His Contracted Temptation; Velvet Lies

THE FOURTH MAN

WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS GRAPHIC s****l VIOLENCE, r**e, ASSAULT, MURDER, TRAUMA, STRONG LANGUAGE, AND REVENGE THEMES. READER DISCRETION ADVISED.

VALERIA

As a little girl, I dreamed big—actress, a pop star, designer maybe or a model... basically anything that would slap my face on Vogue and of course lots of paparazzi attention.

Well, here I am... margarita in one hand, phone in the other, scrolling—when I see a picture of me and Dante on the Daily Mail. My lips curl at the headline; Blue Cyber CEO spotted with new lover. New lover, alright.

I take a sip of my drink, grinning in satisfaction, then proceed to go through the pictures, analyzing which ones captured my best angles. Shots of other attendees pop up too, most faces I don't recognize, all except Alex—or do I call her Alessio? She has on one of those Barbie smiles that does a good job hiding her vile personality, blonde waves fall over shoulders, not a single strand out of place... the typical nepo baby who thinks she's Anna Wintour's protégée. And just like that I'm reminded of Florence.

Poor Florence...

It’s been exactly three hours since she laid out her grand offer like I’m some show horse she’s trying to buy. Tempting as it is—and yes, I’ve thought about it more than once or twice, I probably could’ve cashed out if I’d told her about the contract and negotiated my way into doubling the money. But when someone dangerous is after you, money can’t save you. Another dangerous man can.

My phone vibrates and a beeping sound follows. Diego’s name flashes under the iMessage banner. I tap it.

A link to a site.

My brows lift slightly. "Huh, wonder what these are for." Definitely not some black-market site selling limited-edition cosmetics.

The link opens in Safari. Black screen, then a logo: Xtreme Graphics. Okay…

A video plays. The scene is set in what looks like a basement... brick walls, a bulb dangling overhead. In the center, a man sits strapped to a chair, his face covered with a white sack. He’s limp, but breathing hard. Heavy. Very scared.

Footsteps echo, slow and predatory and four men in Playboy masks appear. They're all dressed in dark jeans but different T-shirts. They circle him, cracking knuckles, chuckling like predators.

"Boy! That ass is so gonna feel tight," one of the men says, laughing, and the others join in. His hands reach for the seated man's crotch and he grips it hard; a small groan follows.

" Hear that guys, that's horny for ' I want you to f**k me" he slurs through a dark chuckle rolling up his sleeves, and my breath catches in my throat...

What the hell... Adam?!

Jesus f*****g Christ! I'd recognize that damn tattoo anywhere. I spent half my teenage years learning self-defense from him. I mean, I knew he was a perv but this is...

"Oh my God!" My voice slips out small and shaky. I slump into the chair, slapping a hand over my mouth.

"Alright, Camila, you can do this," I exhale slowly and blink fast. When I look back down, the scene has escalated, the men—all except one—have pulled off their pants, only left with briefs and that stupid mask. They're all hard, groaning and rubbing their erections.

"Look at you," the shortest one sneers, nudging their victim's face."You think you're better than us because you drive that fancy Bentley and wear expensive suits, but today, you're going to go on all fours and suck this cock." His chest heaves as he laughs, and the rest join in.

My chest tightens at the sound of his voice... Spencer Sergio. The bastard that had me arrested the day the cops raided our quarter. The same coward that locked me up in a wardrobe because I didn't want to date him even though he was ten years older and had a boyfriend...

What the f**k is this even?

Spencer pulls off his mask and tosses it aside. His pupils are blown wide when he leans toward the camera, jaw grinding, nostrils flaring—restless, twitchy, the unmistakable coke-high buzzing under his skin.

I don't even know what to feel first—anger? Rage? Fury? Disgust? Hatred?

I slam pause and squeeze my eyes shut, like that would erase the twisted, f****d-up s**t burned into my brain.

Irritation coils in my gut, pressure rising up my chest, and all I want to do is look away, yet for some crazy reason I can't. I want to know who the blindfolded man is...

Fuck!

I want to know who all these men are.

My thumb hovers over the right side of my screen. "I've had enough suspense." I forward the video right to the part before the sack is yanked off the victim's head. Three out of the four men have pulled off their masks, and I recognize the third person—Mateo Rivera, another of Don Mojito's boys.

The sack comes off, and his face comes to view.

No. No. No.

It can't be.

All of a sudden the room feels too small, my chest tightens, breath seizing for a moment.

No... no... no... that had to be edited, yes! AI, people do stuff like this all the time, right? This doesn't even happen in real life... I shut my eyes tight; maybe this time it'll be a dream. But even as I tell myself all this, I know that man in the video, the man who would burn down the world for me—was gang r***d before his murder.

Lightness spins at the edge of my vision, my lungs hurt, like they're on fire, and every breath feels like hell. The thumping in my chest is loud and painful, my hands won't stop shaking.

"Papa."

The tears gush like my eyes are some f*****g tap, hot, angry, unforgiving tears trickling down my face, and I want to break something. Goddamn it! I want to scream, shout, but all I feel is a painful emptiness.

My fingers drag down my cheeks, smearing the tears, but they keep coming—like my body is convinced I haven’t cried enough for a lifetime already. My phone blurs in and out of focus and for a second I actually think I might pass out right here on this damn sofa.

I inhale sharply—wrong move. A sob rips out of me, ugly and loud.

“Get it together,” I whisper, voice breaking. “Get. It. Together, Camila.”

But the more I tell myself that, the harder I shake.

I clutch the phone again, screen lighting up with the paused frame of those monsters—those sick, twisted, coked-up demons who stripped him of his dignity before taking his life. My Papa. My Papa who taught me how to braid hair, how to shoot a BB gun, how to tell apart real gold from fake. My Papa who drove me to school every damn day until the streets weren’t safe anymore. My Papa who smiled even when they took him away… who still gave me everything.

And they filmed it. They filmed him.

A scream claws its way up my throat, but it gets stuck there, dissolving into a painful hiccup.

Focus. I need to focus.

With trembling fingers, I tap the screen and rewind just a few seconds. I pause on each face—mask on or off, every movement, every tattoo, every crooked smile. Adam. Spencer. Mateo. Those three are easy. Too easy. I know them the way I know the lines of my palm. Trash disguised as men.

But the fourth one... the one who never showed his face, only his jawline and those rings on his fingers. Those damn rings. Thick, silver, two stacked on his index like he’s trying to make a statement. I zoom in, heart pounding against my ribs like a hammer.

They all have one thing in common. They all work for my father's killer. Don Mojito.

“Who the hell are you…” I whisper, swallowing hard.

I replay that clip again. And again.

“I’ll find you,” I mutter, wiping the wetness off my chin with the back of my hand. “I swear to God, I’ll find every single one of you.”

The rage settles low in my stomach, hot and poisonous, burning through the panic until nothing remains but fury. Clean, sharp, unforgiving fury. I grab the nearest notepad, some shopping list already scribbled on it—and flip to the back.

Adam.

Spencer Sergio.

Mateo Rivera

Rapist Bastard with silver rings.

I underline the last name five times until the paper almost rips.

My chest rises and falls too fast, too shallow, but I don’t care. I pick up my phone and hit Diego’s name before I can think twice.

He answers on the second ring. “Camila? Are you okay? Did you—”

“Where the f**k did you get that video?” My voice comes out clipped, shaking in a way that makes Diego go quiet. “Tell me right now. Who sent it? Who edited it? Who posted it? I want everything, Diego. Every name, every number, every shadow that breathed near that basement.”

“Camila, slow down—” Diego says calmly in that annoying placating tone like he's my f*****g therapist. Well, f**k him.

“No!” I snap, pacing even though my knees feel like jelly. I run a finger through my hair. “Don’t you dare tell me to slow down. They killed him. They humiliated him first, then killed him, and you’re going to help me, Diego. You hear me? I don’t care what you have to do—hack a server, threaten someone, bribe the devil—I want their locations, security numbers, phone numbers, family information. Every f*****g thing you can lay your hands on!”

“Camila—”

“ They're going to pay,” The words spill out, vicious and honest. “All of them. One by one. And you’re going to get me what I need.”

Silence.

Then a quiet sigh. Heavy. Resigned.

“…I’ll send you everything I have. Just don't do anything stupid, okay?” I don't grace him with a response.

My jaw clenches as I stare at the list again, fingers tightening around the pen until it threatens to snap.

I’m going to kill them. I just haven’t decided how yet.