Summer POV

The morning light finds me through a crack in the roof and hits my face like a slap. My mouth tastes of metal and cheap liquor. I breathe shallow, feeling the ache that lives in my bones after last night. I reach for the small white pills on the cracked table and swallow two without water. I close my eyes.

"I can't have a baby now," I tell the empty room. My voice sounds small, but I say it like I mean it.

My house is wood and old nails. The floor bows where I sleep. Rats make nests in the corner and their eyes shine when the light moves. Cockroaches scatter whenever I move. The walls are thin; I can hear everything outside, people coughing, someone beating a tin pot, the low rumble of a radio. All the houses here lean into each other like tired people on a bench. None of them are safe. None of them are clean.

I stand and my legs make a small cracking sound. I wrap my thin sweater around my shoulders. I push open the door and the smell of morning hits me, smoke, fried oil, wet dust. People poke their heads out. A child yells, then stops. A woman watches from the next house with her arms crossed. Everyone knows everyone's business. Everyone knows my name when trouble walks by.

Then I hear the voice. A high, scared voice that rips the air.

"Don't hurt me, please! Please don't-"

The syllables tumble out of the child's mouth raw and breaking. I don't think. I run.

The alley is a jumble of broken furniture and plastic bags. The man stands hunched, one hand on the small boy's shoulder, the other lifted. The boy's face is wet with tears, and fear. His lip is split. He's small, no more than seven. The man's knuckles are white from holding on too tight.

"Hey!" I shout. My voice is rough. Heads turn. The man looks up and his face goes still when he sees me. For a moment I feel the whole alley watching, waiting to see what I'll do. There is a small smile creeping from some faces, danger is entertainment here. But the boy is not entertainment.

The man blinks, like my name hit him. "Summer," he sneers. "This isn't your business-"

"It is now." I walk toward them slow. My steps make the stones grind. "Let him go."

"You don't tell me what to do," he says, voice low. He pushes the boy's shoulder so the child stumbles. The boy cries out. My hands tighten into fists at my side. I can feel the cold part of me waking up, that black, bright thing that loves to break people.

"Touch him again and I'll break your arm," I say, low and flat.

He laughs, but it's a high, thin sound. "You think you can-?"

I don't give him time to finish. I move like I always move when it has to be done quick, fast and silent at first, then raw. I step in, grab the man's wrist. He pulls away and jabs at my face. I take the hit on my cheek. Pain fires sharp and quick; I taste blood at the corner of my mouth. It makes me see clearer. The man swings again. I block, my forearm takes it. My skin stings. My whole body hums.

"Get off me!" he grunts.

"You get off him!" I spit back.

We strike each other like we mean it. He's bigger by weight, but I have speed and the kind of cold hunger that comes from being pushed too many times. He swings a bottle; it misses. I duck, and his elbow cracks into the wooden post. He roars and charges. I sidestep, pull his arm out, and twist it behind him. His breath pops loud. People shout, some egging, some begging us to stop.

"Stop! You're hurting him!" someone cries.

I hear it like a bell and it steadies me. I focus on the boy. He's watching with wide, scared eyes, his small hands pressed to his chest. I lower my voice. "Run," I tell him. "Go now. Don't look back."

He bolts, tiny feet hitting the dirt. He disappears between two houses. For a second I stand with the man curled at my knees, his face red, sweat running into the grime on his temples. He spits and swings at my head. I catch his wrist again, then my knee lands in his gut. He doubles over. I press my thumb into the soft place under his chin and push his face up so he looks at me.

"You hear me?" I say, voice cold as glass. "Leave him alone. Tell anyone you got business with him and I'll make sure you forget how to stand."

His eyes go wide. There is real fear lighting up behind them now, not the anger before. He reaches for a pocket and pulls out a scrap of paper with a name and a number. His hands shake so hard the paper crumples.

"Please," he says now, small like the boy was. "Please, Summer-"

"Say sorry to him," I tell him. "And when you come back, I'll find you. You better remember this."

He nods like a man drowning. He stumbles away, clutching his side, leaving the alley like someone carrying a beating inside his skin. People start to breathe again. Someone whistles low. The boy comes back from Mrs. Palma's porch, wiping his face, and looks at me like I am a storm that passed through.

"Th-thank you," he stammers. He licks his lips. "My dad-he's been angry a lot."

"Go home and lock the door," I tell him. "If he comes back, scream. If you can, run. Do you understand?"

He nods, trembling. He hugs my leg suddenly, like a lifeline. I feel the little weight of him against my jeans and something hot and sharp hits behind my eyes. For a moment I almost let the softness in. Then I blink it away.

"You're safe," I say, because I need to say something kind and because it helps me say it out loud.

A woman from across the way calls over, "Summer! Don't get yourself in trouble!" Her voice is worried but also full of something like respect. Respect and fear mix around my name.

I stand there, chest heaving, blood in my mouth, the man's scuffed shoe prints on the dirt. My hands hurt from the fight. My knuckles throb. People mutter. A little boy tosses a half-eaten bread roll at me; I catch it without thinking and shove it into my pocket. Someone else hands me a rag to wipe my face.

"Jesus," Rina breathes, coming up behind me. "You all right? You look like hell."

"I'm fine," I say. My voice is flat. I force a grin that tastes like grit. "Just another morning."

Rina squints at my cheek. "You need to see a doctor."

"No money." I laugh without humor. "And a doctor would ask too many questions."

Rina sniffs. "You're late for work," she says, checking a small clock on her phone. "You better go."

I touch my hair with the back of my hand and feel sticky seams where sweat dried. I pull my sweater tighter. "I'll be there." I mean it. I always show up. Work keeps me from thinking too much.

I step away from the knot of people and move toward my door. I'm halfway inside when my phone buzzes, old, cracked screen, but it works. Rina glances at it and tilts her head.

I swipe. The name is short and sharp on the screen: MARCO.

I answer before I think. "Hello?"

"Summer," Marco's voice says, even, like he's counting coins. "Later tonight. You have service."

I pause, the words tumbling through me. Service. The shift at the club. The extra money. My mouth is dry. The taste of the pills is still in my throat.

"How much?" I ask.

"Enough," he says. "three hours. Midnight. Be there. Don't be late."

"Fine," I say. I try to make my voice steady. "I'll be there."

He snorts softly. "Good. Don't mess up, Summer."

The line goes dead. I stare at the phone for a long moment. Around me, life goes on, children chasing one another, women washing clothes, a man yelling about a missing rooster. My house creaks behind me. The rats still argue in the corner. The cockroaches keep their endless walk across the floor.

I put the phone in my pocket. My palms are still warm from the fight. The little boy's thank-you still clings to me. And under everything, like a low drum, the dark part of me ticks and waits. It's not proud, that part, it's honest. It is the part that kept the man from breaking that boy. It is the part that will do whatever it must if threatened. It will kill if it must. It will take the last thing from those who deserve it.

I step out into the street. My shoes are muddy. My coat smells like sweat and old smoke. I tie my hair up quickly, wipe my face with the rag, and say to myself, quiet and hard, "One shift. One fight. Survive."

I put the phone back in my pocket, the screen still glowing faintly. My palms are sore and my cheek stings from the fight, but I ignore it. I don't head toward the club. I walk the other way, down the muddy road that leads to the hospital. The air is heavy, and my steps splash in shallow puddles. The smell of smoke fades the closer I get to the main road.

The hospital stands tall, pale blue walls, paint peeling, but clean enough to make me nervous. I always feel out of place here, like the dirt on my shoes will stain the floor. I take a breath and walk inside.

The air smells like alcohol and disinfectant. People wait on the benches, some crying, some silent. I nod at the nurse who already knows me. "Room 206," she says without asking. I thank her and walk toward the room.

When I push the door open, my mother is sitting up on the bed, her thin frame lost in the white sheets. Her hair, once black and thick, now looks dull and sparse. The IV line runs into her hand. But her eyes, those still have fire in them.

"Summer," she says, her voice weak but warm. "You came."

"Of course," I say softly. "You know I'll always come." I sit on the edge of her bed. She reaches out and touches my face. Her thumb grazes the bruise forming on my cheek.

"What happened to your face, dear?" she asks, frowning. "Nothing," I lie quickly. "Just... work."

"Work doesn't give bruises like that." Her tone sharpens for a second. She sighs. "You've been fighting again, haven't you?"

I look away. "Someone had to."

"Summer..." Her voice trails off, full of both worry and sadness. "You don't always have to be strong like that."

I stay silent. I don't know how to tell her that being strong is the only thing keeping me alive.

She studies me for a moment, then shakes her head gently. "At least wear something nicer next time you come here," she says. "Look at your clothes, full of holes. Brush your hair, hija. You're still my daughter. You should look decent."

I chuckle softly. "Ma, I barely have time to eat, and you want me to look decent?"

She tries to smile. "You always make time for trouble, you can make time to brush your hair."

I laugh, a small, tired laugh. "You really never change."

"Neither do you," she says. Her eyes soften. "You think I don't notice, but I do. You're working too hard. Your shoulders are always tense, and you smell like smoke and metal. You come here tired, like you're carrying the whole world."

"I'm fine," I say automatically. "I can handle it."

She shakes her head. "You always say that. You think you can handle everything, the bills, the work, me." Her eyes glisten. "But I see how you look when you think I'm asleep. You're scared, Summer. I know you are."

For a moment, I can't speak. My throat tightens. "I just don't want to lose you, Ma," I whisper finally.

She smiles faintly, that same motherly smile that feels like home even in this cold place. "You won't. I'm too stubborn to leave yet." She tries to joke, but her cough interrupts her words. I quickly hand her a glass of water.

"Easy," I say, helping her sip. "Don't force yourself."

When she settles, she looks at me again. "Promise me something."

"What is it?"

"Promise me that no matter how hard things get, you won't forget to take care of yourself too."

I frown. "I am taking care of myself."

"No," she says softly. "You're surviving. That's different."

I look down at my calloused hands. "It's all I know how to do."

She smiles again, faint but proud. "You got that from me."

We both laugh quietly.

"I'll bring you fresh clothes tomorrow," I say after a pause. "And maybe some soup from the market, not this tasteless hospital food."

Her eyes light up. "Only if you promise to wear something nice too."

I raise an eyebrow. "Nice? Like what?"

"Like a dress," she teases. "Or at least something clean. You used to wear bright colors when you were young. Now it's all black and gray."

I roll my eyes. "Colors don't pay hospital bills, Mom."

She reaches out and squeezes my hand. Her touch is cold, but gentle. "I know. But sometimes, looking good helps you remember that you're still alive."

Her words stay with me. I can't tell if she's talking about me or about herself.

I stay with her for hours, listening to her stories, about the old neighborhood, about how she used to dream of owning a small flower shop, about how she misses the smell of rain in the morning. I tell her I'll find a way to pay for the next round of treatments, that she doesn't have to worry. She just nods, as if she already knows I will.

When visiting hours end, I stand. "I'll come back tomorrow, okay?"

"Don't forget to eat," she says. "And fix your hair, Summer. You're pretty, just like me."

I smile, biting back the lump in my throat. "I'll try."

As I leave the room, I glance back. She's already closing her eyes, the IV line glinting under the weak hospital light.

I walk out into the hallway. The walls echo with beeping machines and quiet footsteps. My reflection stares back at me from the window, messy hair, tired eyes, and a bruise still darkening on my cheek.

"Fix your hair," I murmur, trying to smile. "Be decent."

I run my fingers through my tangled hair and whisper, almost to myself, "One more day, Ma. I'll make it through one more day."

Then I step outside, into the dying light, carrying the weight of her words, and the quiet fire to keep fighting, not just for myself, but for her.

⚠️ WARNING MATURED CONTENT⚠️

(SUMMER POV)

The sun was already slipping lower in the sky when I left the hospital. My legs felt heavy, but I couldn't afford to rest. The bus ride back was slow, every bump rattling through the metal frame. I stared out the window, watching the city blur by. Somewhere behind me, my mother's voice still echoed in my head:

"Fix your hair, Summer. Be decent."

I almost smiled. Almost.

By the time I reached the street where I worked, the sky had turned orange-gray. The alley smelled of smoke, sweat, and frying oil, the same scent that clung to me every night. The club's neon sign flickered weakly overhead, buzzing like a dying fly. I pulled open the back door and slipped inside.

The noise hit me immediately, music thumping from the main room, voices shouting orders, and the faint smell of cheap perfume mixing with liquor. I barely had time to breathe before someone shouted my name.

"SUMMER!"

I turned. It was Marco, one of the senior staff. His face was red, his tie half undone. He stomped toward me, waving his clipboard like a weapon.

"You're late!" he snapped. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

I opened my mouth to explain, but he cut me off.

"Don't even start with excuses! The boss is already pissed. You were supposed to be here an hour ago!"

"I came from the hospital-"

"I don't care where you came from!" he barked. "You're working tonight, so move! Go take a shower now and wear this!"

He shoved a bundle of clothes into my hands, a black dress, tight and simple, with a pair of heels dangling from the fabric.

"Quickly!" he snapped. "You smell like smoke and sweat. We have VIP guests tonight, and you can't show up looking like a stray cat!"

I clenched my jaw. The old Summer might've snapped back, but I bit my tongue. I needed the job. I needed the money.

"Fine," I muttered.

He pointed to the small dressing room at the end of the hall. "Five minutes!"

I walked toward it, my shoulders stiff. The moment the door shut behind me, I dropped the clothes onto the chair and turned on the shower. The water sputtered, then came out cold. I gasped as it hit my skin, but I didn't care. I scrubbed hard, washing away the grime, the blood, the dust from the streets, the memory of the fight.

For a moment, I closed my eyes and let the water run down my face. I thought of my mother again, her fragile smile, her hand on my cheek. "Brush your hair, hija."

When I stepped out, steam filled the small room. I dried off quickly and slipped into the dress. It fit snugly, hugging my waist and shoulders. The heels were a little too tall, but I'd walked in perfectly.

I walked over to the cracked mirror and looked at my reflection. My hair was a tangled mess from the wind. My skin looked pale under the harsh light. I sighed and picked up the small makeup kit from my locker, foundation, a bit of eyeliner, red lipstick. I moved slowly, carefully, like my mother was watching me from that hospital bed.

"Be decent," I whispered under my breath.

The eyeliner sharpened my eyes. The lipstick made me look alive again. I brushed my hair until it shone under the light, then tied it loosely at the back, letting a few strands fall over my face. For the first time in a long while, I didn't look tired, I looked ready.

When I stepped out of the dressing room, Marco looked me over and gave a sharp nod. "Finally," he said, his tone softer now. "That's more like it. The guests are already here, table seven. Try to smile."

I forced a small grin, grabbed my tray, and walked toward the main floor.

As I passed the hallway mirror again, I caught my reflection. Clean face, neat hair, red lips, my mother's voice whispered faintly in my head, almost proud.

And for a brief second, I felt like I wasn't just surviving. I was trying.

I walked into the bar, looking sexy in my short dress. Men stared at my body as I passed. I found a stool at the bar and sat down, crossing my legs so my thigh showed. The bartender saw me and nodded. He knew what I was there for.

"Whiskey, neat," I said, putting money on the bar. The whiskey burned as I drank it. I looked around the room, searching for men with money who might want to pay for my services.

I saw a group of rich businessmen in a corner booth. They checked me out with hungry eyes. I knew they were rich by their expensive suits and the way they acted like they owned the place.

I started walked over to their booth and a man stood up to greet me. "Hello there, beautiful," he said, looking at my body. "What brings you here?"

"I wanted to meet an interesting man," I replied. "Someone who knows how to make a woman feel good."

The man smiled and moved so I could sit next to him. His hand grabbed my thigh. "I can make you feel amazing," he whispered in my ear. "Like you never have before."

I shivered. I knew men like him, they thought they were in charge but really I held the power. I could make them do what they wanted.

Leaning close, I touched his face. "I bet you can," I said in a sexy voice. "But first, buy me another drink. Then we'll see what happens."

The man grinned and got me another whiskey. As we drank, I flirted and teased, making him want me more. I knew it wouldn't be long before he took me somewhere private, eager to fuck.

Until then, I played my role, seducing men, making them believe they had control when really I did. It was how I survived in a world that demanded submission. I had learned to use my body to get what I needed.

I kept playing the game, pretending to enjoy the men's attention and touches. Deep down, I felt empty inside. But I had to keep up the act, had to pretend I wanted this life.

I could feel the man's eyes roaming over my body as he closed the door to the private room behind us. I knew that look all too well, the hunger, the desire to possess and control.

"Strip for me," he growled, his voice rough with lust. "I want to see what I'm paying for."

I nodded, playing along. I reached back to unzip my dress, letting it pool at my feet and leaving myself standing there in nothing but with lacy bra and panties. The man's eyes darkened as he took in my curves, his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

"Fuck, you're even hotter than I thought," he murmured, moving closer to run his hands over my body. "I can't wait to get my hands on you."

I got shivered at his touch, at the harshness of his grip as he squeezed my tits through the thin lace of my bra. This was what I had to offer, my body, my submission, the illusion that I wanted this as much as he did.

The man reached around to unclasp my bra, letting it fall to the floor and exposing my bare breasts to his hungry gaze. He bent down to take one nipple into his mouth, sucking and nipping at the sensitive bud until I couldn't help but moan.

"Yes, just like that," I gasped, arching my back to push more of my flesh against him. "Suck on my tits, make me feel good."

The man grinned up at me, his hand moving down to cup my pussy through my panties. "Oh, I'll make you feel good," he promised darkly. "I'm going to fuck you until you can't walk straight."

I shuddered at his words, at the promise of pleasure and pain. I knew what he wanted, to use my body for his own gratification, to treat me like a disposable object.

But it was what I had to offer, what I had trained myself to provide. So I played along, letting him strip off my panties and expose my glistening folds to his hungry eyes.

"Fuck, you're so wet," he growled, running a finger along my slit. "You want it bad, don't you? Want my big cock inside you."

"Yes," I panted, spreading my legs wider in invitation. "I need it. I need you to fuck me hard."

The man wasted no time, shoving two fingers inside my tight channel and pumping them in and out. I cried out at the sudden intrusion, my hips bucking against his hand as he fingered me roughly.

"Please," I begged, my voice high and breathy with need. "Fuck me with your cock. I want to feel you stretching me open."

The man smirked, pulling his fingers out and replacing them with the head of his thick shaft. "Beg for it," he demanded, teasing me entrance with shallow thrusts. "Tell me how badly you need my cock."

"Please," I whimpered, looking up at him with pleading eyes. "I need you inside me. I need you to fuck me hard and make me come all over your cock. Please, just give it to me!"

The man grunted in satisfaction, gripping my hips and slamming forward to bury himself balls-deep inside my sopping cunt. I screamed at the sudden invasion, my pussy clenching around him as he began to pound into me relentlessly.

"Fuck, yes," he snarled, his hips snapping back and forth as he drilled into me. "Your pussy feels so good around my cock. I'm going to ruin you for any other man."

I could only moan in response, lost in the pleasure and pain of being so thoroughly used. I knew this was what he wanted, to claim me, to make me his property for a brief moment in time.

And so I gave in, surrendering myself completely to the sensations coursing through my body. I wrapped my legs around his waist, urging him deeper as he fucked me with abandon.

"Yes, fuck me harder," I cried out. "Fuck me until I can't take anymore."

The man growled, pounding into me with renewed ferocity. I could feel my orgasm building, could sense the impending rush of ecstasy that would sweep over me.

"Come for me," he demanded, his voice tight with his own impending release. "Come all over my cock, baby! Taste it! "

And with a scream of pleasure, I came undone, my pussy clamping down around him as wave after wave of intense bliss crashed over me. The man followed a moment later, spilling his hot seed deep inside me convulsing cunt as he shuddered with his own climax.

For a moment, we lay there panting, our bodies still joined as the aftershocks of our mutual pleasure faded away. But I knew it wouldn't last, soon he would pull out, tuck himself away, and leave me empty and used once more.

And I would be left to pick up the pieces of myself, to try and piece together the fractured remains of my humanity in the aftermath of yet another transaction. But for now, I closed my eyes and let myself drift in the lingering sensations, knowing that at least for a little while, I had survived.

"Thanks for tonight, baby!" The man said before leaving me again naked.

⚠️ WARNING CONTAINS DRUGS & CIGARETTES ⚠️

Alexander POV

The rain hasn't stopped since last night. It's hitting the glass windows of my mansion like it's trying to break in. The thunder outside sounds like gunshots, but I'm used to that sound. I live in a world where death and money always come together.

I'm sitting at the head of a long table in the meeting room. My men are talking, about shipments, drugs, and rivals. The smell of cigar smoke mixes with whiskey and power. Everyone looks serious, but my mind... it's somewhere else.

I'm not thinking about the business. I'm not thinking about my enemies. I'm thinking about her.

SUMMER.

That girl. The one who shouldn't mean anything to me, but somehow does. It's been a week since that night, but her face keeps appearing in my head like a scar I can't erase. I remember how her eyes looked, afraid but strong. How her voice trembled when she spoke. How her touch made me feel something I thought I'd buried a long time ago.

She was supposed to be just another woman. Just one night. But when I left her, I felt... empty.

I've dealt with women who begged for my attention, who cried just to stay beside me. But she was different. She didn't beg. She didn't cry. She just looked at me, as if she could see through the man everyone feared.

And that's what's bothering me. No one looks at Alexander De Rossi like that.

"Boss," Rico, one of the reapers, says from across the table. "The Black Serpents are moving guns through the north docks again."

I blink and try to focus. "Handle it quietly," I said, my voice cold and steady. "No witnesses. If anyone talks, make them disappear."

He nods. The rest of the men keep talking, numbers, routes, bribes. I should be listening, but their voices fade into the background. I can't stop thinking about that night.

Why her? Why do I keep seeing her face?

I pick up my glass of whiskey and stare at it. The golden liquid shakes slightly in my hand. I take a slow sip, but even that doesn't calm me down.

Marco, my right-hand man, leans close. "Boss, are you okay? You seem... off."

I give him a sharp look. "I'm fine," I say flatly.

He doesn't believe me, but he doesn't push. No one ever pushes me.

But he's right. I am off. My focus is gone.

I can't stop thinking about her, her voice, her smell, her warmth. The way her body trembled when I touched her, not out of fear, but something deeper.

Something inside me tells me that girl isn't normal. There's something hidden in her, something I can't explain. I don't know what it is, but I feel it. And that feeling won't leave me alone.

The meeting continues. One of my lieutenants stands and says, "Boss, the Serpents killed two of our men last night. Do we hit back?" I look up slowly. The room goes quiet. Every man in here is waiting for my answer.

I stand and button my suit. "Not yet," I say. "Let them think they're in control. Then, when they get too comfortable, we strike. Hard and final."

My tone leaves no room for argument. The men nod in silence. "Understood, Boss."

They keep talking, but I stop listening. My eyes drift to the large window beside me. The rain looks endless. For a moment, I see her reflection there, Summer, like a ghost staring back at me.

I shake my head, trying to get rid of the image, but it doesn't go away. I shouldn't care about her. I shouldn't even remember her. She's nothing, just a girl I met once, in a club place, living a hard life. But my chest feels heavy when I think of her.

That's the problem. I've spent years making sure nothing touches me, no pain, no emotion, no weakness. And now, one girl I barely know is making me feel everything.

When the meeting finally ends, everyone leaves. The room goes silent again. I sit alone with my thoughts. I pour another drink, the sound of the liquid echoing in the quiet room. I run a hand through my hair and close my eyes.

All I can see is her. Her eyes. Her lips. Her pain.

"Summer..." I whisper, her name soft against the silence. It feels strange saying it, like I'm breaking my own rule.

I don't even know who she really is. But I can't stop thinking that there's something inside her, something dark, something familiar.

Maybe I'm going crazy. Or maybe... fate is playing with me again.

I've lived too long in this world of guns and betrayal. Nothing surprises me anymore. But her, she's different.

And for the first time in years, I feel something I don't understand.

I hate it. I want to forget her.

But I can't.

I finish my drink and set the glass down. The storm outside grows louder, almost mocking me. No matter how much I try to fight it, I know the truth.

That girl, Summer...She's already under my skin.

And I'll find her again, not because I want to.

But because I need to.

She left something in me that night. Something I'll never be able to erase.

The call came late, and my heart jumped when I saw Rico's name. I picked up without thinking.

"We found her," Rico said, voice low and quick.

Relief hit me like a cool wind. Relief, sudden and sharp, because at last the empty ache in my chest had a place to go. I had been carrying that unknown weight for a day, and now someone had handed me a direction. It felt like a small victory, stupid and immediate.

"Where?" I asked.

"West village. By the old market," he said. "She's there, Boss. But... they're hurting her."

My breath tightened. "Who's with her?"

There was a short pause. "Seven men. Locals. Thugs. They have her cornered."

The word thudded in my ears. "Keep watching," I told him. I didn't say go. I didn't order anyone to move. I let the quiet sit there, heavy and hot. "Tell me everything you see."

Rico listed what he could, where they stood, how they moved, the path they would take if they left. He said the thugs looked sharp with wine and anger. He said Summer was scared, trying to hide. I closed my eyes and pictured her small face in the dark, and the image burned under my skin.

"I'm coming," I said finally, but it was softer than a command. It was a promise to myself.

---

. The Reapers, were briefed and waiting. We did not rush into noise. We moved with the slow, certain steps of men who knew when to strike. The city was still sleeping under a gray sky, the rain from last night making the streets slick and dark.

When we reached the west village, the smell of wet trash and smoke hit me. People peered through shutters, or they did not look at all. The market stalls stood empty like open wounds.

Rico pointed without words. The alley was narrow, narrow enough that sound stuck there like dirt. I stepped in and my boots made no sound. The closer I got, the louder everything became in my head, her cries, the thud of fists, the soft curse of the rain.

And then I saw them.

Seven men. They were bigger than beggars, dressed in old jackets, faces stubbled and hard. They stood around her like they owned the space. One had his hand on her wrist, another's fist rose again. They did not flinch at our arrival, because they did not expect anyone with real power to care.

Summer was small on the ground. Her dress was stuck to her skin. Mud glued her hair to her temple. She tried to curl into herself but there was no hiding. Her eyes met mine for the shortest time, and something raw passed between us, guilt, fear, and a tiny, desperate hope.

Rage tasted like cold steel in my mouth. I felt it coil under my ribs and then snap into movement.

"Get them," I said to Rico, my voice flat, sharp with command. The Reapers moved like trained shadows.

The alley turned alive. Men shouted and scattered when the Reapers closed in, fast, precise, no mercy. I stepped forward and the air changed. I watched as fists fell away and the thugs realized they faced something bigger than them. The fight did not last long. It never did when my men were involved.

I pushed through the mess of bodies and rain to her side. She flinched when I reached to lift her. Her cheek was split, and her lip bled. Her breaths came short and fast like someone who had been running too long.

"You," I said, looking at the nearest thug. My voice was a low blade. "Who sent you?"

He spat, trying to be brave. "It's.... We- we thought she-"

"You thought what?" I asked. My hand tightened on his collar until he gagged. I wanted to hear him beg. I wanted him to remember this fear.

He choked out, "She's a whore. Someone said she was spying on the wrong men. We just-"

Lies slipped easy from weak mouths. The words did not matter. I looked back at her. She clasped her arms around her knees, trying to hide more of herself. Her eyes were red and rimmed with tears, but she did not cry loudly. She had learned to be small and quiet.

I set my jaw. "Take them," I ordered. "Tie their hands. Bring them to the car."

They moved under command and pushed the men forward. The thugs stomped like animals, spitting and cursing, but the truth was plain in their faces, afraid. Afraid of being seen to have touched someone under my shadow.

I lifted Summer into my arms more gently than I thought I could. She was lighter than I expected. Her body trembled against me. For a second she buried her face in my chest, and I felt the quick, ragged beat of her heart. It sounded like a drum calling me to things I had no name for.

On the walk back, she clung to me like someone holding onto faith. I kept my voice low, "You're safe." She looked up at me with eyes that were too old for her face. "Why?" she whispered. "Why did you-"

"Because I could not let them do it," I said. The words were a truth I didn't want to examine. I would not give her pity. I would not kiss her wounds to make them scar less. But I could not leave her in that dirt.

Back in the car, the city passed in gray lines. The Reapers watched the bound thugs in the rear. Summer sat wrapped in a blanket, breathing shallowly. I felt the world tighten into a narrow line: protect her, find who sent them, and never let her be small again.

At the mansion, the doctor cleaned her cuts with hands that did not tremble. He wrapped the wounds and gave her pills to dull the pain. I stayed at the window, watching the rain fall and worrying about the shape of things to come.

But first, I would keep her safe.

She had come into my life like a storm I never planned for. Now she was there, in my house, bandaged and breathing. My hands curled into fists at the thought of any other man touching her.

I promised myself then, soft as a vow and hard as steel: whoever used her body, whoever called her names, whoever thought she could be broken, would learn the meaning of my anger.

For now, she slept with a blanket over her knees. I sat near and watched. The night was long, and the rain kept falling, but in that quiet I felt a new kind of hunger, one that had nothing to do with power or control. It had something to do with holding what mattered and not letting it go.