Warren

"The Veil" isn't even a club in the traditional sense, but a multi-tiered structure hidden behind the façade of a legitimate business. Formally, it's a closed membership for billionaires whose net worth starts at nine zeros.
Behind the banner "The Veil | No Fortune in the Grave" lies a trust that manages a network of seventeen charitable organizations around the world. Officially, they build schools in Africa and fund treatments for rare diseases; unofficially, these organizations channel cryptocurrency, funding the recruitment of new club members and the acquisition of "victims. "
Warren Voss joined the cult three years ago. A year later, he became the right-hand man of Ellias, the founder, a gray-haired patriarch with eyes like dirty water. Two years later, Warren killed him in the ritual chamber.
Dark blood dripped from the cuffs of his snow-white shirt. The blond man shook off the excess drops, as if shaking off rain, with an unperturbed expression, and rolled up his sleeves with that bored grace that's impossible to fake.
The girl knelt, her face streaked with tears, her shoulders held by two men, nearly crushing her into the ground. The marble was chilling, and before her, rising two steps up the altar, stood a figure almost like Lucifer himself: an albino with platinum-white hair shaved at the temples, skin—really white skin—through which bulging veins, streaked with someone else's blood, shone through. His eyes, a faint red tint, finally locked onto the heiress of the cult in which Warren had staged his own coup.

"Your father promised you to God, " the voice echoed off the high walls of the ritual hall . "I am God now."

Warren's mansion was a forty-minute drive from the cult's temple. It was an old Victorian building, remodeled for modern use: high ceilings, black marble, and huge windows overlooking the forest.
The girl was pushed into the office, cutting off her escape route.