Chapter 2
1004 Words
Kholod
Despite what people say about emotional pain and heartbreak being worse than physical pain, I knew that nothing hurts more than drilling into skin, slicing flesh like fine meat, or drowning the senses in blinding light and relentless sound until you want to smash your own skull just to make it stop.
People who romanticize suffering have never experienced real pain.
Real pain strips you.
Real pain humiliates you.
Real pain makes you beg.
Physical pain is so horrifying that men twice my size s**t themselves when they see me inspecting the tools laid out on steel trays, pretending I’m undecided about which one to use first. They start talking before I even ask a question.
Like the man tied to the chair in front of me.
Adrik had prepared him well. His face was swollen, one eye nearly shut, dried blood crusted at the corner of his mouth. His jacket hung torn, sleeves stained dark.
He had introduced himself earlier.
Matteo.
One of the low-level soldiers of Lorenzo De Luca.
And that name alone was explanation enough.
The De Luca syndicate wasn’t street trash. They were old power. Structured. Generational. The kind of Italian mafia that wore suits, funded politicians, owned ports, and smiled at charity galas while ordering executions over dessert.
The underworld is not chaos.
It’s architecture.
There are alliances carved in stone and alliances written in disappearing ink. Some families stand beside me. Some trade with me. Some pretend neutrality while waiting for weakness.
And then there are enemies.
Lorenzo De Luca chose to be one.
Three black SUVs had followed Amaya’s car.
Professional spacing. Coordinated maneuvers. Suppressors on the first round of shots.
Matteo trembled in the chair as I dragged another one across the concrete floor and sat in front of him.
Close.
But not touching.
The room was cold. Deliberately so.
A single light hung above him—harsh, unforgiving. Every tremor in his body was visible. Every flicker of fear in his eyes.
“You knew whose convoy you were tailing,” I said calmly.
He swallowed hard. “We were ordered to take her as leverage.”
Leverage.
I tilted my head slightly.
“Against me?” I asked.
Silence.
He looked away.
“I don’t enjoy repeating myself.”
That was a lie.
I enjoy watching them decide whether silence is braver than survival.
The De Lucas had been pushing into territories that weren’t theirs for months—testing shipments, interfering with routes, bribing smaller factions to shift loyalty. Subtle provocations.
This wasn’t subtle.
“You fired first,” I continued.
His breathing turned uneven. “Orders,” he croaked. “We were told to bring her in unharmed.”
Unharmed.
As if bullets ricocheting off armored vehicles were harmless.
Her driver did what he was trained to do—lose the tail at any cost.
At any cost.
Which meant running a red light at full speed.
Which meant slamming into a Mercedes crossing the intersection.
Collateral damage.
Annoying.
By now, Matteo had started speaking faster—names, locations, warehouse access points.
Whatever he knew.
The human mind is predictable when cornered.
I stepped back and looked at Adrik, who had been standing near the door the entire time.
“Make sure what remains of him is delivered properly. I want the message understood.”
Adrik nodded.
“And the civilian?” he asked.
I adjusted my cufflinks.
“Compensate them. Cover the medical expenses. Replace the vehicle. Add extra for the inconvenience.”
It had nothing to do with guilt.
Drama attracts attention. Attention breeds investigation. Investigation wastes my time.
I walked out before the man’s screams started.
Amaya was in the east wing sitting room when I entered.
Curled into herself.
A book lay open in her lap, unread.
The doctor assured me it was nothing more than superficial injuries—a few bruises from the impact, a mild concussion. She would recover within days.
That was the only reason I wasn’t still in that warehouse.
She looked up when she sensed me. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the page.
She was trying not to shake.
Her nature had always been soft—shy, reserved, too polite for a world that devours the gentle first. She believed in libraries, in pressed flowers between pages. In fairytales. In happy endings.
The door closed behind me with a quiet click.
She looked small in that moment.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
“They’re gone,” I said.
Her fingers tightened slightly.
“You caught them?”
“Yes.”
“You will continue your routine tomorrow,” I said. “Security will be doubled.”
Her brows drew together slightly. “I don’t like them.”
“They will protect you,” I replied evenly.
A subtle difference.
To her, it probably sounded like care.
It wasn’t.
It was ownership of responsibility.
She looked up at me, searching my face for something more. Warmth. Reassurance. Maybe softness.
I offered none.
I don’t do comfort.
But I did not leave.
“I was scared,” she admitted quietly.
Fear looks different on her.
On others, it’s ugly.
On her, it’s fragile.
It wasn’t affection. It was a responsibility.
Ever since her father and my uncle died in a rival attack, she had been under my protection.
“I know.”
Not because I felt it.
Because I understand fear intimately.
Her hand shifted slightly on the couch between us—not reaching for me, but closer than before. A subconscious move.
I didn’t step back.
I didn’t step forward either.
I don’t do physical contact. The feel of someone’s touch on my skin disgusts me.
It wasn’t OCD.
I just didn’t like the idea of someone leaving the trace of their fingerprints on me.
“Rest,” I said.
Just before leaving, I added, without looking at her—
“No one touches what’s under my protection.
And those who dared…
I made sure they regretted it with every breath they took.”
- Writer
