Victor stood on the first tee of his private golf course, squinting against the morning sun. He gripped his driver, the weight familiar in his hands. The fairway stretched out before him, a lush green carpet inviting him to forget the stresses of his criminal empire, if only for a few hours. "Alright, you little white bastard," he muttered to the golf ball, "let's see if you cooperate today." He took a practice swing, his muscles remembering the motion. Victor had always found golf to be a peculiar sport for a man in his line of work. There was something almost comical about a feared crime boss fussing over a tiny white ball. He lined up his shot, took a deep breath, and swung. The satisfying crack of the club meeting the ball echoed across the course. Victor watched the ball soar through the air, arcing gracefully and then veering sharply to the left, disappearing into a cluster of trees. "Son of a," he bit off the curse, reminding himself that this was supposed to be relaxing. H
The convoy of black SUVs rolled through the city streets like a funeral procession, if funeral processions were led by pissed-off crime bosses with a vengeance on their minds. Victor sat in the back of the lead vehicle, his fingers drumming an impatient rhythm on his knee. They pulled up to Marco's office building, a gleaming glass and steel monstrosity. Victor scoffed. "Looks like our boy's been living large on our dime." The moment Victor's polished shoes hit the pavement, he was all business. He straightened his tie and marched towards the entrance, flanked by Tony and six of his most trusted men. They looked like a pack of well-dressed wolves closing in on their prey. But their path was suddenly blocked by a burly security guard with a face like a bulldog chewing a wasp. "Hold it right there," he growled, holding up a meaty palm. "I know who you are, and you're not welcome here." Victor raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk. "Not welcome? I th
Victor grabbed a smaller piece off a nearby pedestal - some twisted metal thing that was supposed to represent... well, who knew what - and swung it like a baseball bat. It connected with the guard's head with a dull thunk, and the man crumpled to the floor. The larger guard was back on his feet and looked murderous. He pulled out a knife, its blade glinting in the overhead lights. "Really?" Victor scoffed. "A knife to a... whatever this is fight?" He waggled the metal sculpture. "That hardly seems fair." The guard lunged, slashing wildly. Victor danced back, his movements fluid and practiced. He'd been in enough fights to know that anger made people sloppy. Sure enough, the guard overextended on his next swing. Victor seized the opportunity, grabbing the man's wrist and twisting hard. The knife fell from nerveless fingers. Victor followed up with a swift knee to the solar plexus, driving the air from the guard's lungs. As the man doubled over, gasping, Vict
Jackson pulled into the parking lot, still feeling the afterglow of his encounter with Gabriella. As he stepped out of the car, he winced, his body reminding him of their vigorous activities. "Note to self: stretching is important," he muttered, rubbing his lower back. He went to the elevator, grateful for the privacy, as he tried to smooth out his rumpled clothes and tame his hair. The last thing he needed was to run into one of his nosy neighbors, looking like he'd been dragged through a hedge backward. As the elevator doors opened on his floor, Jackson fished his keys out of his pocket, fumbling with them as he approached his door. He paused, listening for any signs of unexpected visitors or mysterious voices in his head. Hearing nothing but blessed silence, he let out a relieved sigh and stepped inside. The cool air of his penthouse hit him like a refreshing wave, and Jackson kicked off his shoes, not bothering to line them up neatly. He shuffled towards the kitchen, his legs
Jackson reached for his phone again, scrolling through his contacts until he found Gabriella's number. His thumb hovered over it for a moment, hesitation battling curiosity. "Fuck it," he decided, hitting the call button before he could talk himself out of it. The phone rang once, twice. On the third ring, Gabriella's sultry voice purred through the speaker. "Missing me already, handsome?" "You know, most people start with 'hello.'" "Most people are boring," she countered. "But I'm guessing you didn't call just to critique my phone etiquette. What's on your mind?" "Actually, I called to ask you something," he said, trying to keep his tone casual. "You wouldn't happen to know a guy named William, would you?" There was a pause on the other end of the line, just long enough to kick Jackson's heart rate up a notch. "William?" she repeated, her voice suddenly neutral. "That's a pretty common name. You'll have to be more specific." "He's a pub owner. Tall guy, kinda looks like he co
Jackson leaned against the polished mahogany bar, nursing a whiskey on the rocks. The ice clinked against the glass as he sipped, savoring the smoky flavor. Isabella sat across from him, her legs crossed elegantly as she sipped a brightly colored cocktail. "So," Jackson drawled, "where's your boyfriend? What was his name again? Mike? Mitch?" "Mark. And he's on his way." "Ah, right. Mark." He nodded sagely as if he'd known all along. "The elusive Mark. You know, I'm starting to think he might be imaginary." "Please. As if I'd need to make up a boyfriend." "I don't know," he teased. "Maybe you're just trying to make me jealous." "Oh, you wish." she flicked a cocktail napkin at him. "Trust me, Mark is very real. And very late, apparently." He glanced at his watch. "How long have you been waiting?" "Only about twenty minutes," she sighed. "He texted saying he got held up at work." "Ah, the old 'held up at work' excuse," he said, waggling his eyebrows. "Classic." Isabella smacked
Jackson took another sip of whiskey, savoring the burn. Sometimes, in the quiet moments between Quantum Quill's ridiculous tasks, he wondered if he was dreaming. Maybe he was stuck in some bizarre video game, or there was a glitch in the matrix. Any moment now, he half-expected to wake up in his old life, nine years in the past. The thought made him pause. What if he did wake up? Jackson's mind wandered, imagining the scenario playing out differently. What if he hadn't left the apartment that fateful day? What if he'd walked in on Veronica and that bastard, caught in the act? He pictured himself bursting through the bedroom door, rage coursing through his veins. There was a look of shock on Veronica's face, her legs still wrapped around the stranger's waist. The bastard's smug grin faded as Jackson's fist connected with his jaw. God, it would've felt good to knock that asshole's teeth out. Maybe grab that tacky baseball bat Veronica insisted on keeping by the bed - "for protection,
Jackson struggled to adjust his tie, the smooth fabric eluding his grasp like a defiant serpent. He glanced at his reflection, wincing at the crooked knot that resembled a half-strangled pretzel. Mornings were never his strong suit. At twenty-eight years old, he still struggled with the simple task."Babe, you haven't said anything about the money I asked for." Veronica's voice floated from the bed, a mix of honey and vinegar.He froze, tie dangling forgotten. "Money?" The word tumbled out of his mouth like a stray pebble."For the cocktail dress? Remember? Mia's birthday party?"His brain scrambled to catch up. Right. The party. The dress. The money. He'd hoped she'd forgotten about that particular request."Ah, yeah. About that..." He turned, meeting Veronica's expectant gaze. She lounged on the bed, still in her pajamas, looking like a cat waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting mouse. He was definitely the mouse in this scenario."Well?" She arched an eyebrow, a move that could make