ASH

The office reeked of cigar smoke and desperation. Ash leaned back in his leather chair, his sharp gaze fixed on the quivering man across the desk. Mr. Pada, with his ill-fitted suit and sweaty brow, was a picture of nerves.

“You’re asking for a partnership,” Ash said, his voice smooth but carrying an edge of steel. “But what you’re really doing is begging for protection.”

Pada swallowed hard. “It’s mutually beneficial. My fleet expands your operations. You keep the Italians off my docks. A fair split—”

Ash silenced him with a raised hand, his expression impassive. “Sixty-forty in my favor. That’s not a negotiation. It’s a reality check.”

Before Pada could stammer out a reply, the muffled sound of commotion erupted outside the door. Ash’s hand instinctively drifted to the gun at his hip, but his men stationed nearby remained calm—no threat worth their concern, then.

The door slammed open, and two of Pada’s guards dragged in a young man, barely out of his teens, struggling against their grip. His black dress shirt hung loose, his tie askew, but his green eyes blazed with fury.

Pada’s lips curled in irritation. “Gabriel,” he spat. “Do you have any idea what you’ve interrupted?”

The boy—Gabriel—ripped his arm free from one of the guards and glared at his father with unfiltered contempt. “You’re really doing this? Selling me and everything else you touch to him?”

Ash arched an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. “Him?” he echoed, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Gabriel’s head snapped toward him, his fury now directed entirely at Ash. “You. You think I don’t know who you are? Ash Santori. The great and terrible mafia king. My father’s latest obsession. You’re nothing but a—”

“Enough,” Pada barked, cutting him off. His face flushed with embarrassment as he turned back to Ash. “My son has a habit of dramatics. This won’t happen again.”

But Ash wasn’t looking at Pada anymore. His attention was locked on Gabriel, whose chest rose and fell with the force of his anger. Beneath the defiance, Ash saw something else—a flash of fear? Or something deeper, more dangerous?

Ash leaned forward, steepling his fingers. “Leave him.”

Pada hesitated. “I don’t think—”

“I wasn’t asking.” Ash’s voice dropped, and the room seemed to shrink around his words.

The guards released Gabriel, who straightened with an almost imperceptible shiver. His gaze darted to the door, then back to Ash.

“You want to play with fire, boy?” Ash said, his tone deceptively light. “Careful you don’t get burned.”

For a moment, Gabriel held his ground. Then, with a derisive snort, he turned and stormed out.

The door clicked shut behind him, and Ash turned his attention back to Pada, his expression neutral. “Fifteen percent.”

“What?”

“Your cut,” Ash clarified, his voice as sharp as a blade. “Fifteen percent. And consider it charity.”