LUCIAN CASTELLAN

  The grand estate overlooking the rugged cliffs of Sicily was a monument to power—a place as commanding as the man who lived in it. The castle’s sprawling grounds stretched endlessly, the Mediterranean Sea crashing against the rocks below. The landscape, wild and untamed, reflected the very essence of Lucian Castellan. But today, his focus was on something far more intricate: business.

  Inside, the atmosphere was thick with anticipation. A long, polished wooden table dominated the room, surrounded by three men—Lucian’s closest advisors, his incumbents. They lounged in leather chairs, their eyes flicking between the monitors embedded in the walls. The air was filled with the sweet, musky scent of marijuana, the haze curling lazily around the room. Casual conversation flowed easily, though the topic at hand was far from light.

  Xander, the hacker of the group, leaned back in his chair, tapping at the glowing screen of his tablet. He had always been the one to manipulate systems, to break into firewalls like they were nothing more than a thin layer of glass. Today, his focus was on the logistics of the weapon shipments, tracking movements, and ensuring no digital footprint was left behind.

  “This shipment,” Xander’s voice broke the easy chatter, “it’s no small operation. We need to make sure there are no traces back to us—no one can know we’re moving these things.” His fingers drummed lightly on the desk as he glanced toward Arlo, the muscle of the group.

  Arlo’s large frame was leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest, eyes cold and calculating. He was the enforcer, always the first to act when things turned ugly. But today, he was in a rare moment of stillness, his thoughts elsewhere.

  “We’ll keep the muscle tight, as usual,” Arlo’s voice was gravelly, his eyes narrowing with focus. “No one gets close to the shipment. If they do…” His fingers curled into fists, the suggestion hanging heavy in the air. “They won’t leave with all their parts intact.”

  Dante, the manipulator, sat closest to the door. His quiet smile never fully reached his eyes as he toyed with a cigarette, letting it hang from his lips as he watched the others. Dante’s role was one of subtlety—convincing the right people, playing them against each other, making sure that no deal was ever struck without Lucian’s approval.

  “There’s always someone looking for a way in,” Dante murmured, his voice laced with irony. “The key is knowing how to turn them before they realize they’ve made the wrong choice. The shipment will be safe as long as the right channels are kept open. There’s a way to make sure no one even thinks about pulling off a heist.”

  Lucian hadn’t spoken yet. His silence filled the room like a thick fog. The presence he carried was enough to make everyone speak in hushed tones. He sat at the head of the table, fingers lightly tapping against his whiskey glass, eyes cold and unreadable. The men knew better than to press him until he was ready to speak. They knew that when Lucian Castellan did speak, the world would listen.

  “Gentlemen,” Lucian’s voice was smooth, rich with authority. “We are moving forward with the shipment. But there is one matter we must address first.” His gaze flicked from one man to the next, never lingering on any of them too long. “We ensure that it goes smoothly, without any mistakes. We can’t afford to fail.”

  The room fell silent.

  “Of course,” Xander spoke first, his fingers still tapping his screen, fingers working to secure encrypted communication channels. “All traces will be erased. The logistics have been mapped out.”

  “And muscle?” Lucian’s gaze shifted to Arlo.

  “Handled,” Arlo replied, his tone clipped. “No one’s touching anything we don’t want them to.”

  Lucian nodded once, the briefest of acknowledgments, before turning his attention to Dante. “And your end?”

  Dante’s smile widened, but it wasn’t a smile of warmth. It was sharp, calculated. “The right people have been persuaded. No one’s crossing us without paying the price.”

  Lucian’s lips curled upward, but it was not a smile. It was the kind of smile that promised death. “Good. Make sure the final stage is handled with care. I want everything in place before the shipment reaches its destination. No excuses.”

  The conversation turned to more specific details about contacts, the exact location of the drop-off, and the routes they would take. The men continued to speak in low tones, each offering their own expertise. In the background, the chatter about weaponry, risks, and shipments became an almost rhythmic drone, but Lucian’s mind was elsewhere.

  A quiet chuckle broke through the tension. Xander leaned back in his chair, eyes glinting as he exhaled a puff of smoke. “Lucian, you’re wound tight tonight. You should really get laid. Relax a little.” His words were casual, but the teasing was clear. “You’ve been a little… uptight lately.”

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  Arlo snorted, shaking his head. “You really think that’s going to do anything? Lucian doesn’t relax. Ever.”

  Dante leaned forward, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “A woman wouldn’t hurt, Lucian. Might loosen you up. You know, just a little bit of fun.”

  Lucian didn’t respond immediately. His gaze remained fixed ahead, his posture as rigid as ever. The men were teasing, and they knew it. But they also knew better than to push too far. Lucian wasn’t one for idle chatter, nor for letting anyone get under his skin. But for a fleeting moment, the suggestion made his eyes flicker—just enough to reveal a subtle shift in the air.

  But then, just as quickly, his composure returned. His cold, calculated exterior never cracked. He stood up, his chair scraping against the floor.

  “Enough,” Lucian’s voice cut through the light banter, the room quieting instantly. “Let’s move to the club. It’s time to unwind.” His gaze met Rafael’s—his brother, the one person who understood him better than anyone else.

  The group moved as one, heading for the black cars parked outside, the sleek vehicles like shadows as they disappeared into the night.

  ?

  The smoke from my joint rises like a thick, lazy veil, mingling with the warm, ambient air of Pleasure.

  My club.

  My empire.

  The place where power, money, and temptation converge beneath one roof — and I watch it all like a predator.

  The low pulse of the music reverberates in my bones — a beat designed to move bodies, but more importantly, to control them.

  Pleasure is no ordinary club. It’s an exclusive playground where businessmen, underworld figures, and the elite mingle freely, exchanging favors, whispering secrets, and indulging in luxuries most could only dream of. The lighting is dim but deliberate, casting everything in an intimate, seductive glow. Expensive leather and velvet line every surface, the air thick with the perfume of high-end cologne and marijuana. Dancers move like liquid, their bodies gliding effortlessly across the stage, teasing and offering what no one truly owns. Above them, in private sections hidden from the main floor, business deals are brokered, illicit trades are arranged, and the most dangerous people in the world make sure no one forgets who holds the power.

  I sit back against the plush leather of my booth, feeling the weight of every gaze on me, yet I make no effort to acknowledge them. They all want something — a taste of me, an invitation into my world. The businessmen and mafia dons at the back of the club exchange knowing glances with each other, the tension between them thick and uncomfortable, but no one dares to approach unless they’re sure I’ll allow it. The women who linger near the dance floor, barely clothed, sway and grind to the music with practiced precision, but their eyes are always on me.

  Rafael sits across the room, his latest conquest draped over him, whispering in his ear like she’s got the secret to the universe. Dante, always calculating, has a beauty kneeling at his feet, his fingers sliding up her exposed thigh, slow and deliberate. They’re entertaining themselves, but it’s clear that none of them have the privilege of being the focal point tonight.

  I take another drag of the joint, letting the smoke fill my lungs before I exhale, savoring the heat, the burn. The single malt in my hand is a perfect complement, smooth and rich, its warmth sliding down my throat like fire.

  Then, I see her — a woman, bold and daring, crossing through the crowd with a smirk curling her lips, her eyes fixed on me like I’m the only thing that matters. She’s beautiful, in a polished, flawless way — the kind of beauty that comes from money, from privilege, from the belief that she can have anything. She approaches, undeterred by the presence of Dante or the others around me, her hips swaying to the beat as if she’s the only one in the room.

  I don’t move. I watch her every step.

  She stands before me, and I take in the way her red dress clings to her body, the deep plunge of her neckline offering a tempting view of what I’m sure is a perfect chest. I let my gaze linger for a moment before meeting her eyes.

  “You look like you could use some company,” she says, her voice like velvet, but there’s an edge to it — like she’s testing the waters, seeing if I’ll bite.

  I don’t respond immediately. Instead, I tap the joint to my lips and inhale slowly, watching the smoke curl into the air. I feel the heat of her proximity, her presence like a challenge.

  “You know whose seat you’re standing in front of?” I ask, my voice low, cutting through the music.

  She doesn’t flinch. “I know exactly whose seat this is,” she replies, leaning in just a little too close. Her hand touches my wrist, fingers brushing the ink of my tattoo.

  I take another drag, the smoke heavy in the air between us. There’s a power in silence — a weight that presses down on the moment, a silent acknowledgment that I’m not like the men around her. I’m not just another player in the game. I am the game.

  “You still think you’re brave enough to sit here?” I ask, my eyes scanning her face.

  She smirks, but there’s hesitation now — just a flicker of doubt. “I’m not afraid,” she says, but the tremor in her voice betrays her.

  I move my hand to her chin, catching it between my thumb and forefinger. I tilt her face up toward mine, allowing her to feel the quiet dominance in my touch. “No, cagna, you’re not,” I murmur, the word dark, cutting, as if I’m reminding her of her place. “But that’s not what I asked, is it?”

  Her breath catches in her throat, but she doesn’t pull away. Her pulse flutters beneath my fingers.

  I take a slow, deliberate sip of my whisky, my eyes never leaving hers. “You want a taste of me, don’t you?” I say, the words dripping with dark amusement. “But you have no idea what it would cost you.”

  She doesn’t answer. Instead, her hand moves, touching the inside of my thigh, creeping higher like she thinks she has permission.

  I catch her wrist in a firm grip, stopping her before she can go any further. I lean in close, letting the heat of my breath ghost across her ear. “You want to play, cagna? You want to pretend you can have me? I don’t share. Not like this.”

  Her body stiffens, but she doesn’t pull away. Good. She’s not running.

  I let go of her wrist, but the space between us doesn’t widen. It doesn’t need to. I’m the one in control, and she knows it.

  Around us, the club continues to pulse. The businessmen at the back of the room are engrossed in conversation, their eyes flicking nervously to the woman I’m entertaining. The dancers on stage don’t miss a beat, their bodies moving fluidly as they offer their bodies to the crowd, but I’m the one everyone is looking at. I’m the one they want.

  A dark chuckle rumbles in my chest. “The night is young,” I murmur, my fingers lightly grazing her arm. “But not everyone is invited into my world, cagna. Not everyone gets to play with fire and walk away unburned.”

  Her breath catches again, and I know she wants to argue, to push back. But she doesn’t. She’s still here, still waiting for the next move, still drawn to me like everyone else in this club.

  The girl beside me — her name already irrelevant — traced small circles on my thigh again, inching higher with every passing second, waiting for me to grant her more.

  I could have. I could have dragged her onto my lap, fucked her against the velvet walls of my own damn club, or had her hand cut from disobeying my unspoken instruction — and no one would have dared to blink.

  But I was in no hurry. Let them want. Let them hunger.

  Power wasn’t about taking.

  It was about choosing when.

  And tonight, I chose patience.

  I sit back, the weight of my presence settling comfortably on my shoulders. I flick the remaining ash from my joint and lean into the booth, my eyes never leaving hers. The night will unfold as it will — slow, deliberate, with no rush to reach the end.

  I finished my whisky in one long, deliberate swallow, feeling the heat sink into my veins, mixing with the smoke and the primal pulse of Pleasure.

  After all, the night is mine. The club is mine. The world is mine.

  And no one — no one — took anything from Lucian Castellan unless I gave it to them.