REVENGE, DIAPER and SNACKS

I am, what you call, the badass of all badasses.

The kind of name that doesn’t just echo through alleys—it carves itself into the walls. People didn’t whisper my name in fear. No, they choked on it. Their tongues trembled, their spines stiffened, their knees gave out. I wasn’t just powerful.

I was power.

I am Leon Darrow.

My name was a death sentence stamped in blood and sealed in dread.

I was the architect behind the global underworld empire, a labyrinth of sin stretching from Tokyo’s neon underbelly to the icy veins of Eastern Europe. I didn’t just control crime. I defined it.

Before all that? I was the pride of the US Navy’s elite special ops. Black ops, top tier—missions that never existed on paper. The kind of man they called when things went south and hell needed a chaperone.

An assassin once known only by the number of his kills, now known by the world as a legend cloaked in suits worth more than your home.

I had it all—dozens of palatial estates hidden in the corners of the world, a private garage housing hundreds of customized beasts on wheels, five jets named after gods, and women… God, the women. Models who kissed the ground I walked on. Actresses who begged for my name. Even the  untouchables—politicians' wives, heiresses, royalty.

All mine. Just a snap of my fingers.

And soldiers? I didn’t have men—I had armies. Trained killers, cyber-spies, seductresses, and mercenaries who would storm heaven if I asked.

My word was law. My law was absolute. I was untouchable.

Until Fate decided to laugh.

Betrayal.

Not from an enemy, not from a rival gang. No, from Alec Darrow.

My brother. My blood. He was supposed to be the last person I’d ever doubt. My shadow. My strategist. The one who stood beside me when bullets rained like hellfire.

The boy I protected in schoolyard fights. The teen who stayed awake guarding my back in Bangkok. The man who ran half of my empire with precision and loyalty—or so I thought.

I missed the signs. The too-quiet pauses. The shift in tone. The vanishing reports. I had every clue I needed, right under my nose. But I was too blind, too cocky.

And Alec? He played the long game. He used Blacky. My prized pet.

A European black widow, a rare hybrid genetically enhanced by my personal biochemist. Its venom? Engineered to kill in minutes—unless you had the immunity I injected into my bloodstream over time. But Alec… the bastard waited. He knew just how long the venom would take in me.

He knew my limits. He studied me.

I found Blacky's Gucci-personalized cage cracked open.

Empty. Mocking.

Then came the symptoms.

Headache. Nausea. Burning lungs. My vision tunneled as I fell to my knees in my office—a fortress of gold, glass, and steel. The empire I built with blood and brilliance was spinning.

That’s when I saw him.

Alec Darrow

Standing over me, wearing my armani suit. Holding my scotch. The smirk on his face could’ve split the earth.

“For someone like you, brother,” he said, voice smooth as silk soaked in acid, “you seemed stupid not to notice your little pet’s been gone since yesterday.”

His words weren’t just sharp—they were poison. And they cut deep.

Every memory. Every sacrifice. Every time I took a bullet for him.

Gone.

“You were never smart, Leon,” he continued, his eyes glowing with triumph. “You were just loud, flashy, dangerous. I let you shine while I built the real power behind the curtain.”

Then he knelt beside me.

I smelled his cologne. The one I gave him. The one I wore on the night we swore we’d build this empire side by side.

It made me sick.

Outside, the rain poured like judgment from the heavens. Thick, relentless, cold as the knife twisting in my gut. The storm above mirrored the chaos below—lightning clawed at the sky, thunder rolled like a war drum. But even nature, in all her fury, couldn’t compare to the tempest in my chest.

“Then why wait?” I growled through blood. “Why not kill me ten years ago?”

He chuckled—a low, vile sound.

“Because I needed your legend. I needed your name. I needed Leon Darrow, the assassin king, the underground saint, the myth, to make me legitimate. While you were out spilling blood, I was buying cities. While you played soldier… I bought the war.”

I clenched my teeth so hard my jaw cracked.

My fists curled, trembling. Not in fear.

In rage. In grief.

“Goodbye, brother,” he whispered. “Your name, your wealth… everything will be mine. Because you, the great Leon Darrow… were naive.”

He kissed my forehead like a priest at a funeral.

And I? I burned inside. Not from the venom—but from the betrayal. I wasn’t afraid to die. I’d danced with death too many times to fear it. But this?

This hurt. This betrayal shattered me.

I felt my vision dim. The world narrows into shadow.

The storm outside still raged, thunder rolling like war drums echoing into oblivion.

If I had one more breath, I would make him bleed.

If I had one more minute, I would rip my empire back from his cowardly hands.

If I had one more second, I would carve that smirk off his smug face and show him what betrayal costs.

But Fate? Fate didn’t grant me that mercy. So as my vision turned to black, as my body finally gave in at the age of thirty-five, I let a single thought echo through the last beat of my heart:

This isn’t over.

Because men like me?

We don’t stay dead for long.