Business was one thing. Power was another.
But in Holloway City, true dominance wasn't built in boardrooms or written on contracts.
It was carved out of chaos. Paid in blood.
And tonight, Damien Voss was ready to collect.
The Arrival of a Predator
The heart of Holloway's criminal world beat beneath the city.
Not in secret.
In plain sight.
The Inferno Club was its altar. Neon-drenched, pulsing with sin. Music throbbed like a heartbeat—heavy, relentless. Cigarette smoke curled through the air like whispers from the dead. Men in designer suits and deadlier reputations drank, danced, and dealt.
And at the center of it all, behind velvet ropes and layers of security, sat him.
Sergio Montoya.
The name alone made lowlifes flinch. A man who once drowned a rival in the pool of his own nightclub. Who wore silence like armor and violence like a crown.
And now, that crown sat uneasy.
Because Damien Voss had just walked in.
Sergio watched him approach, eyes narrowing. "You've got balls coming here," he muttered, voice smooth but edged with steel. "But I don't know if that makes you brave—or stupid."
Damien didn't answer right away. He moved through the crowd like a shadow in daylight. Calm. Focused. Dressed in a black suit that looked untouched by the chaos around him.
He stopped just short of Sergio's booth, ignoring the armed men flanking the kingpin.
"You're not the first man to think I was stupid," Damien said evenly. "None of them are breathing anymore."
Sergio raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching into a grin. "Cute. But there's a difference between boardroom threats and street rules. This is my world."
Damien tilted his head. "That's the problem."
A long pause.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," Damien said, stepping forward, "your world now answers to me."
Laughter erupted from the men at Sergio's side.
"Is that right?" Sergio leaned back, twirling the whiskey in his glass. "You think this is some kind of takeover? You think you can just walk in here and start barking orders?"
"I'm not barking," Damien said.
"I'm claiming."
The smile dropped from Sergio's face.
"You just signed your death warrant."
He raised his hand.
And snapped his fingers.
A Throne Built on Blood
The first man moved fast—years of muscle memory, trained violence.
It wasn't fast enough.
Damien ducked under the strike, pivoted, and sent a savage elbow into the attacker's ribs. The crack echoed louder than the bassline. The man dropped like a puppet with cut strings.
Another rushed with a knife—sloppy, desperate.
Damien caught his wrist mid-swing, yanked it down, and drove the blade into the man's own gut. Blood spilled onto the dance floor like spilled wine.
A third had a pistol. Rookie mistake.
Damien turned just as the gun raised—grabbed the wrist, twisted until it snapped with a sickening pop. The weapon fired wildly, catching one of Sergio's men in the neck.
Screams now. Panic everywhere.
But Damien moved with elegance. Violence was his language. Precision, his punctuation.
Two came from behind. He spun between them, knocked one out cold with the butt of a stolen pistol, then shot the other clean between the eyes.
Four more.
Then three.
Then none.
The floor was slick with blood. Broken bodies groaned. Some didn't.
And Damien?
Not a scratch.
He stood in the center of the chaos like a man stepping out of legend. Calm. Composed.
Sergio sat frozen. His entire security team—the best money could buy—was gone. Slaughtered in under a minute.
Damien walked forward. Slow. Measured.
He stepped over a body, then another, until he stood eye to eye with the man who once ruled this world.
A Crown Earned
"You… you think this changes anything?" Sergio hissed, trying to steady his breath. "You think blood makes you king?"
"No," Damien replied.
"Survival does."
He grabbed Sergio by the collar, yanked him to his knees. The club had gone deathly quiet. The music had stopped. Every eye in the room watched as the old king was humbled.
Damien reached into his coat.
A gun?
No.
A cigar.
He lit it slowly, the flame dancing against his cheekbones. Smoke curled around his face as he took a long, deliberate pull.
Then he exhaled—right into Sergio's face.
"You built your empire on fear," Damien said softly. "You ruled because no one dared to stand against you."
He paused.
"Look around."
Sergio did.
Bodies.
Silence.
Witnesses.
And not a soul lifting a finger to stop Damien Voss.
"You belong to me now," Damien said. "Or you disappear. Permanently."
Sergio clenched his jaw.
A lifetime of pride battled his survival instinct.
But it was no contest.
"…I belong to you," he muttered.
"Louder."
Sergio's voice cracked.
"I belong to you."
Damien nodded once. "Good."
He released him, and Sergio slumped forward, coughing.
From the shadows, new figures emerged. Observers. Associates. Rival lieutenants. All watching. All calculating.
Damien turned to face them.
"Tell your people," he said. "Tell every gang, every runner, every kingpin in this city—"
His voice dropped, hard as stone.
"—The Underworld has a new king."
Not one dared to challenge it.
Not tonight.