The man extended his arms through the window. The guard, trembling despite all his mental preparation, fumbled with the cuffs. His hands shook as he locked them around the prisoner's wrists, scrambling to open the cell.
A deep, intimidating voice rumbled from the darkness. "Don't you need me to step back?"
The guard stammered. "Ah—yes, ste-step back, please."
The man obeyed, stepping back with deliberate calm. The guard unlocked the door, and the prisoner stepped out, clad in a grey jumpsuit marked with a number. The dull fabric reflected his aura, bleak and oppressive, as he walked down the passageway.
When they passed the general population, silence fell abruptly. Conversations died instantly and footsteps halted. The air was so tense it was as if the entire prison held its breath. Only when the metal doors slid shut behind him did voices return, hushed and fearful.
The man was escorted to the warden's office, the silence trailing him like a shadow.
The knock on the office door was sharp, echoing through the quiet. A voice answered from inside, "Come in."
The prison guard stepped in, his posture stiff. "Sir, the person is here."
The warden looked up from his desk, and when his eyes met Dagur's, he stood abruptly, excitement flashing across his face. "There's no need for those. Take them off quickly."
The guard hesitated, trembling as he fumbled for the key. His fingers shook as he unlocked the cuffs, his nerves betraying him. Dagur's sinister smirk made the guard's stomach twist. He hurriedly removed the restraints and rushed out, closing the door behind him as though fleeing from a predator.
The warden laughed, gesturing toward the chair. "Sit, sit. I thought you wanted to spend more time here. Turns out you want to leave early."
Dagur leaned back in the seat, saying nothing, only beckoning with a tilt of his hand. The warden scrambled to offer him a cigarette, lighting it with eager hands. He took a long drag, his body relaxing, smoke curling from his lips. From his posture alone, he looked more like the owner of the office than the warden himself.
The ragged X-shaped scar on the back of his hand caught the light as he pinched the cigarette, its ugly mark pronounced with every movement.
"I have urgent business to take care of," Dagur said, his voice low anddangerous. "What, you will miss me?"
"Of course," the warden replied quickly. "But it's not good to stay too long in a damned place like this."
Dagur hummed in agreement, smoke drifting lazily. Suddenly, a knock came at the door, and someone entered carrying a bag with Dagur's belongings.
"You can make use of my office," the warden said. "I will be waiting outside."
Dagur didn't respond and the warden left, closing the door. For a moment, he sat there silently smoking as though time itself bent to his will. His phone buzzed inside the bag.
Through the transparent plastic, he saw the notification. He pulled the phone from the plastic bag, his eyes narrowing at the message glowing on the screen: waiting outside.
He rose from the chair, his movements deliberate and cold. The prison clothes were discarded without hesitation, replaced by tailored pants and a crisp shirt. His aura shifted instantly. It was overbearing and commanding. He fastened his watch and slid rings onto his fingers.
When he stepped out of the office, the warden was waiting, smiling ingratiatingly. "I would say come any time, but there's nothing good about this place," he said, leading him toward the exit. Dagur didn't respond but the warden, desperate to curry favor, filled the air with nervous chatter. Who wouldn't want to be in Dagur Castel's good graces?
Outside, the night air was cool, the streetlights casting long shadows. By the car stood a woman in a tight black leather dress, a slit running down the center. Her short bob framed her face perfectly, sharp yet elegant. When she saw Dagur, her intimidating expression softened into a radiant smile, exuding a charm that only he could draw out.
Her name was Samphire. Ten years ago, Dagur had saved her, and since then, her loyalty had been unwavering. She had worked for him, lived for him, and now her eyes shone with relief.
"Finally, you decided to come home," she said warmly. Dagur opened the car door, his tone cool. "I heard grandmother is getting a little impatient. I thought I would pay her a visit."
Samphire slid in beside him, her excitement barely contained. As the driver pulled away, she studied him, her gaze lingering. His eyes closed, he felt her scrutiny. "What?" he asked flatly.
Samphire smiled, unashamed. "You look good."
He opened his eyes slowly, his gaze sharp and cutting straight into Samphire. It was a look that said without words: don't even think about it.
Samphire chuckled softly, her voice carrying a teasing lilt. "Why not give it a try? You don't like anyone anyway."
Dagur closed his eyes again, dismissing her with silence. But Samphire wasn't ashamed. She leaned closer, her tone shameless. "That's why you have a temper. You need to relax a little."
Her long, slender fingers, nails painted a dazzling red, reached across the seat toward his thigh. Before she could touch him, her wrist was caught in a vice-like grip. Pain shot through her arm, her eyes watering instantly. She knew better. Dagur Castel did not tolerate being touched without permission.
He released her wrist, and Samphire exhaled shakily, relief flooding her chest. She loved him, no, she adored him, but fear was always part of that love. He was not a man to be trifled with.
Who was Dagur Castel, really? He was the Enforcer of the Alliance, the one who sat atop a pyramid of the world's most violent men—Yakuza, cartels, mafias—all held in check by his iron grip. The Castel family had, for decades, commanded the most powerful position in the Alliance. It was this very position that had cost his father his life.
Without a successor, the Enforcer's seat would collapse, and the Alliance would descend into war. Out of all the Castel children, his grandfather had chosen Dagur as the next in line, bypassing his other sons.
It was a decision that had not sat well with everyone. His uncles seethed, and even his grandmother opposed it. Not only were his uncles viable candidates, but Dagur had not even been raised within the Castel family during his earliest years.
His mother, Reina, had lived a hard life. She was an escort, surviving one night at a time, until fate twisted her path. On one of her jobs, she stumbled upon Landen. He had been drugged by an aphrodisiac and just as he escape the clutches of that venomous woman, he stumbled into Reina's hands.