Watch me Bleed

The scent of stale coffee and cheap bleach always lingered at the end of a shift. Elena wiped down the sticky surface of the corner booth, her shoulders aching from an unbroken eight-hour stretch. It was 2:15 AM.Outside *The Midnight Diner*, the city was mostly quiet, wrapped in a thick fog that blurred the neon signs across the asphalt. "Elena, I'm heading out," Marcus, the line cook, called out as he threw his apron into the bin. "Left the back door unlocked for you so you can drop the trash bags by the alley bins. Lock up tight when you leave." "Will do. Get some sleep, Marcus," she replied, offering a tired smile. Once the front doors were locked, Elena hauled the heavy, black plastic trash bag toward the rear exit. The cold night air hit her face like a slap as she stepped into the dim alleyway. It was a narrow, desolate stretch sandwiched between crumbling brick walls, lit only by a single flickering streetlamp at the far corner. She lifted the lid of the dumpster and tossed the bag inside. The loud *thud* echoed in the enclosed space. Elena turned to head back inside, her keys already jingling in her hand, when the sudden, harsh glare of headlights cut through the fog at the mouth of the alley. A sleek, black sedan turned sharply into the narrow pass, its tires grinding against the wet gravel. It stopped abruptly, cutting its lights. Elena frozen, her heart executing a sudden, violent thud against her ribs. Instantly, her instincts—honed by a lifetime of staying invisible—screamed at her to hide. She backed up silently, slipping into the deep shadow behind the large metal dumpster, holding her breath. The car doors clicked open. Three men stepped out. Even from the shadows, Elena could recognize the type. Impeccably tailored dark suits, rigid postures, and a cold, professional aura that radiated absolute danger. Two of them flanked a third man, dragging him by his collar. The man being dragged was bloodied, gasping for air, his hands bound tightly behind his back. "Please," the bound man sobbed, his voice raw with terror. "I didn't say anything to the feds. I swear on my life, Marchetti!" The name made Elena stiffen. *Marchetti.* Everyone in the city knew the name, whispered in fear across every neighborhood. They were the shadow rulers of the underworld. From the front passenger seat, a fourth man stepped out. Unlike the others, he wasn't wearing a jacket—just a crisp white dress shirt with the top buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He was young, strikingly handsome, with dark hair swept back and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass. But it was his eyes that made Elena’s blood run cold. They were completely detached, dead to any human emotion, as dark as the midnight sky above them. This was Dante Marchetti. The newly crowned king of the empire. Dante didn't say a word. He didn't need to. He approached the kneeling man with a slow, agonizingly calm stride, completely unbothered by the damp cold or the pathetic begging echoing off the brick walls. "You were family, Benny," Dante’s voice was low, a smooth baritone that carried a lethal edge. "And family doesn't sell out the inventory." "It wasn't me! Dante, please, look at me—" Dante reached behind his back. The sleek silver barrel of a silenced pistol caught the dim light of the flickering streetlamp. He didn't hesitate. He didn't give a grand speech. *Pfft.* A muffled crack broke the silence. The kneeling man collapsed instantly, hitting the wet pavement without another sound. Elena choked back a scream, burying her face into her hands, pressing her back hard against the cold brick wall. Her entire body trembled violently. She had just witnessed an execution. Her breath came in short, jagged gasps, and she prayed to whatever cosmic power was listening that they would just get back in the car and drive away. "Clean it up," Dante commanded coldly, tucking the weapon back into his waistband. "Make sure the streets are clear before you move him." One of the men nodded, stepping toward the dumpster—right toward where Elena was hiding. Panic seized her. If they found her, she was a dead woman. Desperate, she tried to shift further into the darkness, but her foot caught a stray glass bottle on the ground. *Clink.* The small sound echoed like a thunderclap in the quiet alley. "Who's there?" the guard barked, his hand immediately reaching into his jacket. Elena didn't think. She bolted. She lunged out from behind the dumpster, sprinting wildly toward the back door of the diner. "Hey! Stop!" Behind her, footsteps slammed hard against the pavement. Elena slammed her weight against the heavy metal door, threw herself inside the dark kitchen, and threw the heavy deadbolt into place just as a heavy shoulder slammed against the outside of the door. *BANG!* The metal door rattled violently in its frame. Elena stumbled backward, breathing erratically, tears pricking her eyes. She ran to the front of the diner, her hands shaking so badly she could barely unlock the front door, and fled out into the main street, disappearing into the heavy fog. Back in the alley, the guard kicked the metal door once more before turning back to his boss. "Sir, someone was watching. A girl. She ran inside the diner, but the doors are locked tight." Dante Marchetti didn't move. He stood over the body of the traitor, his dark eyes fixed on the narrow space behind the dumpster where Elena had been hiding. Slowly, he walked over, his expensive leather shoes stepping perfectly around the pools of rainwater. He looked down. Right there on the wet ground, gleaming under the flickering light, was a small silver name tag that had torn off her uniform during her frantic escape. Dante bent down, picked it up, and turned it over in his palm. Engraved in simple block letters was a single name: *Elena*. A slow, dark smile touched the corner of Dante’s lips, though his eyes remained entirely dead. "Elena," he murmured, his voice standardizing the name like a promise. He slid the name tag into his pocket. "Find her."