Sam

Beneath the glittering skyline of Cardigan City, where champagne flowed like holy water and corruption masqueraded as etiquette, the mafia elite ruled from velvet lounges and penthouse balconies. Politicians smiled for cameras while taking bribes under the table. Judges attended galas hosted by the same criminals they were meant to imprison. Everyone belonged to someone eventually. And at the center of it all sat Susana, queen of her empire, surrounded by loyal soldiers, terrified associates, and her four dangerously dysfunctional children. Sam was the eldest. Which was deeply unfortunate for everyone else. While Zack inherited charm and his sisters inherited manipulation, Sam inherited something far more practical: complete emotional vacancy. He wasn’t loud. Didn’t need to be. His silence carried the weight of a coffin lid slowly closing. Most people feared him within seconds. What haunted them afterward was how polite he remained while destroying their lives. He threatened people the way hotel staff offered complimentary mints. Calmly. Professionally. Sometimes with a faint smile. Nobody had ever seen him truly angry. That was the terrifying part. Rage implied emotion. Sam operated with the detached precision of a machine built solely for intimidation. He broke bones with the same expression people used while waiting for coffee. The organization adored him because he solved problems quickly. Susana trusted him because, unlike the others, Sam never asked questions. He simply handled things. Quiet footsteps in expensive halls. Black gloves against white marble. A polite knock before catastrophe entered the room. In Cardigan City, people feared monsters who screamed. But the smart ones feared the man who whispered “please” before making someone vanish forever.