Scarlet would have been a dead man immediately, but Miguel had to tame himself. He had to suppress the primal demons clawing at his insides, those dark entities that screamed for blood and total erasure.
'No Miguel, don't screw this up', he scolded himself inwardly. His gaze didn't just look at Scarlet; it bored into him, staring deeper into the man's soul with a predatory calculation. Scarlet was the key, the jagged, rusted piece required for a successful plan.
The reason Miguel had dismissed Navarro, the reason he had demanded this absolute privacy, was simple: he didn't want any silent judgment.
He didn't want a witness who might misinterpret his restraint for hesitation, or start getting wired up thinking he was growing weak. In Miguel's world, mercy was a myth, but patience was a weapon.
On the long drive back from Storm's villa, the silence of the car had allowed the pieces to settle.
