Five Brutal Kings 2

Clinton woke up feeling cold and shivery. He yawned and threw off the covers. Today was the day he had set aside to inspect the acres of land he planned to purchase for his dream penthouse. He had bought the one he currently lived in just a week ago—mainly because of its ocean view, something he couldn't resist. Clinton had always loved penthouses. They matched his taste, his style.

Everything for the trip was already planned. The helicopter and pilots were likely waiting for him and his friends. The architects were ready to discuss the structure of the building. He had made it clear to them—this penthouse wasn't just another investment. It was going to be his home, and it had to be nothing short of perfect.

He yawned again and walked over to switch off the air conditioner, which had kept him freezing all night. His throat felt dry, and he was in desperate need of a hot cup of coffee. Rubbing his eyes, he reached for the bell and rang for the housekeeper. A soft knock came at the door moments later. Clinton smirked, pleased with the prompt response.

Shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, he crossed his legs on the bed and said in a low, indifferent voice, "Come in."

A chubby woman in a blue uniform stepped inside, her hands clasped behind her back. She kept her gaze fixed on the plush white carpet beneath her feet, never once meeting his eyes.

"Coffee," Clinton said simply.

"Sure, Sire. Right away, Sire," she responded hurriedly, turning to leave.

"Make sure it's hot. And milk is a top priority," he added, his tone firm. He hated mistakes, especially when it came to his preferences.

"Of course, Mister," she said before disappearing through the door.

Clinton listened to her footsteps fade before picking up his phone. As soon as he entered his password, a long list of missed calls popped up on the screen. He had gone to the nightclub with Harrison and David the previous night but had left early, heading straight to bed without eating or even changing out of his clothes.

The club had been too loud, too crowded. After an hour, he had had enough. No goodbyes, no explanations. Just another ghost exit. It was something he did often—once at an event hosted by Samuel's mother, twice at his own party, and again at David's birthday. He simply left when he'd had his fill, never caring if anyone noticed.

He scrolled through his messages, smirking at Harrison's complaints. One text was a curse for ditching them again; another was a half-hearted check-in. Where the hell did you go? Answer your phone. David, on the other hand, hadn't texted at all. He rarely did.

His mother's number appeared among the missed calls, more times than usual. Clinton frowned. She barely called, and when she did, it was never more than once or twice.

Was she calling about the money he withdrew for the apartment? He had taken a substantial sum from the company's account and ensured all the paperwork was handled. His mother always had a say in money matters—every transaction needed her approval. Or maybe she was just reminding him that school was starting soon. That wouldn't be surprising either.

His thumb hovered over her number before he sighed and dialed. The phone rang once before her familiar voice cut through.

"I'm shocked you called back. Didn't think you would." Her tone was sharp. "Where are you? You had me and your sisters worried sick yesterday. Your friends called, asking if I knew where you were. How would I? You always do whatever you want."

Clinton rolled his eyes, biting back a sigh. He might have ended the call if she hadn't mentioned his father was back and wanted the family together for dinner.

"You wouldn't want me to tell him about the large sum you took from the company account and wasted on something useless. We already have houses, Clinton—three in uptown, two in the villa. The Long Island estate isn't even fully occupied…"

Now she was scolding him. Frustration tightened her voice. Mrs. Cornell, the company manager, monitored every transaction. If money left the account, she knew.

"What is wrong with you?" she snapped. "You always act on impulse. Why did you buy that apartment? Fine, if you want to be alone, that's your choice, but stop making reckless decisions."

"Are you done?" Clinton's voice was flat, his patience thin. His head was starting to pound. He wasn't in the mood for this.

"You should stop spending money just because you have it. Be home for dinner tonight."

The line went dead before he could respond. Clinton exhaled sharply. He hated when she hung up first.

Going home was the last thing he wanted, but he also didn't want unnecessary drama. If skipping dinner meant being grounded or having his plans delayed, then it wasn't worth it.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

"Your coffee, sir," came the housekeeper's voice.

"Come in," Clinton replied.

She entered, carrying a steaming cup on a tray. "Just as you requested," she said professionally, setting it down on the table.

Clinton nodded in acknowledgment. She bowed slightly before leaving.

He walked to the table, eyes drifting to the window. The ocean stretched endlessly, its waves moving in a slow, rhythmic dance. He never tired of the sight. Taking a sip of the coffee, he let out a satisfied sigh. It was good—rich, smooth, just how he liked it. Four gulps later, the cup was empty.

Then his phone beeped.

David.

A smirk touched his lips as he answered.

Later That Evening

"Don't sit on my couch like that."

Clinton's voice was sharp, cutting through the quiet of his penthouse. The girl on the couch flinched, startled. The curtains were drawn, and the soft lighting cast a tranquil glow over the modern space. White cushions matched the pristine walls, accented by elegant art pieces. Clinton valued fine art, making it a point to update his collection weekly. He refreshed his surroundings as often as he did his wardrobe.

Gabriella, sipping juice and watching a series, hurriedly straightened. Her pulse quickened. Had she done something wrong? She had only crossed her legs and leaned back.

"I—I'm sorry," she stammered. "I was just waiting for—"

Clinton's eyes narrowed. "Who the hell are you?"

She swallowed hard. "My mother is a housekeeper here, sir. I— I didn't mean to—"

Her voice faltered as she reached for her tumbler. It slipped from her hand. The juice spilled, a dark stain seeping into the white rug.

Silence.

Then—

"What the—" Clinton's temper flared. His jaw clenched as he stared at the mess. "Get out of my house. Who is your mother? She's fired!"

Gabriella's breath hitched. "No, please!" she pleaded, dropping to her knees. "Don't fire my mom. It was my fault, not hers."

Clinton's glare didn't waver. "You irritate me, and I don't take back my words. Security!"

Her eyes widened in horror as the command left his lips.