4.Rodriguez Heir
1391 Words
In the same bar, inside a vip coup drenched in shadows, the man set his phone down.
His name was not for sale.
And Emma Smith had just bought something far more dangerous than his body.
She had bought his attention.
Damien leaned back, the dim light catching the sharp angles of his face. Across from him, Davis—his right-hand man and cousin—raised an eyebrow.
“What’s going on?” Davis asked, his voice laced with suspicion. “Got yourself a new flavor for the week?”
Damien chuckled, low and amused. “No. Apparently, I’m the flavor of the week.”
That threw Davis off. He blinked, confused.
Of all people, Damien wasn’t the type to be anyone’s plaything. Cold, calculated, and lethal, Damien didn’t belong to anyone. If anything, people belonged to him. Including more than half of Europe.
Davis narrowed his gaze. “What game are you playing?”
“No game,” Damien replied smoothly, lifting his glass. “Just earning some money.”
Davis gave a dry laugh. “So that’s it, huh? How much are they paying?”
He must be dealing with one of the prominent business families. That's why he took interest in that woman. And when she sat on his lap, uninvited, Damien didn't push her away. Davis thought to himself.
His mind replayed the earlier scene— Emma approaching Damien like she owned the place, sliding into his lap without permission, kissing him without fear. And Damien— who demanded control in every encounter— had let her.
No one touched Damien unless invited.
His women followed strict rules. No eye contact unless granted. No speaking unless spoken to. And certainly never touching him first.
So why hadn’t he stopped her?
“Ten grand a week,” Damien said, taking a slow sip of his drink.
Davis nearly choked. “Huh? You mean Ten billion?”
“No, I mean Ten grand. And she is the one paying me,” Damien chuckled.
Davis sat there frozen for a whole minute. Ten grand… and Damien was getting paid? Did he even hear him right?
Davis stared at him, stunned. “Wait... you’re joking, right?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” Damien asked, his tone flat and unreadable.
Davis studied his cousin like he was seeing him for the first time. “You’re telling me… some random woman walked up, offered to pay you, and you just said yes?”
Damien didn’t even blink. He swirled the liquor in his glass lazily. “She didn’t offer Davis. She insisted.”
Davis blinked, stunned. He reached for his drink and downed it in one swift motion before setting the glass down with a soft thud.
“Let me get this straight,” he said slowly, as if trying to process the absurdity. “You— Damien Rodriguez— the CEO of Rodriguez Enterprises, the King of the European underworld, the man who sends people running at the mention of his name— are getting paid ten grand a week by that woman?”
“Yep.” Damien gave a casual nod, completely unfazed.
Davis leaned back, clearly unsettled. “And you didn’t shoot her down.”
“I was curious,” Damien admitted. “She had a look in her eyes— like she was burning and freezing at the same time.”
“Desperate?” Davis guessed.
“No. Determined,” Damien corrected. “Desperate women beg. She bargained.”
“For what, exactly, she is paying for?” Davis asked, his voice low with disbelief. Nothing about this made sense. Damien wasn’t just a cold, ruthless businessman. He was a beast in human skin. A calculated predator. The devil in a tailored suit.
“To please her,” Damien replied smoothly.
Davis nearly choked. He coughed into his fist, staring at his cousin like he’d grown horns.
“Come again?” he rasped.
“To. Please. Her.” Damien repeated, slowly, his voice laced with amusement.
Davis exhaled a curse and ran a hand through his hair. “Jesus. Who the hell is she?”
Damien leaned forward, a dangerous glint in his eye as he pulled a sleek card from his pocket and slid it across the table.
“That,” he said with a smirk, “is for you to find out.”
Before Davis could ask another question, the door to the VIP lounge swung open with force.
“Boss, we’ve got company,” Enzo said, gun already in hand.
Damien didn’t even flinch. He took a slow sip of his bourbon, the amber liquid catching the low light.
“Good,” he said lazily. “Let them in, Enzo. We’ll welcome them with open arms.”
Enzo gave a curt nod and disappeared into the shadows.
Davis raised an eyebrow. “You’re in an awfully good mood today.”
“That I am.” Damien stood, his movements fluid, effortless. He pulled his gun from the holster beneath his jacket, checked the chamber with a soft click. “Who knows… I might even let them live tonight.”
A heartbeat later, chaos erupted.
A group of masked men burst into the club, guns drawn. The deep thrum of the bass was drowned by the crack of gunfire. Screams echoed from the main floor as Enzo and the others sprang into motion, moving with deadly precision.
The air filled with smoke and the sharp scent of gunpowder.
In the middle of it all, Damien remained calm—calculating, lethal.
Within moments, the bodies of intruders littered the floor, but five men with rifles had managed to flank Damien. Their movements were synchronized, tactical.
“We’ve got him locked in,” one of the masked men said over the walkie. “No exits. Target secure.”
Five rifles aimed directly at Damien, who stood unmoved at the center of the chaos. The dim lighting cast sharp shadows along his face, emphasizing the cold indifference in his eyes and the chiseled line of his jaw.
“That’s it?” Damien said, voice low and unimpressed. “Is that the best you’ve got?”
“Hands up. Now,” one of the men barked.
Instead, Damien calmly pulled a cigar from his jacket, lit it with a flick, and took a slow drag. “Let me guess... Bulgarians?”
“You’ll never know,” another growled.
Davis, still standing off to the side, sighed and rubbed a hand down his face. “Goddamn it. You idiots are dead in the next thirty seconds.”
The men hesitated. They glanced at each other, uncertain. Damien was outnumbered, boxed in—he should’ve been begging. Instead, he smiled.
“A whole thirty seconds, huh?” Damien murmured, exhaling a cloud of smoke. A wicked smile curled at the edge of his lips. “Deal.”
He dropped the cigar and crushed it beneath his boot.
Then he moved.
Everything happened in a blur.
The first shot rang out—clean, precise. The nearest man collapsed, a bullet between the eyes. Damien ducked low, pivoted, and fired again. Three more shots, three more bodies hit the floor.
A fourth man fired back—too slow. The bullet grazed Damien’s shoulder, tearing through his sleeve.
He didn’t flinch. He turned, aimed, and fired. The last gunman dropped with a thud.
Silence returned, thick and heavy.
Damien stood, adjusted his cuffs as if nothing happened and glanced at his watch.
“Twenty seconds,” he said coolly, sliding his gun back into its holster. He looked at Davis with a smirk. “You lose.”
“Clean it up,” Davis ordered the others, nodding toward the bodies. Then he stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as they landed on Damien’s shoulder.
“You’re bleeding. That was too damn close.”
Damien glanced at the wound with the same icy indifference. “It’s nothing.”
Without another word, he turned and walked out of the club, the scent of gunpowder still clinging to the air behind him.
As he reached the parking lot, his phone buzzed.
“Union hotel, room number 402. Tomorrow at 6pm.”
He couldn’t help but smile.
Emma, Emma, Emma! You have no idea where you are walking into. Let's see how long you can play this game!
- Writer
