Author’s POV
A dimly illuminated warehouse in the outskirts of London. The air is saturated with the metallic odour of blood, and the muted sound of dripping echoes against the cold concrete wall. A single, flickering lightbulb swings from the ceiling, spreading spooky shadows across the landscape.
A man kneels in the centre of the room, his face bloated and blood streaming from a cut in his forehead. His once-pristine suit is now ripped and stained scarlet. His hands tremble as they clasp the ropes that hold his wrists behind his back. Around him, bodies litter the ground who were his men, all slain with precise bullets to the head.
A pair of glossy black leather shoes appears in his clouded vision. Slow. Calculated. The rhythm of death.
Then, he speaks.
"You made a mistake".
The voice is deep and smooth, almost tranquil. But it carries a suffocating weight. The kneeling man flinches, his breathing ragged, and dares to glance up. Adrian Ansaldo stands before him, immaculately clothed in a black three-piece suit with no wrinkles or bloodstains. His hands are in the pockets of his coat, and his countenance is unreadable. Cold. Unforgiving. A god among mortals.
The kneeling man swallows hard, desperation creeping into his voice.
"P-Please… Ansaldo, I…" A thunderous gunshot rings out.
The man screams as his left knee explodes in agony, bone breaking beneath the bullet. He collapses forward, his face against the blood-soaked earth.
Ansaldo tilts his head, viewing the pitiful spectacle before him. He steps forward, kneeling so that they are at eye level. His steel-gray eyes pierced the man's soul, devoid of compassion and mercy.
"Did I say you could speak?" He murmurs, voice laced with quiet amusement. The man sobs, nodding frantically, too terrified to form words.
Ansaldo sighs. He goes inside his coat pocket and pulls out a sleek, black switchblade, which he pushes against the man's throat in one fluid motion, the cold steel kissing his flesh.
"You thought you could betray me?" He chuckles softly, but there is no humor in it, only death.
"You thought I wouldn't notice?" The man shakes his head violently.
"N-No, I swear! It wasn’t me! It was…" Ansaldo flicks his wrist, and blood sprays all over the floor. The man gasps, his body convulsing as he chokes, and his words transform into wet gurgles. Ansaldo wipes the blade clean with a silk handkerchief, seemingly unconcerned.
"Lies bore me" He stands, fixing the cuffs of his sleeves, before turning to the men in black suits standing in the shadows. His voice is calm, effortless, yet absolute.
"Burn the bodies. Leave no trace" With that, Adrian Ansaldo walks away, stepping over the fresh corpses as if they are nothing more than dust beneath his feet. As the flames rise behind him, illuminating the night sky in an infernal glow, one thing becomes clear.
The Phantom King is not just a man. He is a force of nature. And in his world, betrayal is paid for in blood.
A large mansion in the outskirts of Sicily. The estate is a fortress, with high walls, security cameras, and armed guards stationed around every corner. The air smells like the Mediterranean, but within these walls, the aroma of power is greater. The world outside may perceive paradise, but the devil owns it.
The big iron gates swing open as a squadron of black SUVs drive up the long road, their tires crunching against the gravel. The mansion rises ahead, cast in a lovely glow of golden lights. Before the automobile comes to a stop, the big doors open, a subtle acknowledgement that its master has returned.
The guards are the first to emerge, quiet, disciplined, and lethal. The back door opens, and Ansaldo walks out. He does not haste. He never does. His actions are methodical and measured, and each one exudes authority.
He appears to be a guy just returned from battle, dressed in a sleek black suit with a blood-red tie unfastened around his neck. His sharp features remain unreadable, but there is a storm in his steel-gray eyes, one that tells of bloodshed and lost souls.
Inside the mansion, the staff is in perfect formation, heads lowered. They understand the rules. Nobody speaks unless they are spoken to. The air is heavy with tension, as if the walls themselves fear him.
A figure approaches Matteo, his right-hand man, a veteran of the underworld.
"The cleanup is done. No traces left".
Ansaldo nods, taking off his coat and delivering it to a waiting servant. He continues deeper into the home, past the magnificent chandelier and the lavish furniture that exudes wealth. This is not a home. This is a throne room, and he rules it.
He enters his private study, a spacious room lined with dark mahogany shelves stuffed with books, knowledge is power, and he wields it like a weapon. A large desk is in the centre, with documents neatly placed and a half-empty drink of whisky waiting for him.
Ansaldo pours himself another drink, the ice gently clinking against the glass. He takes a slow sip, enjoying the heat.
"Anything else?" He asks, his voice smooth but edged with exhaustion. Matteo hesitates for a second.
“The Chinese syndicate made a move in Hong Kong. They hit one of our arms deals last night in Hong Kong. They didn’t take the shipment, just destroyed it. A message” A smirk tugs at Ansaldo’s lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“A message Or an invitation?” His voice is smooth, laced with quiet amusement. He swirls the amber liquid in his glass.
“If they want a war, we hit back twice as hard. Burn one of their warehouses, send a real message” Matteo voiced his opinion.
“And then what?” Ansaldo’s tone is calm, but there’s an edge to it, danger wrapped in silk.
“…Then they back off” He hesitates. Ansaldo chuckles. A slow, dark sound that sends a chill through the room.
“No,” He murmurs, swirling the whiskey in his glass.
“Then they retaliate. We burn a warehouse, they take a port. We take a port, they go after our contacts in Singapore. Escalation leads to chaos” He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk.
“And I don’t do chaos. I control it” A beat of silence.
“What do you suggest?” Then Matteo speaks. Ansaldo takes a slow sip of his whiskey, eyes gleaming.
“We don’t play by their rules. We rewrite them” He looks at Matteo.
“I want a meeting set up. Face-to-face with the heir herself” The tension in the room shifts. Matteo didn’t expect this.
“A meeting?” He frowns.
“Boss, we’re talking about Selene Zhao. She’s not just some spoiled heir…they say she’s as ruthless as her father or maybe more” Ansaldo smirks, leaning back in his chair.
“Interesting” He places the glass down with a soft clink.
“I’ll arrange it. But if it’s a trap…” Matteo agreed.
“Then we remind them why no one challenges me and lives” Ansaldo’s eyes darken. Matteo inclines his head and leaves, knowing his boss has already decided the next move.
Ansaldo leans back in his chair, the weight of empires on his shoulders, and he appears unconcerned. He flourishes in this environment of power struggles and bloody transactions.
A slow smile plays on his lips. Let the game begin.
