He was vulnerable, desperate and unaware of the world around him. Landen was handsome, striking even, and Reina, opportunistic yet tender in her own way, saw a chance she couldn't pass up. She slept with him under the guise of helping someone in need. By morning, she was gone, vanishing into the night without a trace.
When she discovered she was pregnant, Reina wasn't surprised. She was happy. This was her child, her little prince. She finally had her own family. She raised Dagur alone, never bothering to look for the man from that night. Reina wasn't perfect, but she treasured Dagur fiercely. He was her reason to keep going.
But everything changed one night in their cramped three-bedroom apartment downtown, shared with three other women. Intruders broke in, hunting Dagur. Landen never knew he had a son, but the men who had drugged him that night knew and after shooting Landen, they came for Dagur.
Gunfire erupted. Reina shoved Dagur into a closet, whispering urgently, "Don't come out, no matter what." Dagur hugged his knees, tears streaming, as gut-wrenching screams filled the air. Flashes of bullets lit the night, each sound carving terror deeper into his heart.
Then he heard his mother's voice, strained and desperate, as the intruders beat her, demanding, "Where is the child?"
Dagur couldn't stay hidden anymore. His small body trembled, but his will hardened. Crawling out of the closet, he searched under the bed. Reina always kept two handguns given her profession. One was in her purse and another locked in the safe.
Dagur crawled under the bed, his small body trembling in fear. His breath came in short, panicked bursts as he reached for the hidden safe. His fingers fumbled with the lock, but desperation steadied him.
When it clicked open, he pulled out the heavy gun, its cold weight foreign in his tiny hands. He was terrified, but his mother's screams from the other room made him more determined.
He rushed into the dark corridor, the shadows swallowing him whole. At the end of the hall, a figure loomed over his mother. Dagur raised the gun, his heart pounding, and pulled the trigger. The shot rang out, striking the man in the back. Another shot followed, tearing into his abdomen.
The intruder groaned, staggered, then returned fire. The bullet ripped into Dagur's shoulder, pain exploding through his body. He cried out but refused to drop the gun. Through the agony, he pulled the trigger again, his determination burning brighter than his fear.
The intruder cursed, stumbling back before leaping through the window. Dagur chased him, emptying the clip at the fleeing shadow, adrenaline coursing through his veins. He kept pressing the trigger even after the gun clicked empty, his rage and terror consuming him.
Only when he heard his mother's weak voice did he stop. Dagur turned, tears streaming down his face. She lay in a pool of blood, her body growing cold. He tried to stop the bleeding, but the wounds were too many. Her blood-stained hand reached up, pressing against his cheek. "My precious baby… mummy loves you."
Dagur sobbed. "I will call the police." He reached for her phone, but she grabbed his hand, whispering, "No… it's not safe." Those were her last words. His mother was gone and so where the aunties who lived with them.
Dagur stayed, hugging her lifeless body. The six-year-old eventually fell asleep in her arms. When he woke, an old man was scrutinizing him. It was Mazen Caste, his grandfather.
"I am your grandfather," Mazen said coldly. "Come. It's time you meet your father."
Mazen turned to leave, his footsteps heavy against the cold floor. But behind him, the boy who had just climbed off the bed stumbled and fell. Mazen stopped, turned back, and without hesitation scooped him up. Dagur's small body trembled in his grandfather's arms as they walked down the corridor.
They entered another room, where Dagur's father, Landen, lay stretched across a hospital bed. His body was riddled with bullet holes, bandages covering wounds that would never heal. Machines hummed and beeped, keeping him alive, though his mind was gone. He was brain-dead, a shell of a man.
Mazen's voice was cold and unyielding. "You are my future heir. If you are not ruthless enough, you will end up like him."
Dagur's heart sank. He had always imagined the day he would meet his father. Perhaps he would embrace him warmly. Perhaps he would express his regret for not finding him sooner.
But not like this. Not a lifeless body sustained by machines.
Mazen beckoned the doctor over. Without hesitation, without a flicker of emotion, he ordered the plug pulled. Dagur's eyes widened, his lips trembling. He wanted to beg his grandfather to stop, but Mazen's hand on his uninjured shoulder silenced him.
Dagur had already lost his mother. Now, before his eyes, he was about to lose his father too.
"This is the only day you are allowed to cry," Mazen said, his gaze piercing.
After the funeral, Dagur's life changed forever. He was no longer his mother's little prince. He was subjected to the harshest training. Mazen's discipline was relentless, as though he feared Dagur would share his father's fate.
He was harsh, but he protected him until the day he died. When Mazen passed, Dagur was only fifteen. A minor by law. The underworld smelled blood in the water. Syndicate heads, from Triad Masters to Sicilian Capos, moved to carve out empires, believing the heir was weak.
They started a war and his family instead of supporting him, took a step back hiding in the shadows waiting for him to fail and they could take over legitimately. But they were wrong.
Dagur didn't call a sit-down; he called a cull. In a single, systematic month of horror, the streets bled red under his command. The underworld still whispers about it as the Blood Moon. Dagur didn't just kill his rivals, he erased their legacies, dismantling their networks, burning their empires to ash. When the smoke cleared, the so-called "weak heir" was gone. In his place stood the Beast of Castel, a name spoken with reverence and fear.
Even with his power established, his grandmother and uncles never missed an opportunity to topple him. Just like now. They pinned a murder charge on him, ensuring he ended up in jail. The purpose wasn't trial or sentencing, it was execution. They wanted him dead behind bars.
Dagur knew their plan. He let it play out, curious to see how far they would go. While he was gone, his grandmother and uncle Preston moved quickly, exploiting his absence.
They tried to appointment Preston as the temporary head of the family. But she had miscalculated. She not only underestimated his power and influence but she didn't know without the family token, Preston's authority was hollow.
Thus he decided to make his grand entrance at their ceremony. He could already imagine the look on that old woman's face, sour and twisted, like she had swallowed poison. The thought made his lips curl involuntarily.
Samphire, seated beside him, noticed. Her heart trembled, not because the smile was charming, it was, but because she knew what it meant. Whenever Dagur smiled like that, blood was about to be shed.
She pressed her lips together, whispering a silent prayer for whoever was about to face his wrath.