply. Her scent floods my senses—warm, feminine, intoxicating. My free hand moves to my belt, freeing my already hard cock with urgency that borders on pain.
The lace grazes my length, its softness a stark contrast to my hardness. I wrap it around myself, stroking slowly at first, then faster as need takes over. In my mind, it's her—Kyra beneath me, those green eyes wide with shock and desire as I claim what's mine.
"Kyra," I growl, her name a dark promise in the empty room. The pressure builds until release hits, violent and consuming, my seed spilling over delicate fabric in hot pulses, marking her in the most primitive way.
Afterward, I fold the ruined lace and lock it in my desk drawer. No remorse, no guilt—only satisfaction and certainty. Christmas is coming, when all my planning comes to fruition. When she learns who she truly belongs to.
The countdown has begun.
***
One Week Ago
The call to Aaron isn't a request—it's a summons delivered in the tone that once made federal judges reconsider their rulings and rival crime bosses sleep with one eye open. "My study. Ten minutes. Come alone."
I hang up before he can respond, then pour three fingers of Macallan while reviewing final pieces of my three-year campaign. I trace the rose tattoo on my right hand, feeling raised lines that remind me of the prize I'm finally ready to claim.
Everything is in place. Kyra's academic funding has dried up.
Her research supervisor has been offered a position across the country that he can't refuse.
Her apartment building is being sold, forcing her to find new housing in an impossible market.
Every support structure in her life has been compromised, leaving her vulnerable and desperate.
All except for one.
Aaron slouches in after exactly ten minutes, dropping into the leather chair across from my desk like the entitled child he's always been.
Twenty-five now, but no more mature than he was at fifteen.
He wears the same Brunello Cucinelli jacket I bought him last Christmas and the limited edition Ferragamos he begged for on his birthday, all funded by money he's too naive to realize comes from very dark places.
"Dad, what's this about? I'm supposed to meet Kyra at—"
"Kyra's done with you, Aaron." The words cut like a blade. "Your little romance ends tonight."
His face shifts from confusion to defiance, that familiar stubborn set to his jaw that reminds me of his mother—another weak link I had to cut from my life. "What the hell? You can't just decide that. She loves me."
"She loves the idea of stability. The fantasy of a future with someone who can provide for her." I lean back, fingers steepled, studying him like a problem to be solved. "But you and I both know you're not capable of giving her what she really needs."
"That's not true. We're happy—"
"Are you?" I pull out the manila folder I've been preparing for months—photographs from my surveillance team spilling across mahogany surface.
Images of Aaron stumbling out of bars while Kyra studies alone.
Pictures of him with his arm around other girls at parties she wasn't invited to.
Evidence of every lie, every betrayal, every moment he's failed her.
His face goes white as he recognizes the images. "You had me followed?"
"I had you documented." I select one particular photo—Aaron with his tongue down some sorority girl's throat at a fraternity mixer last weekend. "Care to explain this to Kyra? I'm sure she'd find it fascinating."
"That didn't mean anything. It was just—"
"Just you proving that you're exactly the worthless piece of shit I raised you to be?
" My voice drops to a whisper, the same tone I used when explaining to business rivals why they should reconsider their life choices—permanently.
"You're weak, Aaron. Weak and selfish and completely unworthy of a woman like her. "
He's shaking now, hands trembling as he stares at evidence of his failures spread before him. "What do you want?"
"I want you to break up with her. Tonight. Cleanly. Tell her you're not ready for commitment, that you need space, that she deserves better." I lean forward, letting him see cold calculation in my eyes—the same look that's been the last thing several people have seen. "Make it convincing."
"And if I don't?"
I reach into my desk drawer and pull out my favorite letter opener—the same one I used to open a man's throat for touching what belonged to me fifteen years ago. The blade gleams in lamplight as I clean my fingernails with its point, each scrape deliberate and meaningful.
"You know what I used to do before I became respectable, don't you, son?
" I roll up my left sleeve, revealing the full scope of my ink—religious imagery mixed with death symbols, each tattoo a milestone in my journey from soldier to general in Colorado's underworld.
"The bodies I buried. The families I destroyed.
The men who thought blood relations would protect them from my disappointment. "
His eyes track the movement of the blade, terror replacing defiance. "You wouldn't... I'm your son."
"Biology doesn't grant immunity." I set the blade down with deliberate care, the soft click echoing like a gunshot. "Your trust fund? Gone. Your college? I'll make sure you're expelled for academic dishonesty—easy enough to arrange when you've been buying papers for two years."
Color drains completely from his face. "You know about that?"
"I know everything about you, Aaron. Every weakness, every crime, every moment of cowardice." I stand slowly, moving around the desk with predatory grace. "But that's just the beginning."
I move closer, towering over him, the letter opener back in my hand.
"You'll break up with her. Tonight. You'll tell her you're done, that you're too weak for her, that you can't handle her brilliance.
Make it convincing, or I'll make your life a nightmare.
" I step closer, the blade's tip grazing the desk's edge, a soft scrape that echoes in the quiet.
"Your friends? They'll scatter when I'm done.
And if you dare drag Kyra into your pathetic rebellion.
.." I pause, letting the threat hang, voice a low snarl.
"I'll make sure she suffers too. A car accident.
A disappearance. You know I can make it happen. "
Aaron's face is ghost-white, breathing shallow. He knows. He's heard whispers of my past—broken bones, men who crossed me and vanished. The letter opener clatters back to the desk, the sound a final warning.
"I have eyes everywhere, Aaron. Men who owe me. Men who'd do anything for a nod. You think you can hide from me? Run with her? I'll find you. I'll find her. And when I do, I'll fuck her on the ruins of your life."
He's trembling now, eyes wide, glistening with unshed tears. "You're a monster," he whispers, but there's no fight left in him.
"I'm your father," I say, voice a cold, unyielding command. "And you'll do as I say. Break her heart. Save her from you. From us." I lean back, a slow, predatory smile spreading across my face. "Do it, or I'll carve her name into your very soul."
He nods, a jerky, defeated motion, hands shaking as he grips the chair. "I'll... I'll do it."
"You're insane. She'll see right through it."
"Will she?" I return to my desk, pulling out another file—psychological profiles of Kyra compiled by my surveillance team.
"She's been questioning your relationship for months.
Wondering if she's settling. Doubting whether you really love her or just enjoy having arm candy that makes you look serious. "
I read directly from the report: "Subject observed crying after phone arguments with L. Strickland on six separate occasions. Friends report she frequently expresses frustration with subject's immaturity and lack of future planning."
"You're sick." But his voice lacks conviction.
"I'm thorough." I close the file with a soft snap.
"Kyra Sinclair is brilliant, driven, and destined for greatness.
She's wasting her prime years on a boy who cancels dates to get drunk with his fraternity brothers.
Who flirts with other women when he thinks she's not looking. Who treats her ambitions like hobbies."