"Thanks for your purchase Sir," the jeweler said, his voice quivering with excitement. "I will put the reciept in the bag."
The bag was then handed over with both hands, the jeweler's eyes never leaving Vincente's. The concierge stepped forward and took the bag from the jeweler.
The jeweller handed him the credit card, which he took with a casual flick of his wrist.
Next, they arrived at a boutique lined with gowns, tailored suits, and couture pieces.
Vincente sat in a plush armchair, his long legs crossed as he watched Evangeline try on outfit after outfit.
One of the assistants gushed, "Mrs. Vincente, this emerald gown brings out your eyes beautifully."
Evangeline looked at herself in the mirror, the emerald fabric shimmering like a sea of money.
The neckline plunged dangerously low, revealing the hickeys that marred her collarbone.
She felt a wave of embarassment and tugged the fabric up slightly. "Thank you," she whispered. "But I think I need something...simpler."
Vincent's eyes snapped up from his phone. "Simple?" He scoffed. "You're the wife of Vincente Castellanos. You don't wear simple."
He turned to the assistant, his voice cold. "Pack all the gowns she tried on. And a few for everyday wear. Don't skimp on the shoes either."
The assistant nodded, her smile never wavering. "Of course, Mr. Castellanos."
Evangeline felt guilty for wasting so much money on something like dresses.
She took a deep breath and stepped out of the dressing room, allowing the assistant to help her remove the gown.
The fabric slithered to the floor, leaving her in her underwear once again.
She then put back on her dress.
"Everything is packed and ready, Mr. Castellanos," the assistant said, her voice a mix of excitement and fear.
She held out the bags with trembling hands. "I've included the gowns Mrs. Castellanos tried on and selected, as well as a few additional pieces for her wardrobe."
Vincent's eyes never left his phone. "Good," he said curtly. "Send them to the car."
The assistant nodded and scurried away with the bags.
Vincent remained engrossed in his phone, his brow furrowed in concentration.
The soft classical music playing in the background.
The concierge, remained outside the boutique, with the two guards of Vincente.
The assistant stepped out of the store with bags handing them to the concierge informing the Vincente Castellanos instructions.
Another assistant approached them, this one carrying credit card machine.
She was young, with wide, doe-like eyes and a nervous smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Mr. Castellanos," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "Your total comes to..." She paused, her eyes darting to Evangeline before returning to the display. "$60,200"
Vincent looked up from his phone, his gaze unreadable.
He took the card from his wallet and handed it over. The assistant took it. She then swiped it through the machine, the beep echoing through the boutique.
The total disappeared from the screen, replaced by the words "Approved." She handed the card back to him with a forced smile.
"Thank you, Mr. Castellanos," she murmured, her voice trembling.
Evangeline approached Vincente, standing quietly beside him as he tucked the card back into his wallet.
After shopping they left the mall.
The concierge and guards fell into step behind them as they exited the mall, it was almost evening.
The journey from the mall to the mansion had been a silent one.
Next day was just another normal day with usual routine.
Later at night, under the cloak of darkness, the remote area near the town buzzed with an unusual energy.
The cacophony of revving engines as the mafia's elite gathered for their twisted form of entertainment—a high-stakes bike race that was as much a display of power as it was a competition every year.
Young girls in skimpy, revealing dresses dotted the sidelines, their laughter and shouts of encouragement carrying through the night.
They had been handpicked for their beauty and obedience, and they knew better than to refuse any request from the men who surrounded them.
The prize for the race's winners was displayed on a velvet-covered table at the finish line.
Stacks of cash, banded in neat piles.
But it was the line of beautiful young women, their wrists bound with velvet ribbons that matched their outfits, that drew the most covetous glances.
Each one was a prize to be claimed by the victor, a trophy to be used and discarded as they saw fit.
Vincent Castellanos arrived at the race on his custom-built motorcycle.
The bike was a work of art, black as the night with crimson flames licking up the sides.
His gang members, their bikes a matching sea of black and red, an intimidating spectacle of loyalty and might.
Vincent dismounted with a fluid grace that belied his brutal nature.
His tall frame was clad in tight leather, molding to his muscles like a second skin.
His eyes, icy blue and piercing, surveyed the scene, his full, sensuous mouth set in a firm line.
His jet-black hair was slicked back, revealing sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw.
He wore a sleek, black racing suit with red stitching, the Castellanos crest emblazoned on his chest in fiery threads.
The crowd's cheers grew louder as he approached the starting line, a mix of fear and respect echoing through the night air.
He nodded curtly to his men, the gesture acknowledging their presence.
The girls on the sidelines watched him with a mix of terror and fascination, their eyes following his every move.
The rival Don, Don Ricci.
Don Ricci's was a gleaming chrome monster, all sharp angles and gleaming chrome, his men cheering behind.
Vincente walked over to Ricci, his boots crunching in the gravel.
Ricci's eyes narrowed as they met his, but the smile on his face was as false as the friendship between them.
They both knew that this race was more than just a contest of speed and skill; it was a battle for supremacy within the underworld.
"Good evening, Don Castellanos," Rocci said, extending his hand.
Vincent took Ricci's hand, his grip firm and unyielding. "Don Ricci," he said, his without emotion.
The man in his late thirties, the race announcer, stepped up to the podium, a microphone in hand.
His eyes flickered from one don to the other, a hint of nervousness in his smile. "Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, his voice carrying over the roar of the engines.
"Tonight, we are witness to a spectacle that will go down in history—a race that pits the mightiest of our city's dons against each other as the opening of the race."
The crowd erupted into cheers and jeers.
The Castellanos's howled in support of their leader, their fists pumping the air.
The Ricci Riders, clad in their rival gang's colors, booed and shouted insults.