Vittorio’s POV, One Of Vittorio’s luxurious mansion.

Porca puttana! Mother Fucker!, the water scalding hot as it poured over my body.

My teeth ground together as I gripped my hard cock, stroking to and fro with furious, punishing jerks my meat bouncing off the water as my cock was about to burst with pleasure. My balls were swollen and rock hard like nothing I have felt before.

She was in my head. Burning me alive. Distracting me.

Katarina Delgado. The feel of her soft, trembling mouth consuming mine…The way her thick ass brushed against my lap sending electfying shocks to my dick when she stumbled forward...

The wild, terrified look in her soft brown eyes.

It was fucking seared into my brain.

No woman had ever made me wake up hard, desperate, aching like a fucking animal.

No woman, not in my whole cursed life, had ever made me feel like this.Except for her, Fiorella.

A memory I never wanted to resurrect."

I pumped my hand, going faster and growling low in my throat, the slap of wet skin against skin filling the steam-thick air.

My muscles tensed, cords of steel under my skin, the veins in my forearm were popping as I squeezed harder.

I slammed my hips forward into my own hand, imagining it was her tight pussy squeezing me, her soft whimpers filling my ears.

I grunted, almost snarling.

"Bastarda," I cursed in a low breath, my abs tightening, the muscles in my legs locking up.

I came hard, shooting against the slick tile, my whole body shuddering with the force of it.

"Porca troia," I growled in Italian under my breath.

Fucking bitch. Fucking angel. Fucking beautiful, dangerous little bitch.

I braced myself against the wall, my heart hammering.

Steam curled around me, a heavy, suffocating cloud.

I had to find her.

No woman had ever done this to me since Fiorella. Not until her.

I stood there for a moment longer, breathing hard, feeling the rage swirl hotter inside me.

She had no idea who she was running from. No idea the kind of man she had awakened.

When I caught her and I would catch her. I wasn’t just going to fuck her. I was going to ruin her.

I stepped out of the shower, yanking a towel around my waist.

My skin steamed under the open air, the light catching every hard cut of my abs, my chest, my arms.

I didn’t bother putting a shirt on.

Let them see. Let them know exactly who owned this fucking city.

I headed down the marble staircase, water dripping from my hair, each step echoing like a war drum through the giant house.

Two of my men were waiting — Ghost and Franco.

They straightened the second they saw me, stationed on either side of the main hall like statues.

No one spoke. The silence was heavier than a loaded gun.

In the far corner, hunched over a sleek black laptop, was Pietro.

The twitchy little tech genius was already typing furiously, tapping at the keyboard like his life depended on it. It might.

I walked past my men without looking at them, the towel slung low on my hips.

The air thickened with tension.

Franco flinched slightly under my stare, and I smirked coldly. "Pietro," I barked.

The techie jumped, knocking over his coffee cup.

He scrambled up, clutching the laptop to his chest, his wide brown eyes flicking nervously to the wet lines of my body, the muscles, the scars, the raw masculine power.

Pathetic. But useful. I jerked my chin once.

"Come." Pietro rushed over, nearly tripping over himself.

He stood trembling a few feet away, laptop clutched like a shield.

He was already pink in the face, stealing glances at my bare chest when he thought I wasn't looking.

The pathetic little bitch was in love with me. I could smell it on him like a sickness.

I let him look.

"Brief him," I snapped at Franco without looking. He knew what I meant, I had informed him about finding Katarina.

Franco cleared his throat, voice rough.

"The target is Katarina Delgado," he said. Brown eyes. Brunette. "

Pietro’s hands shook harder. I could smell his nervous sweat from here, sharp and sour.

He adjusted his glasses, nodding frantically.

Franco continued. " Last seen at Massimo's club.

I watched Pietro absorb every word, his fingers already moving on the keyboard, pulling up city maps, traffic cams, and facial recognition databases.

Good. Fear made him fast.

I prowled closer, standing over him. He shrank into himself, but he didn’t stop working.

Smart dude.

"Pietro," I said calmly, voice slicing through the air like a blade.

"I want a full trace."

He swallowed hard, nodding so fast his glasses slid down his nose.

"Find the girl," I said. "Track her movements. Her family. Her friends. I want everything."

Pietro fumbled for his tablet, his hands shaking slightly.

"Yes, Don De Luca," he breathed.

I turned to Ghost, who stood rigid, sweat glistening at his temple.

"Go to Massimo," I ordered.

"Rip the fucking information out of him if you have to. Get his surveillance footage, his staff records, anything. Anything that touches Katarina Delgado."

Ghost nodded hard, fists clenched. "We'll have everything on her by midnight."

I stepped closer, crowding his space, until he could smell the soap and heat still clinging to my skin. I stared at him for a long moment, letting the silence drag.

Midnight was too slow. Way too fucking slow.

I wanted her back under my hand. Under my control. Now.

"If you fail," I said quietly, my voice almost tender, "I’ll make sure you feel every second you wasted."

Ghost swallowed hard, sweat beading on his forehead.

I turned back to Pietro, who was staring at me again, his eyes flickering lower, his breath shallow.

I smirked coldly. "Find her," I said again, voice like a death sentence. "Or I’ll find you."

Pietro flushed bright red and ducked his head, already tapping furiously on his tablet.

Katarina Delgado didn’t understand yet. She belonged to me now. And I would tear the whole fucking city apart to get her.

The fucking ache in my cock that hadn’t gone away even after jerking off like a fucking animal in the shower.

I needed a body.

"Franco," I snapped, my voice sharp enough to cut bone.

He jumped to attention.

"Bring me a soft, stupid girl who knows how to kneel and suck," I said coldly, my voice dripping with venomous heat. Something I can fuck until I forget her face."

"Now."

Franco hesitated for half a second, A stupid mistake.

I stepped toward him slowly, deliberately.

"You heard me," I growled low, the rage leaking through my control.

"Something young. Something soft. Something desperate to please."

Franco nodded so fast he nearly tripped over himself, already reaching for his phone.

I turned back toward the windows, the city lights burning through the night like fire.

She would be mine again soon.

But until then...

I needed to fuck this hardness out of my system. Hard. Fast. Without mercy.

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.