David stood still, his arms crossed over his chest. He hadn't touched his food. He hadn't said a word. But the silence between them was too loud to ignore.
Finally, his voice came—low, steady, but laced with something darker.
"Why do you think I locked you up?"
Mark, still seated at the table, didn't flinch. He wiped his mouth with a napkin, took his time folding it neatly beside his plate before glancing up, gaze sharp.
"Good question," he said with a cold smirk. "Maybe because your ego couldn't handle being disrespected. So you decided to play god. To prove you're the boss."
David's jaw clenched, but he nodded slowly.
"You're right… at least partly. You crossed a line, and I had to remind you who you're dealing with." He took a breath, his tone softening just enough to sound conflicted. "But there's more to it, Mark. Things I can't explain to you. Not yet."
Mark laughed under his breath. There was no humor in it, only resignation.
"Of course. Always a reason. Always something I 'don't need to know yet.'"
He pushed his chair back, the sound slicing through the tension. "Whatever. I'm done eating."
He stood, turning toward the staircase without waiting for permission. But as he reached the bottom step, David's voice stopped him again.
"You can come downstairs now. For dinner. For anything. The mansion is yours to roam. Just…" He paused, as if it hurt to say it. "You're still not allowed beyond the gates."
Mark turned halfway, brow raised.
"Should I say thank you?" David's stare hardened.
"You don't have to if you don't mean it."
Mark scoffed, shaking his head slowly.
"Then don't expect it. Because nothing's changed. You just moved me from a small cage to a bigger one. Still locked. Still under your control."
He didn't wait for a reply. He turned his back and ascended the stairs, leaving David alone with the echo of his own silence—and the bitter truth in Mark's words.
The clink of silverware echoed faintly in the vast dining room, but David no longer heard it. His gaze remained fixed on the staircase Mark had just climbed, the tension in his shoulders refusing to ease. He said he hadn't eaten either.
Gently." Turned to one of the nearby maids standing silently by the wall. Pack the rest of his breakfast. Send someone to bring it to his room. Gently." knock before you enter. Let him know you are at the door. Let him give the order before you open the door.
The maid nodded politely, hurrying off toward the kitchen.
David didn't watch her go. Instead, he turned to the hallway where one of his personal guards stood at attention.
"Tell the team to prepare. We leave for the next mission soon. All plans remain unchanged."
The guard nodded sharply and disappeared down the corridor.
David stood at the head of the empty table, the untouched breakfast in front of him a quiet reminder of yet another morning that didn't go as planned. His fingers tapped once on the polished wood surface, the sound crisp in the stillness.
He didn't want Mark to go hungry—but he also couldn't let him go free. Not yet.
Mark slammed the door shut behind him as he entered the room. Frustration boiled in his chest, his thoughts a storm of confusion and anger.
"How is it possible that people I don't know are after me?" he muttered to himself, pacing the floor. "Not everyone's like you, David… doing shady, dirty jobs in the shadows."
He let out a bitter laugh and shook his head. "You think the whole world works like your twisted empire? It doesn't."
Just then, a soft knock interrupted his rant.
Mark sighed. "Enter."
The door creaked open, and the maid stepped inside carefully, holding a tray of food.
"Your food, sir," she said politely.
Mark didn't bother to look at her. He stood near the window, arms crossed, still fuming.
"Just drop it," he said coldly.
Without a word, the maid set the tray down on the small table.
Downstairs, David stood at the entrance of the mansion, dressed in all black, ready for the mission ahead. His team waited near the vehicles outside, engines running.
He looked up toward the floor where Mark's room was. For a moment, he thought about going up—just to see him, to say something. Maybe even just a simple "Take care."
But then, he stopped himself. No.
Some things were better left unsaid for now.
He turned away and walked toward the car. "Let's move," he ordered.
The gates opened, and the convoy rolled out, leaving the mansion in silence once again.
The untouched tray of food sat on the small table beside him, the steam slowly fading into the morning air.
The maid was still in the room, quietly tidying the corner of the bed she hadn't been asked to touch, anything to avoid the tension lingering in the space.
That's when the low rumble of engines cut through the silence.
Mark's ears perked up immediately. He knew that sound all too well, the deep, heavy sound of expensive engines and armored tires crunching over gravel.
He turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing.
"Is David going out?" he asked, his voice sharp but quiet.
The maid paused, then nodded carefully.
"Yes, sir.
Mark let out a dry breath, not quite a laugh.
"Of course. Figures." He leaned back in his chair, looking out the window as the convoy disappeared past the gates.
"Good thing he didn't bother to say anything. Not that I expected him to. He rarely does."
The maid looked like she wanted to say something, but thought better of it. Instead, she gave a small nod, lowered her head, and silently stepped out of the room, closing the door behind her.
"Why do I even need to bother about him?"
Mark scoffed and dropped onto the edge of the bed, trying to convince himself that David's absence meant nothing, that the silence he left behind didn't sting the way it did.
Miles away, David stepped out of the car with his team. The abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city reeked of rust, oil, and danger. This wasn't one of their regular deals. Today's client was new—fresh to the black exchange market and already making a name for himself.
David didn't trust him.
Tony, his second-in-command, stood at his side. "Too many men on their end," he muttered under his breath.
David gave a slight nod. "Eyes open."
The crates were already positioned as agreed—stacked neatly, sealed tight. David approached and unlocked one, inspecting the contents: military-grade equipment, stripped of serial numbers.
Satisfied, he gave Tony a subtle signal.
The client arrived with a wide grin and a team of guards who looked more like mercenaries than partners. Their body language was wrong. Tense. Expectant.
David didn't like surprises.
Still, the transaction moved forward. His team handed over the goods while the client stepped back, pulling out a phone to initiate payment. But his fingers hesitated over the screen. A beat too long.
Then it happened.
A single gunshot cracked the air. One of David's men dropped instantly.
"Ambush!" someone yelled.
Chaos erupted. Gunfire tore through the warehouse. David ducked behind a stack of crates as bullets shredded wood and echoed off steel beams.
"Hold your positions!" David ordered, pulling his weapon and firing back with cold precision.
Tony barked orders, guiding their men into cover, returning fire while dragging the wounded to safety. The enemy had numbers, but they lacked discipline.
David didn't blink. He advanced between cover, keeping low, squeezing off shots that hit their marks. His eyes scanned for the client—but the coward had disappeared in the chaos.
"They're trying to take the goods and vanish!" Tony shouted.
"Not happening," David growled.
He moved quickly, determined not to leave anything behind—not the crates, not the pride of being played. His bullets found their targets. Thugs fell. Others fled, scrambling for the exits once they realized this wasn't going to be an easy payday.
Then, just as the tide turned, a last desperate shot rang out.
Pain exploded through David's left hand.
"Boss!" Tony was at his side in seconds, catching him as he stumbled.
"I'm fine," David gritted through his teeth, blood dripping between his fingers. The wound was clean, a bullet grazing through his palm, but the sting was sharp and hot.
Tony cursed under his breath and ripped a cloth from his belt to wrap the wound tightly.
Across the floor, the client stood frozen, his backup gone. All he had left was regret—and David's burning stare fixed on him.
"You tried to cheat the wrong man," David said coldly.
The man stepped back, visibly shaken, saying nothing.
David turned to Tony, voice like ice. "We're done here. Get the team out."
Still clutching his injured hand, David led the way out of the warehouse, every step sending a silent message:
No one crosses David Marcos and walks away unscathed. "I will be back for you," David promised quietly.
Without another word, he and his team moved fast, rushing back to the safety of the mansion. Once inside, they hurried to tend to David's wound, urgency in every step.