He was called “The Wicked” for many reasons.

Some were accurate, while some were drawn from mere hearsay. Some said he was the psychopath who murdered his entire family, others said he was a man who wiped out the bloodline of anyone who died with a bullet from his gun. Those who claimed to admire him would call him a tyrant, one who would do anything for power and the preservation of status, one who would betray his people if the result proved to favor his goals.

He wasn’t loyal.

He trusted no one.

He was a man, made of assumptions and truths blended to create an abominable image—but the man couldn’t be bothered about how the world perceived him.

They feared and respected him for all the reasons they hated him, and if he was being completely honest with himself, that was all that mattered.

The air was still and the smell of Cuban cigars slightly fogged the large office, courtesy of Elio Marino, whose cigar was locked between his lips while he relaxed in the visitor’s chair. His eyes were half open, thick lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones; his suit jacket was long discarded, leaving him with his black button-up and well-knotted black tie, a uniform his father had locked into his personality long before he even held a gun. “White doesn’t suit you, son, why do you think I never wear anything with bright colors? You don’t want to be stained with the sinner’s blood and let it show, do you?” his father had told him when he turned seven, and he’d worn only black since that day.