Francesa's POV

My body went stiff. This was the kind of stiff that coiled beneath your skin like a snake, waiting to strike.

The man who'd led us in leaned toward the heir and spoke in low tones. The bastard didn't even look our way. He was arrogant and relaxed. Like none of us were a threat.

Pity.

I should've slit his throat when I had the chance. Right after he made me come so hard I forgot my damn name.

My jaw ticked.

If I'd known he was the heir back then, I'd have gutted him. slowly and lovingly. Maybe hummed a lullaby while his intestines spilled out like ribbon.

How the hell did I miss this in the files? No way a face like that just slipped past me.

Pathetic.

My thoughts were cut short when the older man turned back to us and barked, "Line up."

We did.

I slid into position, a picture of calm confidence, masking the blade coiled beneath my skin. The heir's gaze swept across us with calculating, and piercing eyes. It looked bored.

He wouldn't recognize me. We'd fucked in the dark. His hands had memorized my body.

And thank fuck I wore those brown contacts. If he saw my real eyes, there'd be no mistaking it.

The aura rolling off him now was nothing like that night.

This wasn't the man who groaned into my mouth like he was starving for it. This wasn't the man who dragged my back up a wall with nothing but his grip and raw hunger. No...this man was lethal.

Deadly in a way that made your spine straighten. Cold in a way that burned.

The expression on his face was carved from stone, all power and precision. If I hadn't seen the wild twist of his mouth when he was under me and inside me, I'd think this version of him didn't even know how to feel.

But I had seen it.

That unholy look he gave me the second he lost control. The way his face contorted when he growled. Just hands, mouths, hips colliding like we were two storms built to destroy everything in our path.

And yet... here he was.

He is danger wrapped in a suit, speaking to us like we were gnats buzzing in his periphery.

"I believe most of you don't have balls in your spine," the Heir said, voice flat with disdain. "You're not here for the weight of the work. You're here for the money."

He turned his back. Always so sure no one would be stupid enough to touch him.

Arrogant bastard.

"So," he continued, pacing, "I'll give you a taste of what being a bodyguard in the De Luca Syndicate actually looks like."

He stopped walking. A slow smile tugged at his mouth, but it was hollow. Void of anything human.

"Take it as a test."

Then he walked out.

The older man beside us snapped his fingers. "Move."

We followed.

Out of the marble corridors and into a garden so massive, the hedges swallowed the sky.

The walls were tall. Dense. A living fortress of thorns and green.

Once you were in, there was no seeing the path. No climbing out.

The Heir stood near the entrance.

Staring like he could peel back our skins and see what we were really made of. His eyes found mine again, as if daring me to flinch.

I didn't.

He held that gaze for a second longer than he should have, then gave a subtle nod to the older man finally walked away.

The click of his shoes on floor was the only sound until it disappeared into nothing. Just like that, the air felt thinner.

The older man, all grit and menace, stepped forward.

"This maze," he said, voice gravel-coated, "is called the Weeping Capillary Maze."

He turned and pointed to a stack of battered crates beside the gate. Inside were old, worn switchblades and belts with single clips of bullets.

"You'll be using these for the test. A blade. And bullets. No guns."

A few men shifted, glancing at one another.

"You'll find barrels scattered in the maze," he continued. "Make it to one, survive, and maybe you'll walk out of this alive."

He walked slowly in front of us, like he was sizing up cattle before slaughter.

"Objective: survive the maze. Reach the other side."

That simple.

But I bet nothing in this place was ever just that simple.

"Some stalks in there are rigged. One wrong turn, and the maze'll slice you like meat for Sunday stew."

He chuckled, but it wasn't warm. "There are traps. False paths. You get lost, you bleed. You panic, you die."

Someone swallowed loudly.

"If you reach the other side within the hour, you're in," he finished, eyes locking on me for half a beat too long. "If you don't... well. That's your business."

My fingers flexed over the knife I'd chosen.

The older man checked his watch, then lifted his head and barked, "Your time has started."

Just like that, chaos.

The men lunged for the weapons. One by one, they vanished into the gaping mouth of the maze. I stepped in behind them, my blade tucked against my palm like an extension of my own skin.

Excitement pulsed through me.

This wouldn't be easy. I knew that. Nothing about the De Luca Syndicate ever was. But the thrill, the rush of danger pumping alongside the quiet voice in my head that told me you were built for this, it was addictive.

The path forked early. Everyone scattered like rats, desperate to find the "right" way. Fools. This wasn't about directions, it was about instinct.

I took a quieter path to the left, letting the walls swallow me. My footwear crunched softly on the gravel. Thorny vines curled from the hedges like warning fingers.

I could've gone for the kill the second I saw the heir. Slit his throat while his guard was down. But I wasn't that reckless. I'd felt his power, his force, and brute strength? I'd give him that. He could crush bones with those hands.

But other abilities? I surpass him there.

BANG!!!

A sharp crack echoed through the maze.

Gunshot. I turned toward it like a moth to flame.

As I moved, I slowed my breath. The scent hit me before I even saw it-iron, thick and metallic. Blood.

I rounded a corner and there it was. A body on the ground, twisted and still, soaked in red. One of the applicants. Young. Maybe twenty.

Dead.

And beside him, crouched with a smirk and a smoking barrel in hand, wasn't another applicant.

Matteo's POV

I leaned against the railing of the estate's upper balcony, the breeze toying with the hem of my unbuttoned black silk shirt.

Binoculars perched against my eyes, I scanned the maze garden with all the calm of a man watching Sunday cartoons, except these episodes bled.

Blood was everywhere. smudges of red on the hedge wall. A body slumped like a discarded puppet. Screams muffled by the high hedges.

I didn't bother telling the applicants everything they'd encounter. Where's the fun in that? The butler warned them it'd be dangerous.

Just enough of a disclaimer to keep the lawsuits away. Not that anyone here gave a damn about legality.

See, inside the maze, there weren't just scared little wannabes trying to prove they were worthy of the De Luca syndicate. No. I'd slipped in some rogues, traitors, loose ends, thorns in my side.

People who thought they could go against me and live to brag about it. The kind of men with grudges in their bones and death behind their eyes.

I made them a deal: kill an applicant, and maybe i will spare their lives. Mercy, after all, is such a fickle little beast.

I lifted the binoculars again, eyes sweeping over the chaos. A rogue had just fired a bullet into a boy who could have been in his twenties. It was almost laughable. The kid had tried to fight-got a solid hit in too-but he didn't stand a chance. Brute force devoured naive ambition every time.

"Pity," I muttered, watching the boy's body slump against a rusted barrel. "He'd have made a decent little waitress somewhere."

Movement to the right caught my eye. Another applicant, lean build, and sharp movements, came face to face with the same rogue who had killed the boy. They stared each other down.

I narrowed my eyes.

There was something... off. Not wrong. Familiar.

The rogue lunged. And the applicant moved.

In ten seconds flat, I watched the applicant dismantle a man twice his size. The crunch of bones-heard even from my perch-was almost musical. I leaned in closer, lips parting slightly.

Who the hell was that?

The way he fought, l the explosive grace, it reminded me of something I'd felt once. Not in a fight. In a bed.

I scoffed and lowered the binoculars, but the image of that "boy's" body language gnawed at me like smoke in the lungs.

I made a mental note right then-this one, I'd see for myself.

First time an applicant had ever pulled my focus like this, and I hated it. Distractions are for amateurs. I don't do "curiosity." Yet my grip on the binoculars tightened instead of letting them drop.

He won't last in the maze, I told myself.

And still, I watched.

The kid moved like water through the hedges, ducking just in time to avoid a tripwire strung low between two stalks. A hidden pressure plate clicked harmlessly under the heel of his boot-because he'd stepped just far enough to miss the sweet spot.

Impossible.

Every man I'd ever hired had been strong and fast. But not like this. None of them were this... flexible. This precise. And the size of him should have been a disadvantage. It wasn't. He'd already proven he could take down someone bigger without breaking a sweat.

I felt it before I noticed it-my mouth curving into a smirk. I don't smile when I work.

The applicant didn't just survive the maze, he danced through it. And finally, he stepped out from the other end of those tall, green walls.

I let the binoculars drop, the strap snapping lightly against my chest.

An hour later, I was inside my office, sifting through the stack of applicant files the butler had dumped on my desk. I wasn't looking for anyone in particular-at least, that's what I told myself-but somehow my hands stopped on one file. Franco. The interesting kid.

Excellent academic record. Physical training that put most men twice his size to shame. Flexible both in movement and thinking. The kind of background recruiters salivate over.

And I hated it. Couldn't explain why. Maybe because the neatness of it all felt like a challenge to me. Or maybe because I'd already decided I didn't like how he'd gotten under my skin in the maze.

I shut the file and headed to the courtyard.

The survivors-battered, bruised, but standing-were gathered like strays after a storm. I gave them the kind of smile that promised nothing good.

"Congratulations," I said, voice carrying just enough mockery to make a few jaws clench. "You've signed up to work in hell. If you think this was bad, pray you don't find out what worse looks like."

But my eyes weren't on the crowd. They were on Franco.

The kid stood there, shoulders squared, chest rising steadily despite the strain. His physique was lean, sculpted-not bulk, but efficiency.

And now that I saw him up close, I noticed the subtle balance in his features-male, yes, but with a certain androgynous symmetry. My mind flicked to the note in his file about it.

If Franco were a woman-

What the fuck? No.

I walked toward him anyway, stopping close enough to watch the flicker in his gaze when he realized I wasn't addressing the others anymore.

"I can't believe you survived that trial," I said, letting my voice drop low.

What I wasn't expecting was for him to meet my eyes with no fear, no deference. Just anger. A quiet, burning anger that I couldn't place. Was he furious about the trial? About the blood?

I tilted my head. "What's the matter? Wary of blood?"

His answer came sharp, almost amused. "Not in the slightest."

And there it was-that same pull I'd felt watching him fight. That magnetic friction that made my fingers itch.

I didn't understand the sudden urge to wrap my hand around his neck-not to break it. Just to feel the pulse under my palm. To test how long he'd keep looking at me like that.

I let my gaze rake over him.

"Even though you passed," I said, my tone all teeth behind silk, "even though you were the first to cross the finish line... that doesn't make you better than the others."

"It does," he shot back. The words landed clean, cutting through the air between us.

My brow ticked up. "Bold."

I closed the space, my face now inches from his. The scent hit me first-under the iron tang of blood and the grit of dust, something else threaded in. Subtle, intoxicating, maddeningly familiar. I knew this scent. I'd breathed it in once before.

Not my concern.

"What makes you think that?" I asked, voice dropping low enough to taste the challenge in it.

"I just know it."

He didn't miss a beat. The clap back was sharp, cutting in a way that made my lips twitch with the ghost of a smile.

I stepped back-not because he'd won anything, but because that scent was starting to mess with my head.

Beneath all the chaos of the courtyard, my mind kept reaching for the memory of violet eyes and a night I hadn't been able to shake. The only woman I'd ever let pin me down.

And now here I was, staring at a man.

I forced my focus back to him, my smirk sharpening. "Since you're so sure of yourself, Franco... you're going on another challenge."

His eyes narrowed. "What is it?"

I let the pause stretch until it was almost uncomfortable, then let the answer drop like a blade.

"A one-on-one."

I tilted my head, enjoying the weight of the words.

"With me."

Franco's POV (francesa)

Il Campo di Sangue.

The name of the field we were to fight on.

Blood and soil, a canvas made for me to paint in red.

I smiled slowly, letting him see just enough of my teeth to make it unclear if it was amusement... or hunger.

"I love the name," I purred, my voice low, savoring the syllables as if they were already dripping with his blood.

In my head, I saw it clearly-his body folded under me, his breath rattling as I drove the life out of him. The great Matteo, brought to his knees in his own sacred field.

Would I survive him? Maybe not. His strength radiated off him in waves, a predator's dominance. But arrogance was my armor, and cruelty was sharper than steel. If I could not overpower him, I could unmake him. Break him from the inside out.

I tilted my head, feigning curiosity, but every word was a sharpened barb.

"Are we using weapons," I asked, voice slow, deliberate, "or are you too much of a pussy to stand with only your hands?"

His jaw flexed. For the briefest flicker, I saw his composure tremble-just enough to make my lips twitch in dark satisfaction.

"You'll regret it," he said, stepping closer, his shadow falling over me like a threat. "You'll be begging for the weapons."

I grinned wider, stretching the expression until it was almost a sneer.

The butler's voice broke the tension, his tone neutral, clinical. "Are the contenders ready?"

I bit down on the mouthguard, the bitter taste of rubber mixing with the iron tang already on my tongue. My hands tightened into fists, the wrap snug and familiar.

The whistle cut the air.

Matteo moved first. Too fast. Faster than I expected. A blur of muscle and fury closing the space like a storm.

I dodged at the last second, breath sharp, the rush of wind from his strike brushing past my cheek.

"What the fuck-" I hissed under my breath, adrenaline spiking. He wasn't just strong. He was a monster in motion.

I pivoted, ready to counter, but his fist met me square in the chest before I could slip away.

I felt a pure crushing impact.

The world jolted sideways as I was thrown back, air ripped from my lungs, bones humming with the force. My footwear skidded in the dirt, my body catching itself just before I hit the ground.

Pain bloomed, sharp and electric, across my ribs.

The last time I'd been hit like that-knocked off my center, sent flying-was years ago. Years. And I'd sworn then that no one would ever do it to me again.

Yet here I was, breathless, body thrumming, staring at Matteo with a slow, feral grin stretching across my face.

"Oh," I rasped, spitting blood to the ground like an offering, "I'm going to enjoy killing you."

Matteo's smug look twisted sharper, his voice a bass growl.

"What did you say?"

But I had no interest in answering with words. My reply came sharp and fast-fists slicing through the space, the hiss of my breath syncing with every strike.

He met me, blow for blow, the ground beneath us trembling with the rhythm of our violence.

His punches were brutal. Each one carried the kind of weight that could end a lesser man. They cracked through the air with enough force to rattle bone, to break ribs, to shut down lungs. And still, I refused to fall.

I cut low, my body coiling like a predator, sweeping for his legs-fast, vicious, intending to tear him down from his arrogant height. He twisted, graceful as sin, evading by the skin of his teeth.

He snapped right back, dropping low to scythe at my legs, a brutal hook meant to crush me to the dirt. My body bent backward, spine singing, slipping from his reach by a breath.

Dust spiraled around us, the crowd's hush thick with anticipation.

Matteo's eyes glinted. "Not bad. Most men crumble after my first strike. But you-" he tilted his head, almost admiring, "you're still standing."

I barked a laugh, sharp and mocking. "Those?" I spat blood, tongue savoring the metallic taste. "Those aren't punches. I've had sparring dummies hit me harder without even trying."

His gaze dropped to the crimson streak smeared against my lips.

"Funny. Because that same punch has you bleeding all over the field."

My heart thudded, not from fear, but from the wildfire racing through my veins. Blood sang in me. Muscles burned alive. My body was screaming. But my arrogance didn't give a damn.

He thought I was just another opponent, another challenger to break beneath his fists. But I wasn't. I was something else. Something he had no idea he'd invited into the ring.

And with a low, dangerous chuckle, I straightened, shoulders rolling back, eyes flashing with feral light.

"Do you think blood frightens me?" I purred, voice slicing between us. "I was baptized in it."

My fists rose again.

I lunged, reckless and precise, but Matteo's fist slammed into my ribs before I could twist away. A sickening crack rippled through me, pain flaring white-hot.

He grinned like the devil himself, voice slick with venom.

"I've been taking it easy on you, little man. But let me show you why they whisper my name like a curse." His gaze flicked to my face, lips curling with disdain. "That androgynous mug of yours? Don't worry-I'll fix it. My punches don't just change destinies... they rearrange faces. Maybe after tonight, you'll finally look like the man you're pretending to be."

My heart skipped a beat. No. It couldn't be fear. I refused to name it fear.

I couldn't lose. Not when I hadn't even begun my mission.

Matteo's shadow loomed, his fists hungry. I twisted, ducked, dodged, his laughter following me like a cruel echo.

"What happened to the smug Franco?" he taunted, fists striking the air inches from my face. "Where's that sharp tongue now, huh? Gone soft already?"

My breaths came short, ragged, every step of retreat stoking the fire in my chest.

My ribs screamed with every breath, the dull throb threatening to splinter into something far worse. If it broke further, if I collapsed, I'd be dragged off to the infirmary or-gods forbid-the hospital. And then? Then my identity exposed.

But one faltering thought was all it took, and he was on me.

He lunged, taking me down. The ground slammed into my spine, and in an instant he straddled me, raining blows.

I raised my arms, elbows locked, blocking, covering my face as his fists hammered down. Every strike rattled my bones, each one a promise of the storm still to come.

No. I wouldn't go down like this.

His next punch reared back-and I snapped forward, fist striking first.

The crack of impact silenced the ring.

Matteo's head snapped aside, blood spraying from his lip. He froze, then turned back slowly, eyes burning into mine. For a breath, the world held still.

And in that stillness, memory betrayed me. This wasn't the first time I'd been beneath him like this. That one night flooded back. His hands hadn't been fists then. His weight hadn't been a cage. And gods help me, it had been the most breathtaking, maddening, consuming thing I had ever felt.

Why the hell am I thinking about that now?

I braced for his final blow, ready to feel my bones shatter beneath it.

But instead-Matteo spat blood across my face. His jaw clenched, eyes unreadable, and without a word, he pushed off me and walked away.

The silence was deafening. Every gaze burned into me, shock heavy in the air.

A sharp whistle split the stillness.

The butler stepped forward, his voice as calm as it was cutting. "The fight is over." His eyes swept me, lingering with something like disdain before he added, "Mildly impressed, Franco. But don't ever try this shit again."

I won't. Not like this.

If I ever kill Matteo, it will be when I have the upper hand, when I can control the blade, the silence, the way his breath leaves his chest. But brawling like an idiot in the open? Never again. That little fantasy gets crossed off the list permanently.

I pushed myself up, ribs aching with every movement. Pain radiated through my chest, sharp and relentless, but I forced my body to stand tall. The butler stepped forward and pressed a small card into my palm.

"This is to your room," he said flatly, already turning.

I followed him, each step stabbing through my ribs, the burn of humiliation heavier than the injury. When we reached the first floor, he paused, his voice carrying authority that brooked no argument.

"Each floor here has its own hierarchy," he explained. "Since you're a new recruit, you'll remain on the first floor." His eyes flicked toward me, hard and cutting. "But remember this-anyone can be promoted, or demoted, depending on the level of shit they pull. Don't do more than you should."

His gaze lingered like a blade at my throat before he finally walked away.

I stared down at the card. My hands shook slightly-pain, exhaustion, anger, all blurring together-before I followed the numbers to the door that matched. The lock clicked open when I swiped it.

The room was ordinary. Plain walls, a single bed, a desk shoved against the corner. Nothing impressive, nothing comfortable. The kind of space meant to remind you exactly where you stood in the pecking order: at the bottom.

I staggered inside, every breath dragging fire through my ribs. I clutched at them instinctively, teeth gritted, before sinking onto the bed.

My chairman wouldn't be pleased if he learned I'd managed to get myself broken on the very first day. So I wouldn't tell him. Not ever, if I could help it.

The knock at the door jolted me upright. My body tensed, and I moved with caution, opening it just enough to see who it was.

And my heart stopped.

Standing there, holding first aid supplies, was the last face I expected to ever see again.

Antonio.

My ex. The man who shattered me into a thousand pieces and left me to bleed.

I froze, staring at him, every old scar burning open.