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.