2025-07-07 03:49:19It had been three days since the trial.
Three days since Hermosa shattered his heart in front of the world.
He had barely slept.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her. On the witness stand. Lying.
“He told me he was doing it for the company’s survival.”
“He said it was the only way to protect the Gordonis legacy.”
Lies. Every word.
And yet, she had looked at him like she believed it.
Or worse… like she wanted to.
The van hit a bump in the road, jolting him out of his thoughts. Outside, the night was silent and desolate. Miles of empty road stretched ahead. They were deep in the countryside now, far from the city lights. The only company was the occasional chirp of insects and the soft crackle of the van’s radio.
Two guards sat in the front. The driver sipped from a thermos while the other scrolled through his phone.
“ETA to Ridgewood Penitentiary, 32 minutes,” the driver muttered.
Andre’s eyes drifted to the small vent near his feet. A single breeze slipped through, bringing the scent of pine and gasoline.
His stomach twisted.
Something was wrong.
He didn’t know how, but his instincts screamed it.
Then, a sound. Distant. Low.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It grew louder until suddenly a blinding white light flooded the van from behind.
“What the hell…?” the driver said, looking at the side mirror.
A black SUV roared up behind them, its headlights off until the last second.
The guard in the passenger seat reached for his radio. “This is Transport 4, we’ve got an….”
BOOM.
An explosion rocked the van.
The world tilted violently.
Andre was thrown sideways as the van flipped once, then again. Screams, glass shattering, metal twisting, tires screeching. Fire licked through the edges of the van’s front end.
Then silence.
Smoke.
Pain.
Andre groaned.
His head throbbed. Warm blood trickled down his temple. He was lying on his side. One of the guards, his neck twisted at an impossible angle, lay just feet from him, motionless. Flames crackled near the dashboard.
The van was split open.
Sparks danced along the edge of the torn metal, casting flickering shadows across the wreckage.
Through the haze, Andre saw them, dark silhouettes moving around the crash.
Men. Armed. Faceless under black helmets.
He held his breath.
“Target confirmed dead?” one of them barked into a radio.
“No pulse on either guard. Inmate’s body was thrown clear,” another answered from behind the van. “Burned badly.”
A pause.
Andre felt the hairs on his neck stand.
Were they… talking about him?
He looked down at himself. Bloodied. Scorched. But still breathing.
Suddenly, he understood.
This wasn’t an accident.
This was a hit.
Someone had arranged this to make sure he never made it to prison.
Who?
Tom?
No. Tom was too proud. Too clean. But someone else…
The men moved away, circling to search the woods.
Andre forced himself to move.
Pain lanced through his ribs. His shoulder screamed. His hands, still cuffed, made every motion harder. But adrenaline surged through his veins. He crawled, slow, silent into the shadows beneath the van.
One of the men passed within inches.
“Burn the whole van,” a voice ordered.
Andre didn’t wait.
He rolled from under the wreck and limped into the treeline.
Smoke clung to his clothes.
Branches scraped his skin.
He didn’t look back, not even when the van exploded again behind him.
Keep moving, he told himself. Or die.
Angela White stood in her private suite, eyes fixed on the security footage playing across a dozen monitors.
The prison transport burned brightly in the center of the highway like a beacon of death.
“Send a team,” she said coldly, turning to her second-in-command. “Now.”
“He’s dead,” the man replied.
“No,” Angela snapped. “Andre Gordonis doesn’t die in a fire. Not without leaving a trace.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“And I want to know who made that fire.”
Two Days Later
Andre woke to darkness.
He was on a bed, not metal, not cold. A real bed. Cotton sheets. Clean bandages.
He blinked, confused.
Pain clawed through his body, but it wasn’t the same raw pain from the crash.
His injuries had been treated.
A small lamp glowed in the corner of the room. It was warm. Safe.
A figure stepped into the light.
Tall. Dressed in black. Eyes hidden by shadows.
“You’re awake,” the man said.
Andre tried to speak, but his throat was dry.
The man poured water into a cup and handed it to him.
Andre drank greedily.
“Where am I?” he rasped.
“Safe,” the man said. “For now.”
“Who are you?”
“We’re the people who know what they tried to do to you,” the man said. “You were supposed to burn in that van. Someone paid a lot of money to erase you.”
Andre leaned back, heart pounding. “Why… help me?”
The man paused.
“Because we don’t like unfinished stories.”
Andre’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”
The man smiled faintly. “We’re the syndicate. And you, Mr. Gordonis… you’ve just been reborn.”
Angela White stood at the edge of the crash site, hands on her hips.
The trees were blackened. The van was reduced to twisted metal.
No body.
No bones.
Nothing.
Her men swept the woods. Dogs. Drones. Nothing.
“He’s gone,” one of them reported. “If he survived, he vanished.”
Angela’s lips tightened.
She had seen men vanish before. But not like this.
No trail. No footprints.
Just absence.
She looked to the horizon.
Where are you, Golden Son?
---
Elsewhere — Unknown Location
Andre stood in front of a mirror.
His face was bruised. His ribs were taped. His eyes, once full of light, were now storms.
The man from the syndicate entered the room again.
“We need a name,” he said simply.
“A name?”
“You can’t be Andre Gordonis anymore,” he explained. “He’s dead. You need a ghost. A weapon. A storm they never see coming.”
Andre stared at the mirror.
His reflection stared back, unfamiliar but burning with purpose.
He touched his bandaged side. Then his face.
A new man. Born from fire.
He closed his eyes and whispered.
“Don Alaric.”
He opened them again.
“A new name. A new war.”
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Chapter 10: The First Blow
The Gordonis Corporation boardroom, once an untouchable symbol of opulence and control, now felt like a battlefield. Walls lined with glass refracted sunlight onto polished mahogany and cold marble, but none of it could hide the tremor running through Tom Gordonis's hand as he read the report splayed across the table.“What the hell is this?” Tom barked, slamming the document down.Don Alaric leaned back in his chair, unbothered, the ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “That, Mr. Gordonis, is the beginning.”Tom’s eyes flared. “You went behind my back and bought out Vanguard Mercantile? That’s one of our top revenue streams!”“Correction,” Don Alaric said smoothly. “Was one of your top revenue streams.”He folded his hands on the table like a man delivering a eulogy, not a business update. “You signed over veto rights. Full asset control. I simply exercised what you were so desperate to give.”Tom’s face went red. “You son of a….”“Ah, ah.” Don Alaric raised a finger
Chapter 9: Cracks in the Mask
The hotel ballroom pulsed with the low hum of conversation, clinking glasses, and the occasional flash of camera lights bouncing off crystal chandeliers. World leaders in tech, trade, and finance mingled beneath golden sconces, their laughter as polished as their cufflinks.Hermosa adjusted the sleek navy dress hugging her body, its high slit revealing just enough leg to draw stares, and conceal the tremble beneath her skin. She hated these events. Even more, she hated the man who had just placed his hand on the small of her back with familiar, possessive ease.“Smile, Hermosa,” Don Alaric murmured, his lips barely brushing her ear. “You’re supposed to be enjoying yourself.”Her jaw clenched.“Do all your business partners require this level of… proximity?” she asked through her teeth, forcing a smile for the cameras as another executive approached.“Only the ones I trust,” he said, with a gleam in his eye that felt far too personal.They made their rounds, shaking hands, exchanging p
Chapter 8: Bella Makes a Move
Bella Ray wasn’t the kind of woman who ignored her instincts, especially not when they screamed in her ear like sirens on Bourbon Street.She adjusted her glasses, eyes narrowed as she stared at the glossy investor dossier spread across her apartment table. Don Alaric’s rise had been too perfect, too surgical. Within weeks of appearing on the Gordonis Corp radar, he had injected capital, demanded control, and silenced anyone who raised objections, including Tom Gordonis himself, who now walked like a man being led on a leash.Bella didn’t believe in ghosts. But something about this “Don Alaric” had that lingering chill of a man who rose from the grave.She tucked her curly auburn hair into a bun, snapped shut the file, and pulled on her coat. Time to do what she did best…. dig.---Bella’s first stop was the Gordonis Corp public records office. Her credentials as a private security analyst, and a little charm, got her into the lesser-known files. She combed through purchase ledgers, b
Chapter 7: Shadows of the Past
The low rumble of the engine echoed through the glossy floors of the private terminal. Hermosa stood stiffly near the glass wall, arms crossed, suitcase beside her like a silent companion. Outside, the sleek black jet gleamed under the morning sun, cold and distant, just like the man who had summoned her.Don Alaric arrived without announcement. No entourage this time, just him in a dark tailored coat, sunglasses shielding his eyes. He didn’t look at her. He walked straight past her and toward the waiting staircase of the plane, a silent storm wrapped in expensive fabric.Hermosa followed, cheeks flushed with unease and resentment.Inside, the jet was as lavish as expected, cream leather seats, polished mahogany, chilled champagne waiting in a silver bucket. But the air felt too still, too heavy, like walking into a trap wrapped in silk.Don Alaric took the window seat in the rear cabin and pulled out a tablet. “We’ll review Zurich’s merger conditions mid-flight,” he said without look
Chapter 6: The Conditions of Control
The Gordonis boardroom was silent, save for the low hum of the air conditioner. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed the glittering New Orleans skyline, but inside, the tension was thick enough to choke on. At the head of the long obsidian table sat Tom Gordonis, rigid in his seat. Around him, the board members exchanged nervous glances. Angela White stood to one side, her arms folded, watching.The glass doors opened without fanfare. Don Alaric entered, flanked by two silent aides. His footsteps were measured, echoing softly on the polished marble floor. He wore the same dark suit. The scars on his face caught the light, a stark reminder that he was as dangerous as he was wealthy.Tom rose, forcing a polite smile he could not sustain. “Mr. Alaric, thank you for coming.”Don Alaric inclined his head once. “Let’s dispense with pleasantries, shall we?” His voice was smooth, each word precise. “I have reviewed the company’s books. The numbers paint a clear picture: Gordonis Corp is bleeding
Chapter 5: A Haunting Familiarity
Hermosa stood outside the glossy doors of the private investor suite on the thirty-second floor of Gordonis Corp, her palms damp against the folder she clutched to her chest. The air around her was colder than usual, like the building itself sensed the tension rising within its steel bones.Tom’s words echoed in her ears: “You’re assigned to our new investor. Don’t screw this up.”She took a deep breath and opened the door.Inside, the room was dimly lit, all chrome and glass, with city lights bleeding in through floor-to-ceiling windows. At the far end, seated in a black leather chair, was the man who had quietly shaken the financial world in recent months — Don Alaric.He stood when she entered. Tall. Imposing. Masked.His face was hidden behind a smooth, matte-black mask that covered everything but his sharp mouth and jawline. He wore a dark tailored suit, perfectly fitted, a single silver pin gleaming on his lapel. But it wasn’t his attire that sent a chill through her.It was som
