-FORESHADOW-

"Huh?!"

"You crazy motherfucker!"

__________

-Present Day-

Johan pov:

The scent of blood had a certain weight to it—
Metallic, primal, and oddly comforting.

I pressed the muzzle of my gun deeper into his mouth. His lips trembled around cold steel, his eyes bulging with panic. Sweat mixed with crimson as it dripped from the gash above his brow. His hands were bound, trembling, twitching from the pain of shattered fingers.

“I’ll give you ten seconds,” I said flatly, the barrel grinding against his teeth. “If you don’t talk, I’ll put a bullet through the back of your skull and mail what’s left of your face to your family.”

His body jerked against the chair, muscles twitching from shock, fear, and blood loss.

“Ten…”

Silence.

“Nine…”

A muffled sob.

“Eight…”

“I—I don’t know anyone else! I swear! Please!” he cried, barely understandable with my gun still lodged in his mouth.

I smiled without warmth.

“Wrong answer.”

I pulled the gun back just an inch—then slammed it into his temple. He howled as his head snapped sideways, the chair legs scraping across the concrete floor.

“You think I’m new to this?” I whispered in his ear. “You think I built all this by showing mercy to rats like you?”

He was whimpering now. Pathetic. Weak.

I stood up straight, adjusting the cuffs of my black shirt, now stained with flecks of blood. The warehouse was silent, save for the dripping of water and the sound of his shallow, panicked breaths.

I am Johan Armani.
I didn’t inherit power. I carved it out with bullets and broken bones.

My empire wasn’t built on business.
It was built on fear.
And fear doesn’t make deals. It makes examples.

Illegal arms shipments. Narcotics moving through international waters. A network so tight it breathed with precision. My operations had run flawlessly—until now.

Until someone got too bold.
Too clever.
A rat, burrowed deep, leaking information that wasn’t his to give.

But rats are easy to find. They always get too confident right before they die.

And this one?

He thought I wouldn’t notice.
He thought he could steal from me.
Play with me.

He was wrong.
Dead wrong.

I turned to Tiger, the man who handled the dirtiest work without blinking. He leaned against the wall like a predator in wait, his arms folded across his massive chest, face carved from stone.

“Cut off his fingers,” I ordered, voice ice-cold. “One by one. Let’s see how long it takes before he remembers something useful.”

Tiger gave a single nod, calm and mechanical, as he dragged a steel table closer. A pair of bolt cutters clanged down onto the surface like the tolling of a death bell.

The man began to scream before the blade even touched him.

I lit a cigarette and stepped outside the room, the raw cries trailing behind me like a ghost.

This wasn’t just punishment.
It was a message.

No one betrays Johan Armani and lives to tell the story.

__________

The warehouse door slammed shut behind me, sealing the screams inside like the closing of a vault. I stepped into the cold morning light, the sharp sting of cigarette smoke curling past my lips. It was quiet out here—just the distant hum of the city waking up.

But peace is an illusion. Especially in my world.

By the time I reached the armored black SUV, Tiger was already walking beside me—blood on his gloves, not a hint of remorse in his eyes. That’s why I trusted him. He did what needed to be done, no hesitation, no questions.

“Arthit’s waiting in your office,” he said, opening the door for me. “He’s got the package.”

Package meant intel. And when Arthit had something, it was never small.

The office was on the top floor of a tower we didn’t officially own—but no one dared ask questions. Floor-to-ceiling windows gave a panoramic view of the city below, like a kingdom seen from the throne of a warlord.

Arthit stood by the wall, arms crossed, eyes sharp behind thin glasses. Clean-shaven, tailored suit, calm voice. He looked like an investment banker. Only difference—his balance sheets ended with body counts.

“Laid out everything on the tablet,” he said, offering the device without pleasantries. “We’re moving the product into Russia through the new Black Sea corridor. Same port in Varna. Different route inland.”

I took the tablet, eyes scanning fast.

Route charts. Payoffs. Local militia bribes. Manifests disguised as grain shipments. It was all tight, flawless—on paper.

“What about the Bratva?” I asked without looking up. “You said they were quiet.”

“They’re still quiet,” Arthit said. “Too quiet. Which makes me think they’re watching. Not interfering yet, but they know something’s moving.”

Tiger sat down in the corner, still cleaning blood from under his nails with a toothpick. “If they make a move, you want me to—?”

“No.” I raised a hand. “Not yet. Let them wonder. Let them think they’re in control. We strike only when we’re certain.”

Arthit nodded. “Also—someone new’s been asking around in Odessa. Freelancer. Could be FSB, could be independent. Name comes up as ‘Markov’. Could just be a rumor, but... something feels off.”

“Everyone wants a piece when the pie gets too big,” I muttered.

The Russians weren’t amateurs. If they were poking around Odessa, they weren’t just curious. They smelled opportunity—or blood.

I set the tablet down.

“Double security on the Varna port. I want a clean crew—no phones, no slip-ups. If even one name leaks, I’ll burn the entire dock to the ground. Understood?”

Arthit didn’t blink. “Already ahead of you. They’ve been vetted.”

I looked between the two of them.

“This shipment is different. It's not just about money anymore. If we get this through, we open the floodgates. New routes. New allies. New enemies.”

Tiger cracked his knuckles, smirking.

“Let 'em come.”

“No,” I said calmly. “Let me come.”

I crushed the cigarette into the ashtray, sparks scattering like embers.

They think they know what I’m capable of.

They have no idea.