Now that everyone had left the room and there was only Anton and Max, wild thoughts started racing through Anton’s head. What exactly was Max going to do with him? Why had everything come to this?
Even now, Anton was still on his knees. He hadn’t yet gotten up from when Max had hit him in the stomach. His breathing was uneven, shallow. The metallic air of the container was hot, stale, and pressed down on him like a weight. His palms were trembling, and the dull ache in his ribs pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
When he started to think about it, didn’t his string of bad luck begin at that damned event with Sheri? That was when he had first met the redhead. Everything had gone wrong since then. His father’s expectations, his position in the family business, even his pride, each piece of his life had started to fall apart one by one.
This man in front of me right now, Anton thought, he was the one who cursed me. Everything went wrong because of him.
At first, the thoughts were just internal whispers, but then they slipped out into words. His voice was low at first, shaky, then cracked and louder.
"Why..." he muttered. "After that, all I wanted to do was get help from the Bloodline Group. It was a simple job my dad asked me to do, but everyone kept making it difficult! That damned guard, then Sheri, and you as well! Why are you here? Why are you here to ruin my life!" Anton screamed at the top of his lungs, his voice bouncing off the metal walls.
Max didn’t flinch. His shadow stretched over Anton, calm and steady even against the chaos of Anton’s words. Then he reached down, grabbing Anton by the collar and lifting him slightly. Max’s eyes were sharp, filled with something colder than anger, something closer to disappointment.
He held Anton up just long enough before swinging his hand and slapping him across the face. The sharp crack echoed through the container.
"You know," Max said slowly, his tone hard, "the more time I spend in this world, the more I realize there are a lot of arseholes like you. People who blame everyone else for their downfall rather than looking at themselves."
"What do you mean!" Anton shouted back. Even after being struck, he didn’t stop. In the desperate situation he was in, there was nothing left to lose, so he let his frustration pour out in angry, messy words.
"If only my request back then had been accepted, to see the Bloodline Group, none of this would’ve happened! Everyone wouldn’t have gotten involved in this! Look what’s happening now!" Anton shouted, his voice cracking as his emotions spiraled.
"I don’t know how you got in here, but they must’ve just let you in because they don’t care about my requests! They’re going to take us all out, including Sheri, after they get what they want! You think I have control over these people just because I sold them a few cars?"
Max stood still, just staring at the foolish man in front of him. The fact that Anton said it out loud showed that he truly believed he had some control over this entire situation. Only an idiot would think that way when dealing with people like the Black Hounds.
Seeing the lengths they would go to, did Anton really think he could manipulate or reason with them? If the Black Hounds wanted to, they could take over the entire Stale car business easily. The only reason they hadn’t was because it didn’t suit them. It wasn’t their way of making money. Taking over someone else’s company would be too messy, too public. They didn’t want to run a business, they wanted control, fear, and protection payments.
There were reasons for everything the Black Hounds did. One: forcibly taking over a company wasn’t profitable. A gang had no experience running legitimate operations. Two: the Stale family, like most wealthy families, had connections, small gangs, business partners, even government contacts. Taking them out would cause unnecessary attention. And three: the biggest risk of all, getting caught in the eye of the authorities or crossing another powerful group.
Max understood all of this. But the fool kneeling before him never could. How could he? Anton was a man shielded from the realities of life. A man who had grown up surrounded by privilege and thought the world would bend to his will.
"You think your whole life would’ve gone well?" Max asked, his voice calm but sharp. "That none of this is your fault, that it’s all because of the people around you? Do you even remember what you did when the two of us first met, despite me doing next to nothing?"
Anton blinked up at him, his mouth opening and closing without sound.
Max took another step forward and, without warning, kicked Anton square in the chest. The force lifted him slightly off the ground before he fell back with a grunt, air rushing from his lungs.
Then Max leaned down, grabbed a handful of Anton’s hair, and began to pull him up roughly. Anton groaned as he was forced to his feet, his knees scraping against the ground.
"Get up," Max said firmly. His tone carried a quiet weight that was impossible to argue with. "We’re not done here."
Anton winced, the pain from his stomach mixing with the sting of humiliation. Max’s grip on his hair tightened as he started walking toward the exit, dragging Anton along.
"Anton," Max continued, "let’s go. We’re heading out of here. Today you’re going to find out how all of this is your fault. And we’re going to stop that troublemaker of yours."
Anton stumbled forward, his mind spiraling. Every step scraped his shoes against the metal floor, the echo hauntingly loud in the small space. His scalp burned where Max’s hand gripped his hair. He wanted to shout, to protest, to somehow turn things around again. But deep down, he knew there was nothing left.
Max kept dragging him forward until the two of them disappeared from the container.