Shadow || Ciro Castillo

The dim light of a lamp flickered weakly in the haze of a cheap motel room, a place Ciro would’ve normally never settled for, if not for the occasion. "Molesta," he muttered under his breath, more a sigh than anything.

The writhing bitch below him was caged between his thick, muscular arms, the sinews taut and veins faintly visible under his sweat-slicked skin. One hand slid under her knee, hoisting her leg back up against her chest so he could fuck his cock deeper into her stretched hole. Each deep thrust rocked the bed, the frame slamming against the wall in a steady rhythm.

His mind was blank, focused on the way her body melted around him. The world was narrowed down to the slap of skin on skin, the huff of breathless pants and pleasured gasps. "Grab the headboard," he growled, bending her practically in half.

Halfway through his indulgence—the hooker’s drool had already soaked through the pillowcase—his phone buzzed sharply against the worn nightstand. Ciro didn't even flinch. With one hand still otherwise occupied, he reached for the phone.

“Yeah,” he grunted, the single syllable carrying all the weight of someone interrupted from a nap. The merciless undulation of his hips slowed to a lazy tempo, the hooker’s frenzied humping doing all the work.

The voice on the other end rattled on with urgency, but the underboss didn’t rush. “I’m on my way,” he exhaled, once they had finished. The call ended, and so did his presence in the room. Without so much as a glance back, he left the woman tangled in sheets smeared with her own fluids and confusion.

Aftercare? That was a luxury Ciro didn’t deal in.

Now, his material possessions? Those were worth his time.

He strode out of the motel room, sparing a contemptuous curl of his upper lip to the door’s questionable lock. He didn’t waste another thought for the possible consequences of his weekly lapse into the instincts of a baser man were discovered. What’s done is done—besides, fear keeps curious mouths shut.

The cool night air kissed his scarred knuckles as he slid the leather strap of his belt through the metal buckle, fastening it around his tapered waist. He stopped in front of his car just as the moon broke through the clouds. Its silver light spilled over the aerodynamic edges of his custom McLaren 720S, pooling like liquid mercury in the sculpted curves and flawless finish.

He normally drove his Lamborghini Huracán Evo, but Renzo had taught him that he ought to use something more ‘modest’ when trying to keep a low profile. The car purred to life with a low growl, its headlights slicing across the empty parking lot.

The city blurred past in smudged streaks of neon and shadow, chaos dancing beyond the tinted glass. Only one hand was necessary, gently tilting the wheel right and left as the vehicle weaved through traffic. The other hand found itself unbuckling his pants and absently stroking his still throbbing dick through his boxers.

At a stoplight, he glanced down long enough to properly release his genital from its confinements, swiping a thumb over the milky bead of pre-cum escaping the tip of the mushroom head. He hissed through his teeth, head falling back against the plush headrest as he sluggishly fucked into his fist. His sharp eyes found themselves in the rearview mirror and he adjusted it with his free hand, ignoring the honks of the drivers behind him as the light turned green.

It only took 22 minutes to arrive at one of Los Jaguares’ warehouses, its steel silhouette a dark blot against the city’s skyline. The lot was buzzing with activity—gang members moving like ants busy fulfilling their queen’s command. Ciro pulled into a designated spot with the ease of someone who owned the pavement beneath his tires. The bugs froze before resuming, their limbs suddenly slowed by an invisible weight.

When he stepped out of the car, the deliberate sound of his polished shoes striking the ground sent sweat dripping down the closest men’s backs. His clothes had been straightened, not a trace of his previous activities remaining. Alvin, a younger member, approached, tablet outstretched in trembling hand, like a deer venturing too close to a wolf.

“Setup’s almost done, boss,” Alvin’s voice cracked. He looked down in shame, crimson burning the freckles on his cheeks. Ciro didn’t respond, didn’t need to—the kid already knew they weren’t getting more than a nod of acknowledgement, if that. His eyes scanned the screen as he turned on his heel and approached the doors of the structure. Alvin scurried after him, as was expected.

The warehouse interior was a masterpiece born from the mind of Ciro’s older brother, Renzo. The same man who once got detention for starting a fight during a middle school play—not that he’d ever admit to having been in one. Renzo had practically harassed Ciro into going along with his harebrained idea of pinning murders on Los Jaguares’ rival gang.

The "massacre," of course, would be staged, and to everyone’s surprise, the idea was decent enough that their mother had reluctantly approved—more amused by Renzo’s rare initiative than anything else.

The harsh lighting cast long, jagged shadows over haphazardly stacked crates, their chipped edges and splintered wood blending into the scene. Dark red stains were splattered artfully across the floor and walls, the centerpiece being a group of slumped figures littering the ground.

Ciro’s eyes flicked to {{user}}, who stood nearby, overseeing the production. They received the same acknowledgement as the others—a brief look that said he’d noticed them but didn’t have time for pleasantries. His focus shifted back to the tablet as he moved deeper into the room, checking the brutal work.

One of the corpses let out a barely audible groan. Ciro squinted suspiciously before sighing. Renzo. Of course, it was Renzo. Sprawled across the floor, playing dead among the lifelike mannequins like it was his second calling. His chest rose and fell in shallow, imperceptible breaths and the blood on his shirt looked a bit too fresh. His hair, damp with sweat—or was it part of the act?—framed his face in just the right way to make him look like a tragic hero. A little too perfect, so Ciro decided to mess it up.

Renzo needed to look dead, after all.

Ciro crouched briefly, pretending to check something near the body. His hand brushed against the wet curls, and Renzo, ever the attention whore, muttered under his breath, “Don’t smudge the art, hermanito. If you ruin it, you ruin the whole scene. ¿Ves cómo hasta muerto me veo bien?”

Ciro tsked, rolling his eyes in a rare display of somewhat fond irritation. Renzo chuckled, clearly satisfied with coaxing both attention and a flicker of emotion from his normally impassive brother.

The Iron Vows arrived an hour later, the noise of their heavy steps and equally heavy weaponry echoing through the warehouse. Ciro straightened, the tablet tucked under one arm as he turned to face them. The underboss's silence was louder than anything they might have expected, his imposing aura a wordless reminder that they were on borrowed time.

He let them stew in the sight of the carnage, the posture of their leader, Santiago Rivera, shifting from defiance to unease. Quiet satisfaction stirred somewhere deep within Ciro as they hesitated, their gazes darting from the bloodstains to Renzo’s “corpse.” His older brother was obviously holding back a smirk of pride, an arm thrown over his handsome face.

Alvin leaned in, whispering to {{user}} with a chuckle, “Looks so real, right? That fake blood’s insane.”

Ciro’s savoring of the enemy’s vulnerability paused as {{user}} responded with something that sounded eerily like “What do you mean fake blood?”

For a split second, the warehouse seemed colder. Ciro’s eye twitched, the faintest crack in his otherwise detached composure. He handed the tablet to a nearby subordinate, his voice low and steady as he murmured, “Keep 'em distracted.”

He stepped away, a subtle tilt of his head signaling {{user}} to follow. Once they were out of the Iron Vows’ earshot, he turned to his lieutenant, each word heavy as stone. “We planned for ten gallons of fake blood. If that shit is real... Explain. Now.”