Giordano’s POV, Party at Giordano House

"Pop the fucking bottles!" I roared, slamming a fist into the marble as champagne spilled across the bouncing ass of a giggling blonde grinding on my lap.

She squealed, laughing, not caring that half the bottle had poured down her bare back. Her fingers trailed across my chest, sticky with sweat and Dom Pérignon. Around us, the world burned gold. Bronzed skin glittered under the Mediterranean sun, cocaine dusted the rims of wine glasses like snowflakes from hell, and the prettiest whores Naples had to offer wiggled their oiled tits for whoever had the biggest bankroll or the meanest face.

The pool shimmered like liquid sapphires beneath their feet. Tonight, I was supposed to take my virgin prize. Katarina Delgado. Bought. Paid for. Waiting for me to break her.

The thought of her—sweet, untouched, trembling—tightened something dark and greedy in my gut. She was supposed to be tied up by now, locked in my private suite, a red ribbon around her pale throat like a Christmas gift no one else would ever unwrap. Just me. Mine.

The music pounded so loudly that the walls of my villa shook.

Bottles of champagne were being popped like gunshots by my fellow commandos of drug dealers and murderers. Expensive cigars burned down to their stumps, smoke curling in the humid air, while my men drug dealers, killers, traitors in gold chains got their cocks sucked by sugar babies I'd imported just for tonight.

I leaned back in my custom throne, in a goddamn floral button-up shirt hanging open over my chest, gold chains dangling heavy around my neck.

The scent of roses, weed, sweat, and sex filled the air, sweet and filthy all at once.

This wasn’t just a party. This was my celebration.

Tonight, I was supposed to take my virgin bride. Katarina Delgado.

Perfect. Innocent and Sweet. Bought and paid for.

She was supposed to be here by now, trembling, gagged, tied up pretty with a fucking red ribbon around her neck.

I swirled the dark liquor in my glass, watching the ice melt into the whiskey, a smile playing on my lips.

My fucking paradise. Or it should have been…

Until Scarface showed up empty-handed, dragging failure behind him like a corpse.

The second I saw their faces, my good mood shattered like glass.

The music still blasted around us, but the men closest to me—my captains, my dealers, my killers — felt the shift.

You could taste it in the air. Sharp. Metallic. Like fresh blood.

I stood up slowly, setting my glass down with a quiet click.

Scarface fidgeted, shifting from foot to foot, sweat dripping down his temple even though the night air was cool.

“You,” I said, my voice cutting through the music like a fucking knife, “were supposed to bring me a gift tonight.”

Scarface licked his cracked lips.

“The girl… she—she slipped away, boss. We—”

I crossed the distance between us in two slow, deliberate steps.

One slap.

One fucking slap across Scarface’s mouth so loud it echoed over the speakers.

He stumbled back, blood already beading at the corner of his lip.

No one breathed.

“Excuses,” I said, smiling widely, “are for men without tongues.”

I grabbed one of the worthless idiots he’d brought with him, a skinny little runner with wide eyes, and slammed his face into the pool’s edge.

The women screamed and scattered from the water as blood splattered across the marble.

I held the kid by his hair, baring his neck.

“Next time you come back without my fucking girl,” I growled in Scarface’s direction, “I take an ear.”

Scarface nodded furiously, hands shaking. Fucking disgrace.

I shoved the bleeding kid aside like garbage.

Then I turned to Mikey the Hammer, sitting near the bar and swirling his drink.

Mikey, my other lieutenant. My favorite hammer when things needed smashing. Scarface’s competition.

“You want the job done right?” I called across the pool.

“Give it to a man who knows how to spill blood.”

Mikey stood up, cracking his knuckles lazily and grinning like a wolf.

Scarface’s face turned red with rage, but he said nothing.

Because he knew. They all knew. Fail me once, and you’re fucking done.

“You got 48 hours,” I said, my voice low and savage.“Find Katarina Delgado. Bring her to me untouched.”

Mikey nodded, sharp and precise. Scarface stared at the ground, his fists clenched.

Scarface wiped the blood from his mouth, swallowing whatever pride he had left.

Then he muttered, voice shaking:

“Her brother…” he said. “The kid, Mateo… he offered to pay ten times the money you gave her father.”

The whole pool area went dead silent.

Even the coke whores stopped laughing.. I stared at Scarface. He still had the audacity to talk.

For one long second, nobody breathed.

I stared at him, dead still, every muscle in my face frozen.

Then I laughed.

Low. Ugly. A bone-deep, lunatic laugh that crawled out of my chest and shook the stars overhead.

“Ten times?” I said, grinning so wide it hurt. “He thinks he can buy her back?”

I stepped close to Scarface again, my breath hot against his face.

“You tell that little shit something for me,” I said, voice low and deadly.

“There’s not enough fucking money in this world to save her now.”

I turned away, facing the pool and all the terrified men and women standing there, frozen in horror.

My voice boomed through the night:

“GET OUT.”

A roar.A command.

“Find her, get me my virgin,” I snarled. “I want her alive, untouched. And Anyone who lays a finger on her before I do will lose their own.”

Panic exploded around me.

Men scrambled, and the Women screamed. Bottles shattered.

Within minutes, the backyard was empty, the party ruined, the night heavy with rage.

I stood alone, staring out over the glittering water.

This celebration was over.

Katarina’s POV, Liam’s House

The knife in my hand shook so badly I nearly dropped it, but instead I put it into the pockets of Liam’s trousers I had managed to get from him.

I pressed my back against the cold kitchen counter, the blade slipping dangerously in my sweaty laps. Every breath I took felt too loud and too reckless. The old wooden floor creaked under my bare feet with every tiny shift of my weight.

I couldn't fucking move in this place I couldn't fucking breathe.

Liam was still pacing the living room, talking to himself in that weird, jittery, nerdy voice. The "sweet" side of him. The side that offered me burnt toast and mint tea after almost snapping my wrist against the door just an hour ago.

The house smelled like old soap, dust, and something sickly sweet, almost like rotting fruit. My Hair clung damply to my body, sweat sticking to my ribs and thighs. Every hair on my arms stood and was on edge.

I didn’t trust Liam anymore. The Liam who came to the bookstore and always encouraged me

Not even the soft version of him. Especially not him.

"Kat?" Liam's voice drifted into the kitchen. High, uncertain. "I found... something for you."

I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing the knife tighter against my lap to stop it from slipping.

His Footsteps shuffled closer, and I braced myself.

When I finally opened my eyes, Liam was standing there in the doorway, smiling too widely, his eyes were glassy, and in his hands... a tiny pink baby dress.

A goddamn baby dress.

"I thought... maybe you'd need this," he mumbled, cradling it like it was some sacred offering. "You’re small. It could fit. Pretty on you."

My heart beat so fast I thought it would crack my ribs open.

I didn't move. I didn't speak.

I just nodded slowly, praying he wouldn't notice how close I was to bolting.

His smile faltered, like he wasn't sure if he was happy or furious.

"And this too," he whispered, pulling a gleaming razor blade from his back pocket. "In case you need to cut... something."

The razor glinted under the flickering kitchen light.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to drive the knife into the wall and run barefoot into the dark.

But I couldn't. Not yet.

I forced a tiny smile. "Thank you, Liam. That's... very sweet of you."

He beamed. The kind of smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Then he shuffled back toward the living room, humming some broken, tuneless song.

I gripped the counter until my knuckles went white. I had to get out. Tonight.

I looked around and found his medicine by accident, rattling around under the sink.

Pill bottles with names I could barely pronounce. Antipsychotics. Mood stabilizers. Heavy stuff.

I stared at them, heart pounding so hard it blurred my vision, and A wicked idea slithered into my head.

If I could grind them up. If I could get him to drink it.

Maybe, just maybe, I could knock him out long enough to run.

Thirty seconds. That’s all I needed. Thirty seconds to run.

I moved fast, very Silent. Crushing two pills between the edge of a spoon and the counter, the powder was fine and bitter under my nails.

The whole time, my heart slammed against my ribs.

I stirred the dust into a glass of orange juice so hard my hand shook the glass nearly over.

I grabbed it and forced myself to breathe. To smile. To pretend.

"Liam?" I called sweetly.

He turned from the couch, blinking at me with his glassy eyes.

"You must be thirsty," I said, stepping closer, holding out the cup. His eyes narrowed. Suspicion flickered there for a second. My skin prickled with sweat.

"Drink with me," he said instead, his voice low and weirdly serious. Panic bolted through me.

"Of course," I forced a giggle, grabbing a second empty cup and pretending to pour myself a drink.

I lifted my empty glass and smiled. "Cheers." He hesitated.

One second. Two.

Then, slowly, Liam brought the cup to his lips. I held my breath so hard my lungs screamed.

He drank. Half the glass in one gulp. I almost dropped to my knees from the relief.

But I didn’t move. Not yet.

Liam blinked, confusion clouding his face.

He stumbled back onto the couch, the glass slipping from his fingers and shattering on the floor.

I watched, frozen, as he swayed, muttering to himself.

"No... don't leave... don't leave..." he slurred.

His body sagged into the chair. His head fell back. Still. Silent.

I stood there, fists clenched, my whole body trembling. Had I given him too much? Was he dead?

I rushed over, pressing two fingers against his neck.

Pulse. Faint. But there. I let out a shuddering breath. I didn't have time to think.

I tore his phone from his jeans pocket and fumbled with it, my hands slick with sweat.

My hands shook so bad I could barely punch in Mateo’s number from memory, my smart brain was finally saving me.

Mateo. Mateo. Mateo.

I called him, but it went to voicemail

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Come on. Pick up. Pick up, pick up, pick up!

No answer.

I couldn’t wait any longer. I left a voicemail, frantic, whispered, messy.

"Mateo, it's me, it's Kat. Meet me at our spot at the bus station. Please. Please. I need you."

I dropped the phone and hugged myself, fighting the sob rising in my chest. Why wasn't he answering? Why wasn’t he coming?

Maybe the cartel already got him. Maybe it was already too late.

A flash of memory slammed into me, the last time I saw him before jumping out the window, leaving him in the hands of those men.

I couldn’t hide anymore. I couldn’t sit here and rot while they tore my brother apart.

I had to move. I had to run.

I crept toward the front door, barefoot, bruised, heart jackhammering in my chest.

My towel was long gone. I wore one of Liam’s oversized shirts and trousers, drowning in the fabric, and a pair of his old sneakers two sizes too big.

I didn't care. I just needed to move.

I slipped out into the night, the air slapping my face with cold fury.

The streets were half-empty, silent except for the occasional rumble of a car passing far away.

Every step on the cracked pavement was agony, my blistered feet bleeding, my thighs burning from the bruises from running.

I headed for the bus station. The secret spot Mateo had told me to find if anything ever went wrong.

I waited there, shivering under a broken streetlamp. Five minutes.Ten.Nothing.

I hugged myself tighter, my body trembling from fear and cold.

And then, A rumble, A black van. Speeding toward me.

Its headlights are like twin knives stabbing through the darkness.

My heart stopped. My whole body locked up.

Where was Mateo? Why the hell was this van driving straight at me?

The tires screeched as it pulled to the curb. The passenger door swung open, creaking.

Men in black jackets. Hard faces. Hungry eyes. Not Mateo.Definitely not Mateo.

I froze, breath caught in my lungs, and my blood ran cold..

I didn’t know it yet... but the streets I was running on were already soaked in blood.

Mateo’s POV

I wrapped my torn shirt around what was left of my fucking hand.

My pinky was gone. My pride was bleeding out right with it. But none of that mattered. None of it fucking mattered — not when she was still in danger.

Katarina.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face. Scared. Hiding. Waiting for me to fix this. And I was wasting time — because my useless fucking father had vanished last night with the money that he used to buy her.

Ran off in the middle of the night like a fucking rat, with the money and no spine to show for it.

I wanted to break something. No — I wanted to kill him. But I didn’t have that luxury. Not when Scarface's deadline was closing in.

I needed more money, and I also needed a miracle.

Instead, I got a devil.

I didn’t answer the phone buzzing in Katarina's jacket pocket, she left behind on the couch, even when I saw her best friend’s name flash across the screen.. Speaking with Selena will derail my actions and make me think.

And then made my decision, I was going to save Katarina by all means and bring back my family.

I needed it to save Kat. To get her out of this goddamn mess. To fix the nightmare my father had dumped on all of us before he ran like the coward he is.

She would’ve screamed at me. Begged me not to do it. But I didn’t care. I would burn in hell if it meant she lived.

I went to the deepest corners of the city. The part where people vanished, and no one asked questions.

I had no choice. They were the only ones who could give me that kind of money. That fast. That dirty.

The air was thick with piss, rot, and cheap weed. Rats the size of fucking cats crawled across the dumpsters.

Through the back alleys. Past the broken streetlamps. Past the junkies and the girls in fake fur jackets who offered me more than just directions.

My heartbeat thundered like a war drum in my ears.

This wasn’t bravery. This was desperation in its purest form.

I finally reached the rusted metal door, the one with no number, just a faded red mark painted like a warning.

I knocked once. Twice. A third time, harder. My knuckles left streaks of blood.

It swung open.

Smoke poured out like fog, and behind it stood a man built like a tank, tattoos crawling up his neck like vines strangling his skin.

And standing there, in a bulletproof vest and gold-plated pistol holster, was the loan shark. The most feared loan shark this side of the city.

“You sure you wanna be here?” he asked, eyeing the money bag clutched under my arm. “Most people don’t walk through this door unless they’re ready to leave a piece of themselves behind.”

“I’ve already left enough behind,” I muttered. “Now I need something in return.”

He let me in. The air was thick with sweat, gunpowder, and cigar smoke. Voices laughed somewhere in the back, low and menacing.

I sat across from the boss. The cartels weren’t even close to this kind of evil. This guy? He made grown men piss their pants just by blinking too slow.

“I need two hundred grand,” I said, my voice cracking despite how hard I tried to keep it steady. “I’ll pay it back. I swear. Just give me a deadline.”

He stared at me. Silent. Amused. Then he leaned forward, cigar clenched between yellow teeth.

“You don’t pay me back,” he said, voice like rusted metal. “I don’t take your fingers. I don’t take your toes.”

He grinned wider.

“I take your soul.”

“You sure you want this?” the other guy, who looked calmer, asked, eyeing my busted hand and torn hoodie. “It’s a one-time deal. You miss payment, and you’re dead.” You don't seem like the type to come here.

I didn’t even flinch. I stared him dead in the eyes. “Give me the money.”

He laughed, shook his head, and handed me a duffel bag so heavy it almost dragged me to the ground.

“Signed in blood,” he said. “Literally.”

I arranged the meet with Scarface through Jairo, a twitchy bastard I used to run pills with. I told him it was urgent. And that I had the cash.

He just laughed.

“You sure you wanna do this, bro?” he asked.

I nodded. “Set it up.”

The Docks.

The meeting was set. The warehouse was at the edge of the docks, buried behind rows of empty crates and rusted fences.

No lights. No cameras. No fucking hope.

I showed up with the bag. Alone. My shirt was soaked with sweat and blood. The bandage over my missing pinky was already red again. The bag strapped to my shoulder felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, filled with borrowed promises and the blood of whoever they killed to get that money.

The air was thick. Wet. Like it knew something bad was about to happen.

Scarface was already there.

Boots crusted in blood. Knife sheathed at his side. His eyes are black and empty like a shark circling fresh meat.

“Well, well,” he grinned, standing up slowly, cracking his neck. “Look who finally found his fucking balls.”

I tossed the bag at his feet. “The Money For Katarina”

He opened the bag. “That’s ten times what you gave my father,” I said, my voice dry. “We’re done.”

Scarface unzipped it. His eyes lit up like Christmas came early.

. Fucking money poured out on his boots like goddamn gold dust.

And for a second-a — a split second — I thought maybe… maybe this nightmare was over.

Then he looked at me.

And smiled.

“You think this ends here?” he said softly. I took one step back. “We had a deal.”Then his men moved.

He chuckled. “You think I give a shit about deals? You think Giordano gives a shit?”

Before I could speak, his men were on me.

A fist slammed into my stomach, folding me in half. Another hit my jaw — crack.

I dropped to my knees. “We had a deal.” I gasped again, tasting blood.

The laughing started. Ugly. Loud. Mocking.

“You hear that?” one of them sneered. “The little rat thinks we’re fucking lawyers.”

Another leaned down and spit at my feet. “You brought money to a blood war, pretty boy?”

“Shoulda brought a coffin,” one of them laughed.

Then the boots came. Over and over. Ribs. Head. Stomach.

Blood in my mouth. In my ears. My vision was smeared red. I felt teeth break loose. My knee cracked like a snapped bone.

They didn’t stop.

Not even when I stopped fighting back.

Not even when I started begging.

“Please—” I coughed. “Please, don’t—”

That made them laugh harder.

“Listen to him cry,” one muttered. “Bet his whore sister begs just like that.”

Scarface chuckled from the shadows. “You got your money’s worth, boys. Make it last.”

I couldn’t lift my head anymore. My body was broken. I couldn’t even scream.

Then Scarface crouched beside me, breath hot on my bloodied face.

“You’re lucky I’m feeling merciful,” he whispered. “I’ll let the ocean finish the job.”

He stood.

And the last thing I saw before blacking out…

Was Scarface’s boot swinging straight for my skull.