William had learned one thing early: his father never forgave mistakes.
Not from strangers. Not from business partners. Not even from his own blood.
He was fourteen the first time he saw it up close. Not just the threat of violence, but the full weight of what it meant to defy Santos Davenport.
The room had smelled like expensive cigars and aged whiskey. Golden light flickered against the crystal glasses, distorting the shadows of the men seated around the poker table. William had been standing by the bookshelf, silent, because he knew boys who spoke too much in his father's company didn't stay alive for long.
The man across from Santos was sweating. Not heavily, not yet. But there was a tightness in his jaw, a stiffness in his shoulders. He was losing.
"I just need more time," the man said.
Santos swirled his drink. "I've already given you more than enough."
William's fingers curled into his sleeves. He had seen his father like this before, but something was different tonight.
The man swallowed. "Santos, please—"
Santos set his glass down, the quiet click cutting through the thick air. He leaned forward, his expression as smooth as ever. Calm. Controlled.
"I don't do second chances."
The man flinched.
Santos tilted his head slightly. "Do you know why?"
No answer. The man's throat bobbed.
Santos smiled, like a man explaining something very simple to a child. "Because second chances teach people that failure is negotiable. And it isn't."
The man barely had time to move before the guards were on him. One yanked him from his seat. The other slammed him against the table so hard the glasses rattled.
William didn't flinch.
He had stopped flinching a long time ago.
Santos rose from his chair, adjusting his cufflinks. He didn't look at the man struggling beneath his guards. He didn't acknowledge the panicked breaths, the stammering pleas. He simply took his jacket from the back of the chair and said, "Make sure he doesn't walk out of here."
Then he left.
William followed. He didn't turn back.
But hours later, when he walked past that same room and saw the blood wiped clean from the polished floors, he understood.
Some debts weren't paid in money.
And Santos Davenport had never believed in mercy.