♥ Chapter 3♥

Dominic Castellano.

6:50 PM – Casino – Castellano City

Friday

I put on my black shirt, buttoning it with a calmness that brutally contrasts with the chaos that just unfolded in the room. The lifeless body of the woman lies stretched out on the rumpled sheets, her eyes still frozen in terror. The other one is curled up at the edge of the bed, sobbing and trembling like a leaf in the wind.

I grab my tie, adjusting it around my collar with a quick, precise motion. Without breaking eye contact, I toss a bundle of cash onto the bed, letting the bills scatter around her.

"If your friend hadn’t screamed so much, she’d still be alive," I say, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade. There’s no remorse, no empathy in my tone—just cold, unwavering finality.

She sobs even louder, but I’ve already lost interest in her.

With the final adjustments to my attire complete, I walk to the door, leaving behind the muffled sound of her weeping. Outside, two of my personal guards stand watch, their expressions as impassive as ever.

We exchange no words. They know their job—to protect, not to ask questions.

I stride down the casino hallway, the sharp sound of my shoes echoing against the polished marble floors. The atmosphere is alive with the buzz of gambling, fake laughter, and the rhythmic clinking of chips.

My name is Kim Taehyung, but here, I’m known as Dominic Castellano. A name inherited from the former leader of the Castellano mafia. I’m forty years old and Asian—Korean, to be precise. Standing at seven feet and one inch, my presence is imposing, as if the very air around me recoils in my wake. I was born in South Korea to parents unworthy of the title. Drug addicts, they sold me to feed their own demons. Fortunately—or unfortunately—I was placed under the care of Marcos Castellano, the former mafia leader, from whom I inherited this empire.

The road to where I stand today was a constant battle. Every day was a fight for survival—kill or be killed. My companions were both my enemies and my allies, and the only goal was to remain standing. My body carries the marks of this life—scars that tell stories of betrayal and violence.

Ten years ago, I covered those scars with tattoos. A massive golden dragon sprawls across my back, a symbol of power and resilience. Skulls intertwine along my arms, a constant reminder of the death that has always surrounded me. On my chest, an eagle in full flight, wings spread wide as if ready to strike—a warning that I am always prepared for war.

I care about nothing but my empire. This country is mine—every street, every building, every soul breathing under my dominion. Castellano City is not just a name; it’s a legacy built with blood and iron. I have never fallen in love and never allowed myself to be weakened by something as useless as affection. Feelings are a liability, a distraction I cannot afford.

Five years ago, some fool in Italy tried to challenge my rule. The leader of the Italian mafia let himself be swayed by love for a weak woman. What a pathetic mistake. Kidnapping her was easy; what came next was simply a lesson. I kept her captive, breaking her piece by piece, until there was nothing left. When I finally killed her in front of him, he begged for mercy. None was given.

The war that followed was brutal but predictable. For three weeks, my empire and Italy burned. In the end, I was the one left standing. The Italian mafia now belongs to me—a trophy of my victory. There’s no room for mistakes in my world, and love is the greatest mistake of all.

I am pulled from my thoughts by a sudden outburst of shouting, slicing through the thick casino air like a blade. I turn slowly, my gaze landing on the source of the disturbance—a furious man, most likely a gambler who lost more than he could afford. He gestures wildly, poker chips scattered on the floor, his voice dripping with rage and desperation.

"I didn’t lose all that money! You’re cheating me! I want my money back!" His voice is raw, trembling with frustration and denial.

I move toward him, my presence alone silencing the surrounding murmurs. Every step I take is a silent promise that his chaos will not go unpunished.

"Is there a problem here?" My voice is calm but razor-sharp, carrying a clear warning—my patience is limited.

The man whips around to face me, his eyes dilated with fury. Without hesitation, he jabs a finger at my chest.

"You’re the owner of this damn place? I want my fucking money back, you son of a bitch!" he spits, venom laced in every word.

"Yes, I own this place," I reply with an ice-cold smile. "And you’re in far more trouble than you realize."

Before he can respond, my hand moves like lightning—a single, brutal slap cracking against his cheek like a thunderclap. The impact sends him crashing to the floor, blood already dripping from his nose. But I don’t grant him the luxury of recovery. I grab a fistful of his hair, yanking his head back so he’s forced to meet my gaze. His face is now a mask of fear and agony.

"You want your money back?" I ask, my tone void of mercy. "Very well."

Without waiting for an answer, I lift his body partially off the floor and slam his face against the poker table—again and again with ruthless precision. The dull thud of bone meeting wood fills the room, syncing with the frantic rhythm of my assault. The other players and employees watch, but no one dares to interfere.

Finally, I release him, his limp body collapsing onto the floor. His breath is ragged and uneven—but he’s still alive, much to my disappointment.

"I should thank you," I smirk, a cruel smile that never reaches my eyes. "Your organs will fetch a nice price on the black market."

Without urgency, I lift my foot and press it against his face, crushing what little dignity—or life—he has left. I sigh, glancing down at the blood now staining my polished shoes.

"You ruined my shoe," I mutter, slipping a cigarette from my coat pocket.

Sérgio, my loyal bodyguard, steps forward without a word, lighting it for me. I take a long drag, letting the smoke fill my lungs, soothing the lingering heat of violence in my blood.

"You know what to do, Sérgio," I say with a simple nod.

"Yes, sir," he replies, the practiced efficiency of someone who has done this far too many times before.

I lift my head, letting my eyes roam across the casino. Every gaze I meet is filled with fear and horror. The scene I just created is burned into their minds—the blood on the floor, a clear reminder of what happens to those who think they can challenge me.

I take a step forward, allowing my gaze to sweep over the crowd. The silence is so heavy I can almost hear them breathing, waiting, dreading what might come next. Then, slowly, I smile—a smile that sends a cold shiver down the spine of everyone around me.

"You may continue your game," I say calmly, my voice laced with a tranquility far more terrifying than any scream. "Just pretend I’m not here."

The tension in the air is palpable as those around me quickly avert their eyes, some trying to steady the trembling in their hands as they return to their gambling tables. The sound of chips moving and cards being dealt gradually resumes, but the fear lingers. They know what they witnessed tonight is a reminder of the absolute power I hold.

Sérgio is already handling the body, as efficient as ever. I take another drag from my cigarette, letting the smoke escape slowly, savoring the absolute control I have over this place.

As the atmosphere slowly returns to normal, Jack, another one of my trusted guards, approaches with the posture of a man who knows that every word must be carefully chosen.

"My lord, today is the Carter family’s payment due date, as well as Mr. Leandro Cooper’s," he informs me, his voice firm yet respectful.

A cold smile tugs at my lips. I put out my cigarette in the nearest ashtray, the ashes falling in slow, delicate movements. I turn to face him, my eyes narrowing, gleaming with cruel anticipation.

"Let’s go," I say, my voice heavy with dark satisfaction. "It’s been a while since I’ve collected the payments myself."

Jack nods briefly, fully understanding what that means. The very thought of me handling the collections personally must already have the Carters and Leandro Cooper shaking—even if they don’t yet know what’s coming.

I take another step forward, a wicked grin spreading across my face, feeling the anticipation of inflicting pain pulse within me, almost uncontrollable.

I can’t wait to hurt someone.

There’s something delicious about seeing the fear in people’s eyes, hearing their screams as they beg for mercy that will never come. And tonight, I already know—none of them will have the money to pay me.

Even if they did, I would still take pleasure in making them suffer.

The cruel satisfaction of knowing their fear will be real, that their screams will echo unanswered, sets my blood ablaze.

I love to kill. I feel no pity, no remorse, no empathy.

To me, killing is an art, an indescribable pleasure.

It doesn’t matter if it’s a man or a woman, young or old. Death—especially when delivered in the worst way possible—is a power that few can comprehend.

And I live for it.

Watching the life drain from someone, witnessing the terror in their eyes as their last hope crumbles—it’s a kind of absolute control that feeds me.

And tonight, I am starving.