★★Leon's POV★★



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As we're walking toward the jet, the early morning sun stretches across the tarmac. Bright and too damn early, we're finally leaving NYC and heading back home to France. The real struggle this morning wasn't just waking up—it was waking up hungover after a wild night at the club.

Antonio, of course, had to be dragged out of the booth after blacking out from too many drinks. The man swears he's not a lightweight, but after seeing him slumped over like a ragdoll, the evidence speaks for itself. Even worse, trying to wake him up this morning was a mission of its own. It took over an hour of threats to leave his ass behind before he finally got up, grumpy as hell and swearing at everyone.

By the time we all settled into the jet, Domenico and Antonio had already knocked out, leaving me with blessed silence. I was grateful—I didn't have the patience to hear a single word from either of them. While they slept through the entire flight, I got some work done here and there, appreciating the rare quiet.

Ah. I love life.

Silence.

When we finally land in France, the doors of the jet open, and a wave of crisp, cool air hits us. Our car waits on the tarmac, surrounded by guards who are ready to take us back. The ride home takes about an hour, with nothing but the hum of the engine to accompany us.

****

As we turn the last corner, the gates of our property come into view, opening smoothly to welcome our arrival. The long driveway stretches ahead, overlooking the serene lake that rests beside the house. Workers are scattered across the property, trimming bushes and tending to the fields.

When the mansion comes into view, its grand facade still takes my breath away for a second. We circle the garden, where a fountain glistens in the morning sun, before pulling to a stop in front of the house. A line of maids and workers wait patiently, ready to welcome us and grab our suitcases.

Home, at last.

The mansion stretches out toward the back, where an elegant pool area glimmers in the sunlight, bordered by lush gardens and manicured hedges. A small gazebo with wrought-iron chairs and a table sits by the edge of the water, perfect for quiet afternoon chats or meetings. To the left, the tennis courts are pristine, while a fully equipped outdoor kitchen and lounge area overlook the vast lawn. A few distant workers are tending to the hedges and flower beds, but it's peaceful and serene—luxury at its finest.

As we step out of the car, our feet crunch against the pebbles underfoot, the sound adding to the morning's stillness. Our employees, perfectly poised and impeccably dressed, offer us a respectful nod. "Bonjour, monsieur. Bienvenue à la maison. (Hello, sir. Welcome home)." They greet in perfect harmony, their hands neatly tucked behind their backs, their uniforms sharp and pristine.

The air feels different here—more relaxed, but still carrying an undertone of discipline. Their presence brings a certain calm, almost as if everything in this mansion is under control, from the gardens to the very people who maintain it. I can't help but let out a small breath, taking it all in.

Mmm. Smell that?

Not pollution.

I glance at them all, noting their disciplined posture. Before I can truly appreciate the moment, Antonino cuts through the silence with his usual energy.

"Bonjour les gars. Comment allez-vous tous en cette belle matinée?" (Good morning, guys. How is everyone doing this fine morning?) he announces, his voice too loud, his enthusiasm unmistakable.

I roll my eyes, already missing the quiet. I guess someone isn't grumpy after all.

The silence is shattered when my sister, Inaya, steps forward, her arms crossed tightly over her chest, leaning her head against the entrance of the door. Her eyes narrow as she glares at all three of us, a look sharp enough to pierce through steel. "Well, well, well," she sneers. "Look who decided to show up—The Three Stooges," she mocks, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Damien, Antonino, and I exchange confused glances. Before any of us can respond, she marches right up to us and punches each one of us on the arm. Antonino flinches, grabbing his arm as a low groan escapes him. "Damn, Inaya. Have you been working on your punches?" he asks, his voice pained but amused.

Me and Damien bite back a laugh, trying our best not to irritate her further, but it's hard. It's funny, considering she's the youngest, Inaya is the easiest to piss off. Maybe that's why she's so quick to react, always trying to prove she's just as tough as the rest of us. She definitely doesn't lack confidence—just a bit of control when it comes to her temper.

Before she can say anything else, a deep, raspy voice cuts through the air, freezing all of us in place. I don't even have to look to know exactly who it is. His voice alone is enough to send a shiver down my spine.

"Boys, how was your trip?" The coldness in his tone is unmistakable. I turn to find my father, his expression as unreadable as ever, emotionless and imposing.

Damien steps forward first, offering a warm, polite smile. "It went fine, papa. Thanks for asking."

Then my father's gaze shifts to me. He raises an eyebrow as he closes the distance between us. "And you?" he asks, his voice low, measuring. "I'm hoping the deal went smoothly?"

I hold his gaze steadily, my posture rigid as I refuse to show even a hint of weakness. "As smoothly as it could be, sir." I reply, my tone calm and collected, even though I feel the weight of his stare. We lock eyes for a few seconds—long enough for the tension between us to thicken.

Don't break eye contact, Leon.

The sweet voice of my mother breaks the silence like a breeze through a storm. "Honey, leave them be." she says, her tone soft and warm. "They just got off a tiring flight." Her gaze softens as she looks at the three of us. "My poor babies," she adds, stepping forward and enveloping us in one of her comforting, familiar hugs.

Her embrace feels just as it always has—safe, enveloping, a place where everything else seems to disappear. For a moment, I close my eyes, letting the feeling of being in her arms take over, a small moment of peace in this chaotic world.

She lets go and turns toward the maids. "Elodie," she says, and the maid steps forward. "Please prepare the boys a nice cup of tea. Oh! And those yummy sandwiches they love." Elodie nods and says, "Oui, madame,(Yes, ma'am.) " then quickly scurries off with the other maids to carry out the order.

My mother turns back to us with a warm smile in her eyes. "Why don't you boys go ahead and take a nice warm shower before tea is ready?" She squeezes our hands gently. I give her a small smile and respond, "Déjà dessus, maman (Already on it, mama.)"

The three of us walk off, but as we pass, I make eye contact with my father. He's glaring at us, and I can feel the weight of his unspoken command. "I expect you three in my office when you're done," he says, his tone as steady and commanding as ever.

"Yes, sir," we reply in unison before heading further into the house.

My room is simple but speaks to who I am. The walls are a dark gray, giving the space a serious, masculine feel. The bed is large, with a leather headboard, and the black and gray sheets are neat, no fuss. A heavy desk made of dark wood sits against one wall, cluttered with papers and a few books. The chair behind it is leather, worn but comfortable.

The floor is covered by a couple of thick rugs, and the room is lit by natural light coming through large windows. There's a balcony just off to the side, overlooking the driveway. It's quiet out there, a place where I can watch everything unfold without being noticed. It's not fancy, just a solid table and some chairs, but it offers a perfect view of the property.

I step into the bathroom, the familiar scent of cologne and leather filling the air. As I remove my clothes, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My hands pause when I run them over my abs—scars crisscrossing the skin, a constant reminder of battles fought and lost. These scars, they're not just marks of physical pain; they're memories of every time my father and I clashed, when things didn't go his way and the consequences were never pretty. He taught me lessons in the harshest of ways, each scar a symbol of the price I've paid for defying him, for showing weakness. Every mark is a story—of punishment, of resilience, of survival.

I sigh and turn on the shower, setting it to a scalding heat. I step in, the water immediately burning my skin, but I let it. The pain feels almost therapeutic. I drag my hands through my hair, the steam filling the air as I try to wash away the remnants of everything—of the mission, of the night, and of my father's lessons.

I try to pull my mind away from the memories, but they keep slipping back to her. The girl in red. She was so close, her warmth almost tangible, like she was right there beside me. Her crystal blue eyes locked onto mine, deep and unyielding, like she could see right through me. Ethereal, almost otherworldly.

Then she turned, walking away with a grace that was all confidence and allure, her movements captivating in a way that made it impossible to look away. The way her ass swayed in the short red dress she wore only added to the undeniable pull she had.

I wonder how she would taste or felt sublime underneath me.

I curse under my breath as my cock reacts to the thought of it, tightening with desire. The heat pools low in my stomach, a slow, insistent ache that spreads through me like wildfire. My breath catches, shallow and uneven, as the vivid images in my mind refuse to relent. The tension builds, coiling tightly in my core, and I can't help but let out a low, frustrated growl, my body betraying me with every pulse of longing.

Great, just what I need right now.

Trying to shake off the memory, I turn the shower to freezing, letting the cold water crash against my body.

After a long shower, I changed into my suit, slid on my watch, and strapped my gun to its holster. Damien, Antonio, and I were dressed and ready to head downstairs for breakfast. Once we finished eating, we discussed what my father might want to talk to us about in his office.

When we were done, we made our way inside and headed towards his office. The hallway leading to it felt unnervingly silent, the air thick with tension.

Just in and out, Leon.

When we reached his office door, I knocked, then paused before opening it after hearing a faint "Entrez (Come in)." I took a deep breath and stepped inside. He was sitting behind his desk, a bourbon glass in hand, surrounded by scattered papers. The office was dimly lit, the faint glow from the desk lamp casting long shadows. The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife.

He looked up briefly, his gaze sharp as he studied us. We walked over to the three chairs in front of his desk. I took the middle one, with Damien to my left and Antonio to my right. We sat in silence, all of us holding our breath, waiting for him to speak.

He takes a slow sip of his drink, the sound of glass meeting lips cutting through the silence. Then he rest his forearm back on the armchair.

He looks at me.

"Leon." His voice is calm, almost unnervingly so, as he looks at me from across the room. My father leans back in his chair, fingers steepled together in a tight grip. "I received a call from... what was his name again?" He pauses, tapping his fingers on the table, feigning an air of indifference. I can see through the act, though; he's pissed.

He looks up at me, sharp eyes narrowing. "Ah, that's right. Maxton Ledger."

I keep my face neutral, trying to keep my composure. "Yes, sir. Maxton Ledger. The COO of Cargolinks," I confirm, holding his gaze.

He raises an eyebrow at me, a cold smile curling on his lips. "Nice guy, huh?"

I force a chuckle, despite the tension in the air. "Nice guy," I repeat, but my voice sounds flat even to me.

Maxton... wasn't a nice guy. He was unreliable, a problem I had to fix.

I watch my father's gaze as it hardens. He pauses, the smile on his face fading. "I heard about the 'shipment'—the one going down in Argentina. I also heard something else. Something about a... little... incident with Maxton Ledger." His voice grows colder as he says the name, and I feel a wave of unease roll over me.

I straighten up. The weight of the conversation is starting to press in. "I did what needed to be done, sir," I say, keeping my voice level.

"Needed to be done?" His voice cuts through the air like a whip. "You shot a man in cold blood, Leon."

I hold his gaze, not flinching. "He was unreliable. He wouldn't stick to the deal. He—"

"Shut up." My father's voice is like ice, and it freezes me in place. "You were supposed to handle this smoothly, Leon. You are supposed to handle things smoothly. Not like this."

Damien shifts beside me, sensing the tension thickening in the room. He tries to defend me, his voice low but firm. "Sir, it's not like—"

I cut him off with a sharp glance, my eyes narrowing. The message is clear: shut the fuck up, or else. I can see the hesitation in Damien's eyes as he swallows the rest of his words. Good. He knows better than to challenge me now.

My father slams his fist down on the table, the sound making everyone flinch. "You don't get it, do you, Leon?" he sneers, his eyes darkening. "Every time you fuck up like this, it makes me question why I even put you in this position. You think you can just shoot whoever you want and everything will be fine? You think you can control everything with a goddamn gun?"

I don't respond, but inside, the anger rises. I did what was necessary. Maxton was a liability, and I knew it. But that wasn't the point.

"You're my son, Leon," he says, his voice dropping dangerously low. "You're supposed to be the heir, but all I see is a spoiled brat who doesn't know how to handle business. What the hell happened to the boy I trained? What happened to the monster I made?"

I feel the weight of his words press down on me. I want to lash out, to remind him of the shit I've had to deal with, the constant push and pull, the never-ending need to prove myself. But I stay silent, clenching my fists under the table.

Damien speaks again, cautiously. "Papa, Leon's handled worse. This was an unfortunate—"

"No," I cut him off, my voice steady, yet cold. "It wasn't unfortunate. It was necessary."

I stand up abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as I do. My father's eyes narrow, and I feel the tension between us, a storm building in the space. "The shipment is still going through. The deal is still in place. The business will continue." My words are firm, a challenge wrapped in calm.

For a moment, my father doesn't say anything. The silence is deafening. Then, he leans forward, his voice cold as steel. "Get out of my sight, Leon."

And just like that, it's over.

Damien looks at me, but I don't acknowledge him. I walk out of the room without another word, the weight of my father's disappointment hanging on my shoulders like a boulder.

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Damn he's mean. I feel bad for leon...

How is everyone liking the story for far?

*Going out or stay in?*

Bye, lovies! (っ◔◡◔)っ

Maddie♡