CHAPTER 3

In a dimly lit warehouse, shadows danced eerily across the concrete walls, casting a sinister glow on the imposing figure of Deather "The Scarface," the ruthless Don of the Scarface Cartel. Dressed sharply in a jet-black suit, his polished shoes reflected the dim light, and in his hands rested a heavy metal baseball bat slung lazily over his shoulder. His icy eyes carried a chilling, calculating gaze, their cold depths betraying no mercy. He was totally Hades himself for being as ruthless as him, and he feared nothing, not even the gods forcing together.

“Well, well, well…” Deather's voice sliced through the thick silence, smooth yet dripping with mockery. He stood tall, looking down at a trembling Mr. Wong, who was on his knees, shivering on the cold, unforgiving concrete floor. Wong's hands were pressed together in desperate prayer, his head bowed, unable to meet the penetrating gaze of the Don.

“How does it feel to kiss the ground, Mr. Wong?” Deather sneered, a sadistic smirk creeping onto his face. His grin carried the weight of his reputation, as sinister as the stories whispered in dark alleys—tales of betrayal, violence, and merciless retribution. He tilted his head slightly, letting his words sink in like venom.

"Did…did I not give you a second chance?" Deather's voice took on a mockingly curious tone as he began pacing slowly around Wong, each measured step echoing ominously in the vast warehouse. His every move carried a gravity that made it clear Wong's fate was merely a toy in the Don's hands.

“Mr. Wong,” Deather continued, his tone dangerously calm, “you know I’m a reasonable man, right? A man of my… words.”

The sharp clang of the bat scraping against the floor accompanied his predatory circling. Deather paused, a dark glint in his eye as he hoisted the bat back onto his shoulder. “However,” he said, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper, “my partner, Lucille…” His free hand caressed the metal bat as if it were a living thing. “…wants to taste your blood. Isn’t that right, Lucille?”

"Pl-please, De-Deather," Wong stammered, his voice quaking with fear. "I…I’ve always been loyal to the organization… I-I did my best… Spare me…”

Deather threw back his head and laughed—a sound devoid of warmth or humanity. His laughter echoed through the room, sending an icy chill down Wong’s spine. It was a laugh that haunted anyone who had ever crossed the Don, a sound synonymous with doom in the shadowy world of Guiliano City. Deather ruled the Scarface Cartel with an iron fist, a notorious organization infamous for its chokehold on the city through drug trafficking, arms smuggling, extortion, and other illicit enterprises. Life and death were mere playthings to him, and tonight, Mr. Wong's life was hanging by a thread.

“Well, Mr. Wong,” Deather said smoothly, his tone almost conversational, “I recognize your contributions to the organization. And I…” He crouched to meet Wong’s panicked eyes. “…I appreciate your cooperation.”

Hope flickered briefly in Wong’s face. He rose shakily, his knees buckling as he attempted to regain his footing. “Th-thank you, Deather… I promise—"

“But,” Deather interjected sharply, his smirk widening into a predatory grin, “my partner, Lucille, absolutely despises betrayal.” Without warning, Deather swung the bat with brutal force, the sickening crunch of metal meeting bone echoing through the warehouse. Wong crumpled to the floor, blood pooling rapidly beneath his shattered form.

Deather didn’t stop. His blows rained down, relentless, each swing erasing what little remained of Wong’s face. Blood splattered across Deather’s suit and face, but he didn’t flinch. If anything, he seemed to relish the carnage, his expression one of grim satisfaction. The warehouse fell silent save for the dull, repetitive thud of the bat and Deather’s cold, unfeeling laughter.

When he finally stopped, the lifeless body of Mr. Wong lay in a twisted heap at his feet. Deather wiped a hand across his blood-splattered face, his grin unwavering as he turned to his men. The Scarface Cartel members stood in tense silence, heads bowed, their breaths shallow and fearful.

“What I did was right, isn't it Drako?” Deather said, addressing his consigliere without so much as glancing at him.

Drako nodded hesitantly, his expression stoic yet wary. “Your verdict has never been wrong, Deather.”

Deather began pacing again, his sharp eyes scanning the faces of his men, weighing and measuring them in the oppressive silence. He stopped in front of Cobra, his trusted underboss and the enforcer of his will. “Right… Cobra?” His tone carried an implicit warning, daring defiance.

“You’re always right, Deather,” Cobra replied, his voice steady but tinged with caution. He knew the consequences of even the slightest hesitation.

Deather smirked, clearly pleased with the responses. He swung Lucille lightly, the bat gleaming menacingly in the dim light. “Good,” he said simply, his gaze falling back to Wong’s bloodied corpse. He planted the bat firmly against Wong’s ruined face, his smile now a warning to anyone who dared betray the Scarface Cartel.

“Well,” he said, his voice low and deliberate, “allow me to remind you all who I am.” He spread his arms, the room falling utterly silent. “I am the Don of this organization. And anyone who defies me…” He raised Lucille, letting the blood-stained bat gleam in the faint light. “…will meet her verdict.”

He stepped back, letting his words hang heavy in the air. “But I am a reasonable man,” he added, his voice taking on a chilling casualness. “I believe in structure. A leader and followers. Roles that serve one purpose: to make the Scarface Cartel the most powerful mafia organization in the world.”

His men remained silent, their heads still bowed as Deather raised his right hand, revealing the jagged scar that stretched across his face—a symbol of his resilience, ruthlessness, and domination. “To the Scarface Cartel!” he declared, his voice booming with authority.

“To the Scarface Cartel!” his men echoed, their voices a blend of fear and unwavering loyalty.

Deather’s laughter filled the warehouse once more, a reminder of the terror he commanded. He was not just feared—he was a force of nature, an unstoppable storm sweeping through Guiliano City, leaving nothing but destruction in his wake.

Suddenly, the door to the warehouse burst open, and a breathless cartel member stumbled in, his face pale with fear. “D-Deather,” he stammered, his voice trembling.

Deather turned slowly, his cold, predatory gaze locking onto the man. “Speak,” he ordered, his voice a low growl.

“Bridget Augustus,” the man said, his words spilling out in a frantic rush. “The writer—she’s made her move. Hidalgo must’ve told her everything. This could be a huge threat to us.”

Deather’s expression didn’t change, his icy eyes boring into the man. Then, slowly, he began to laugh. It was a low, guttural sound that grew into a full-throated, sinister cackle. “Let her write,” he said, his voice calm yet dripping with malice. “It might just be the publicity we need.”

He laughed again, louder this time, his voice echoing through the warehouse like a demon’s chorus. His men shivered, their fear palpable. Deather “The Scarface” was not just a man; he was a legend, a nightmare given flesh. In Guiliano, his name was law, and his will was absolute.