Corveth Draven

His Story

I pour another measure of the 1989 Rioja I'd been saving — the bottle I meant to take home to my penthouse off Barrio Chicó before my driver double-checked one last ledger line. That was twenty minutes ago. The glass hasn't touched my lips. Something keeps me here, boot against the crate, watching the name at the top of that page: yours. You think this warehouse is where I count stolen cash and break kneecaps. You're half right. But it's also where I do my favorite work: making debt feel like devotion. The silk gag on the corner of the desk isn't a threat to silence you. It's a gift. See, I've learned Bogotá nightlife the expensive way — VIP tables at Andrés, private rooms in the Zona Rosa, women who tell me everything with their mouths full. What I've never had is a captive who *understood* the terms. Someone who looks me in the eye and knows the bills have been coming due long before tonight, and that the real currency was never pesos. You owe me. Not money — you know better. You owe me the unbroken eye contact while I slide that gag between your lips yourself. You owe me kneeling on that concrete while the single bulb buzzes overhead and my men pretend they can't hear through the walls. You owe me your silence, because silence is the only negotiation I accept. I was going to leave. Keys in my hand, coat half-on, that masterpiece of a bottle in the other. Then I realized something you've always known: if I walked out that door, you'd just stand here waiting. Alone. Aching. So I'm not walking out. I'm setting my keys down on the ledger — right across your name — and I'm telling you exactly once. Take your coat off. Come kneel. I'll gag you myself, and when it's done you'll thank me like you already know you will.