Chapter 7: Vittorio De Luca Loan Shark Office.
1260 Words
Vittorio’s POV
Outside the Bookstore
I sat in the driver’s seat of my red car, gloved hands resting on my knees, eyes locked on the window across the street.
The window was cracked open slightly.
She was inside. I could feel it not just in my chest, but in my c**k.
The first time I met her had been a mistake. That kiss. But I couldn’t forget it. I couldn’t forget her.
Katarina.
She was talking to someone inside. Her voice drifted through the window soft and distant.
Soft yellow light bled through the curtains. I wondered if she was reading. Or crying. Or thinking about me.
I didn’t know which one turned me on more.
“You shouldn’t be here,” I muttered to myself.
But I didn’t leave. She hadn’t seen me … not really. Not from the bookstore as I watched her from my car. Not when she’d kissed me at the club. She hadn’t seen what I truly was.
But she would.
I clenched my jaw as the curtain shifted. A silhouette moved past slim, barefoot.
She was pacing. She always did that when she was anxious.
The memory hit me her mouth open, trembling, on her knees in front of me at the club. Her breath shaky. Her body responding even through her fear.
I growled under my breath and gripped the steering wheel until it creaked.
“She’s just a girl,” I whispered. “A distraction. Nothing more.”
But even now, in the dark, her scent haunted me.The sweat from fear and something sweet and purely hers.
That f*****g scent made my c**k throb in my jeans. I pressed my palm against it….it was hard. Lik a punishment.
“Not yet.”
I’d promised myself I wouldn’t touch her again until she begged.
The front door to the apartment building opened. A man stepped outside in a hoodie.
I relaxed slightly.
“She’s mine,” I whispered into the empty car.
For a moment, I imagined walking up those stairs. Knocking. Then gripping her by the throat and asking if she wanted to run again.
But I didn’t move.
I sat there watching her and breathing her in from across the street.
Eventually, the light went out and the window went dark.
I lit a cigarette with shaking hands and took a long drag.
“I’ll give her one more night,” I muttered. “Then I’ll take what’s mine.”
I started the engine and I didn’t glance back at the window.
She was already imprinted behind my eyes. I pulled away from the curb, the red car disappearing into the night. But somehow, I found myself driving and following her into the dark.
Mateo POV AT Katarina’s Apartment After She Fled
"Where the f**k is the girl?"
Scarface's boot slammed into the coffee table, sending broken plates and empty beer bottles crashing to the floor.
My heart pounded as I stepped between him and my father, who reeked of whiskey and desperation. His hands trembled as he stumbled back.
"She was here," my father stammered. "I swear she was just here..."
Scarface didn't care. He jerked his chin at the two goons beside him.
"Hold the pretty boy down."
Before I could react, strong arms grabbed me. One yanked my wrist behind my back while the other shoved me forward until my knees slammed into the cracked floorboards.
Pain exploded through my legs, but I clenched my jaw tight, refusing to scream.
My father scrambled to his feet, waving a stack of crumpled bills at Scarface.
"Here! Take it back!" he cried, tears and sweat streaming down his face. "Take the money! I don't want trouble!"
Scarface snatched the money and laughed coldly. He let the bills rain down over my father's head, slapping him across the face with a handful.
"You think this was about money?" Scarface stepped closer, shoving my father so hard he collapsed into the broken table. "We don't want your filthy f*****g money."
He knelt down, grabbed my father's hair, and yanked his head back.
"We want the girl you promised," he spat. "The sexy little virgin."
My gut twisted hearing him talk about Kat that way.
Scarface gripped my father's chin, forcing his mouth open.
"You think you can f**k with Giordano?" he hissed.
Without warning, he smashed the butt of his gun across my father's face. Blood sprayed across the wall. My father crumpled to the floor, sobbing.
"Please!" he cried. "She was here! I swear! Don't kill me!"
Scarface glanced around the room. His sick eyes landed on my mother slumped on the stained couch, barely conscious, her blouse hanging off her skeletal frame.
"Maybe you need motivation," Scarface said.
"No..." I muttered, struggling against the men holding me.
"Don't touch her, you sick f**k!" I shouted.
But Scarface just laughed. He grabbed my mother by the hair and yanked her upright. Her eyes fluttered open—glassy, confused, too high to understand.
He ripped her blouse apart. Buttons scattered. Her pale breasts spilled out, covered in bruises and track marks.
She moaned softly—confused, pained.
"Pretty little junkie," Scarface muttered, unzipping his pants. He shoved her back onto the couch.
I thrashed harder. "NO!" I roared, but they shoved my face into the floor.
I heard it. Fabric tearing. My mother's weak whimpers. The disgusting grunts from Scarface as he forced himself on her.
Tears blurred my vision. I squeezed my eyes shut, fists clenched so tight my nails cut into my palms.
When he finished, he wiped himself on her torn blouse. She just lay there, broken.
Scarface turned back to me, grinning. "You ready to talk now?"
I lifted my head, blood dripping from my split lip. I glared at him with pure hatred.
And spat at his feet.
His smile faded.
He pulled out a hunting knife, the blade gleaming under the light.
"Let's see how much pain you can take."
He grabbed my left hand and forced it flat against the broken table.
"No!" I struggled, but they pinned me harder.
SLICE.
White-hot agony shot up my arm as he severed my pinky finger clean off. I screamed. Blood sprayed across the table.
My finger rolled off and landed in a puddle of whiskey and dirt.
Scarface leaned in close, his breath rancid. "You have twenty-four hours," he whispered. "Bring me the girl... or I kill you, your w***e mother, and your useless father. Then I'll find your little sister and f**k her until she breaks."
He kicked my severed finger across the floor.
I gasped, vision going black from pain.
"I'll pay it back," I croaked. "Just give me time."
"You want to buy her back?" Scarface hissed. "Fine. Pay ten times what your father took. Ten times. Or we take her body and your lives."
Ten times the money? Impossible.
"I'll get the money," I said, blood dripping from my hand.
Scarface laughed and slapped me. "Time's ticking."
He nodded to his men. They let me go.
I collapsed, gasping. The door slammed. Their motorcycles roared outside.
I crawled to my mother and covered her with a blanket. She didn't respond.
I sat there, clutching my bleeding hand, shaking with rage.
I had twenty-four hours. Maybe less.
If I wanted to save my sister, I had to do something unthinkable.
I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I'd gotten from the streets—a number everyone whispered about but no one dared call.
The Devil's number.
Vittorio De Luca Loan Shark Office.
- Writer
