Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Ricardo's eyes fluttered open as he regained consciousness. For a moment, everything was hazy and indistinct. His mind struggled to grasp at the last thing he could remember: the dim glow of a nightclub, the weight of a beer bottle in his hand, a bitter sip — then, nothing. A blank space where time had simply vanished.

Now, clarity came with a jolt of horror. His wrists ached where cold metal bit into them, arms stretched above his head, handcuffed to an unfamiliar bed frame. A slow, creeping awareness crawled over his skin — he was shirtless, naked from the waist up. And then his gaze snapped to the figure beside him.

Alex Chiesa.

Sitting there, composed, watching. The young leader of the rival gang, who had a vendetta against his father.

Ricardo's body coiled with tension, a raw, instinctive fight surging through him. He thrashed against the restraints, muscles straining, metal cuffs grinding against bone. But it was no use. He was well and truly trapped.

Turning his head, he glared at Alex with unconcealed anger.

"You bastard!" He spat, "Let me go or my—" He hesitated, swallowing the words, knowing better than to mention his father in front of Alex. "Or I'll kill you. I swear it!"

He snarled, thrashed on the bed, tugging violently at the handcuffs. His body arched with the effort, biceps flexing, veins bulging in his desperation. But the steel held firm. No matter how much strength he summoned, it wasn't enough.

Alex simply watched, unmoved, a smirk ghosting over his lips as if Ricardo's struggle was nothing more than a predictable performance.

"Do you hear me?" Ricardo growled, his voice ragged, raw with rage. "You're dead, asshole!"

But even as the curse left him, a horrifying truth slithered beneath his fury, coiling tight around his core.

It was impossible to ignore — the sharp pang of heat flooding his veins, the ache curling low in his stomach, the humiliating stiffness that betrayed him. His cock, throbbing against the confines of his pants, exposed the treachery of his own body.

For years, he had watched Alex from afar, his obsession a secret he buried deep, a fire he dared not let burn. And now, the man he had secretly craved was laid out before him, close enough to touch, close enough to consume him.

His breath hitched, his heart pounding with a dangerous mix of excitement and dread. The thought of what Alex might do to him sent a dark thrill spreading through his nerves, a forbidden spark he refused to acknowledge. Arousal warred with anger, each emotion clawing for dominance, leaving him torn between the urge to fight and the need to surrender.

Twisting his head away, Ricardo tried to retreat into himself, to block out the sensations that, despite his revulsion, threatened to overwhelm him. He wouldn't give Alex the pleasure of his submission. Not so readily.

But then, Alex spoke, his voice a low, mocking purr.

"Your body is more honest than you are."

Ricardo flinched, heat rushing to his face as Alex's gaze dropped deliberately to the evidence of his arousal. The smirk that followed was slow, poised, and utterly infuriating.

In that moment, Ricardo realized — this was a battle he couldn't win…

Alex said nothing more. He simply picked up a sharp knife and swung it lazily above Ricardo's thighs, the motion calculated, taunting. Ricardo held his breath, his body tensing instinctively. Then, suddenly —

Ricardo let out a scream of terror as Alex plunged the knife towards his groin. But it was quickly replaced by a groan of mingled pain and relief as he felt the blade slice through his pants instead, exposing his throbbing erection.

"Fuck you!" He snarled, even as his shaft pulsed involuntarily at Alex's touch, "If you cut it off, I'll..."

He trailed off as his eyes caught the gleam of the blade still clutched in Alex's hand, its sharp edge reflecting the dim light with a sinister glint. His breath came in ragged pants, but he refused to let fear take root. He would not break so easily. 

A fire burned in his eyes as he forced himself to meet Alex's gaze. "Your threats mean nothing, you hear me?" he growled through gritted teeth, "Do what you want, bastard. I'll never submit to you!"

But his body betrayed his true feelings. The more Alex humiliated him, the more his shaft swelled and throbbed with need. Now that Alex had freed his aching erection from the confines of the pants, it stood proudly upright, the broad tip pink and tender, glistening with precum.

He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the sight of his treacherous cock responding so eagerly to his enemy's touch. He could feel the heat of arousal flooding his face, his muscular chest heaving with ragged breaths. But he refused to let Alex see how much this was affecting him.

Alex chuckled, "You still don't understand your situation, huh?"

Without warning, his hand closed like a vise around Ricardo's erection, "You are my toy now, dear Ricardo."

As the first rays of dawn crept through the barred window, Ricardo Garavani, the only son and heir to the notoriously ruthless gangster Salvatore Garavani, lay handcuffed — a prisoner to both his circumstances and his captor's whims. His eyes, which had been squeezed shut against the reality of his predicament, flew open as the palm of Alex's hand wrapped around the rigid evidence of his unwilling arousal. The shock of the touch was a live wire against his skin, sending jolts of forbidden pleasure coursing through him.

"Toys are meant to be played with," Alex murmured, his voice a velvet purr that sent heat pooling in Ricardo's gut. His thumb swiped over the sensitive head, coaxing another bead of precum, and Ricardo's resolve wavered. "And you, my little prince, are mine to command."

"Fuck you, Alex!" The words were torn from Ricardo's throat, raw and filled with venom, "I'll kill you for this!"

Yet, as soon as the threat burst out of his lips, it was diluted by the way his body responded. He hated it — hated the way his cock twitching in Alex's hand; hated the way his traitorous back arched into Alex's touch, craving the friction; hated the way his hips moved of their own accord, seeking more. 

He hated that faint murmur echoing deep within, coaxing him: Submit, Ricardo. This is Alex, the Alex you wanted all along. Let him possess you, let him ruin you, let him claim every shattered piece of you.

No! 

He crushed that treacherous voice beneath sheer will, his face burning with the effort. No matter how deeply he had been drawn to Alex, he would never give up his dignity in such a disgusting way.

Alex's smirk widened, his grip tightening just enough to make Ricardo's breath hitch. "You can't escape this." He said, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. His fingers continued their outrageous exploration, down to the soft balls inside, charting the terrain of Ricardo's desire against his will. "You're bound and at my mercy. And I intend to show you just how powerless you truly are."

With each passing second, Ricardo's resolve crumbled, eaten away by the relentless tide of sensation. Once the untouchable mafia prince of the Southside Serpents, he was now ensnared not only by chains but by the dark allure of his sworn enemy. His heart was a drumbeat of rebellion and need, the rhythm growing ever more frenzied.

"I'll never be yours." He spat, though the fire in his words flickered and waned like a flame in the wind.

"Oh, but you already are." Alex contradicted, his tone laced with undeniable certainty, "And soon, you'll beg for the release that only I can give you."

Ricardo lay there, chest heaving with a cocktail of defiance and anticipation, eyes locked on Alex's every calculated move. The chill of the room's air stroked his skin, a stark reminder of his exposed and vulnerable state.

Alex's fingers moved with maddening precision, unfastening Ricardo's belt with a slow, deliberate pull. The metallic clink of the buckle echoed in the silence, sharp as a blade slicing through the last remnants of control.  

"Fuck you! Let go of me!" Ricardo roared, his hips twisting against the mattress. He lashed out with his legs, wild and desperate, but Alex suppressed them with terrifying efficiency. One large hand pinned his waist while the other grasped the waistband of his pants, yanking downward with brutal force. The fabric bit into his thighs as Alex used his own half-removed clothing against him, twisting the material tight around his kicking legs like makeshift shackles.

Denim scraped against skin as the pants and underwear were dragged ruthlessly downward, each inch of exposed flesh a fresh humiliation. The last of the fabric peeled away, lying in a crumpled heap at the foot of the bed. Ricardo's bare legs flailed — knees knocking against Alex's ribs, heels digging uselessly into the sheets — but Alex merely leaned his full weight into the struggle, using his forearm to press Ricardo's thighs flat against the bed. And then came the final indignity — the sharp clank of metal, two heavy shackles snapping around his ankles, sealing with an ominous click.

His legs were wrenched apart, forced wide open with no hope of resistance. Cool air rushed over newly exposed skin, sending a violent shudder through him. His breath came in sharp, heaving gasps, his body momentarily stilled by the shock of vulnerability. Every last inch of him — his strength, his dignity, his most intimate delicacies — lay bare beneath Alex's unrelenting gaze.

"There," Alex murmured, grinning in satisfaction, "Now we begin."

His hands, once so forceful, now barely skimmed Ricardo's inner thigh, each touch a light, teasing brush that set his nerves alight. The tenderness was a dissonant note in the symphony of his captivity, a confusing counterpoint to the roughness he expected.

A shiver cascaded through him as those expert fingers danced closer to the apex of his thighs, each caress a dual-edged sword of pleasure and imprisonment. His body traitorously sought more of this exquisite torment, even as his mind raged against the invasion of his autonomy.

"Tell me, do you enjoy this?" Alex's voice was a low murmur, his breath hot against Ricardo's face, "Does my touch please you, despite yourself?"

A groan escaped Ricardo before he could choke it down, but he still mustered a snarl of defiance.

"You're a dead man, Alex!"

Yet the words rang hollow, betrayed by the hitch in his breath as Alex's hand boldly ventured further, tightening the coil of need within him.

"Oh, the secret gorge." Alex's fingers traced to the crevice between the hips, the touch feather-light yet deliberate, as if savoring the moment before the plunge. "You are still a virgin for here, aren't you?"

Ricardo's pulse thundered against his temple, his body tensing as Alex's words slithered into his ears. Before he could respond, a sharp, searing pain tore through him, accompanied by an unsettling sense of fullness that bordered on the obscene. His heart raced, pounding in the chest like a trapped bird as he felt the unyielding ring of muscle give way to the forceful push of Alex's finger. The world seemed to collapse into that single, unbearable point of intrusion. His back arched, a strangled gasp escaping his lips as his body instinctively fought to eject the invader.

"Fuck!"

The word was wrenched from somewhere deep within him, a shocked, visceral reaction to the violation. His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms as he fought to ground himself against the onslaught of sensation.

"Get the hell off me, Alex!"

Despite his protests, the sound that escaped his mouth was undeniable — a deep, involuntary moan that seemed to betray the secret yearnings of his flesh. His hips twitched in spite of himself, caught in the throes of a struggle between discomfort and a darkly thrilling pleasure that threatened to unravel him from the inside out.

The slick rhythm of Alex's finger moving within him was like a perverse melody, each thrust driving home the reality of his violation and the taboo curiosity it stoked. The rhythm of the invasion was a taunt, a challenge that whispered of uncharted desires and the tantalizing peril of succumbing to them.

"You bastard," Ricardo spat, the words slicing through the air with all the venom he could muster, even as his voice cracked with an unspoken longing, "You'll pay for this."

"Oh yes, I'll pay you with more surprises." Alex grinned maliciously, "Now let's add some stretch to make your hole easier to use."

Before Ricardo could protest further, a second finger joined the first, forcing its way inside with brutal efficiency. 

"No! What the fuck are you—" His voice broke, swallowed by the overwhelming intensity of the sensation. The world narrowed to the scissoring fingers that pried him open with a ruthless brutality. The stretch was excruciating, a fiery ache that radiated through his core. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling as it was pulled taut, stretched beyond its limits. He was certain he would tear, certain that this was too much, yet his flesh yielded to the fierce expansion with a slick, obscene sound. 

The shame of his predicament was a bitter, choking thing, made worse by the undeniable thrill of sensation that coursed through him. His whimpers, those pathetic, desperate sounds, echoed in his ears, a testament to his powerlessness.

Alex leaned in, his deep amber eyes cold and mocking, without a trace of sympathy. "You can fight it all you want." He whispered, his voice dripping with malice. "But your body tells the truth. You feel it, don't you? That dark, twisted pleasure you're too afraid to name."

Ricardo's jaw clenched, his mind a whirlwind of rage and shame. He refused to give Alex the satisfaction of a response, but the truth was undeniable. His body was a traitor, far much weaker than his mind would have it to be. And as Alex's fingers continued their cruel work, Ricardo could feel himself unraveling, piece by piece.

"Stop! Please, just stop!"

The words burst from him, unbidden and unwanted, a surrender he had sworn he would never give. He turned his face away, the heat of humiliation burning across his skin. His breaths came in shallow gasps, each one a struggle against the weight of his own helplessness. The obscene sounds of his flesh — wet, slick, and utterly beyond his control — filled the air, a cruel reminder that his body was no longer his own.

To his relief, Alex paused, at last. He pulled his fingers out of the burning anus. But the humiliation was far from over.

In the aftermath of this withdrawal, Ricardo found himself gasping for air, the searing heat of Alex's touch lingering in his ravaged flesh. Then, the reprieve's sweetness turned to gall as Alex presented those stained fingers to his trembling lips, "If you bite, I swear I'll tear you apart starting from your asshole."

The scent of his own undoing clung to those fingers, a perfume of subjugation that twisted his insides.

"No." He begged, a whisper barely breaching the cacophony of his own fractured breaths, "Please, don't..."

Yet, the words seemed to dissolve into the ether, unheeded. Alex's smirk, a cruel cut on his otherwise handsome features, spoke volumes of the control he exerted over his captive. The air itself grew dense with the portent of his vile designs.

Ricardo felt the insistence of Alex's thumb against his clenched teeth, an invitation — no, a command — to part them. Those fingers, painted with the evidence of his ruin, invaded his mouth. The taste was a symphony of horror, a metallic tang interwoven with something so vile it defied description.

His tongue recoiled, his throat convulsing as bile rose, but Alex's fingers pressed deeper, forcing him to taste the proof of his own degradation. Vision blurred by tears, he found himself adrift in a sea of foulness. His body betrayed him once more, trembling under the weight of Alex's control.

Alex's eyes bore into his, dark and unrelenting, a mirror reflecting his own shattered dignity. In that moment, Ricardo was both the observer and the participant in his own nightmare, his voice silenced, his autonomy ground to dust beneath the heel of his captor's cruelty.

The man he had longed for all these years, had become the architect of his torment.

Did he regret it?

Perhaps not. Perhaps, deep down, he had always known that it would come to this. Their bloodlines were steeped in hatred. They were enemies. And this… this was how enemies were meant to be treated.

Chapter Text

"I know it doesn't taste good." Alex's voice was low, almost apologetic, as he pulled his fingers out of Ricardo's mouth, leaving him retching in disgust.

"Let's clean you up."

The words were calm and emotionless, sending a tinge of terror through Ricardo's veins. Alex turned and left the room. The silence that followed was suffocating, broken only by the frantic rhythm of Ricardo's breathing and the faint creak of the bed frame as he struggled against his restraints.

When Alex reappeared with the enema equipment in his hands, Ricardo's heart plummeted. His eyes widened as they locked onto the apparatus, a silent scream trapped behind clenched teeth. The LED lamp was turned on. The device gleamed under the harsh light, its sterile, clinical appearance mocking the violation it promised. Alex moved with deliberate precision, his expression unreadable, as he checked the temperature of the liquid. The faint slosh of water in the bag was deafening to Ricardo's heightened senses.

"No!" Ricardo's voice pierced the silence, a chillingly raw mixture of fury and fear, "Don't you dare! You fucking monster!"

He writhed against his bonds, the metallic rattle of chains against the bed frame echoing his desperation. There was no avenue for avoidance; the specter of humiliation loomed over him, oppressive and inescapable.

Alex remained unaffected by the impassioned plea. His hands, steady and unyielding, parted Ricardo's legs even wider with an unsettling ease. Ricardo winced as Alex positioned himself, the cold detachment in the man's movements sending a shiver down his spine. The sound of lubricant being applied to the nozzle was jarringly mundane against the backdrop of mounting tension.

As the nozzle penetrating its intimate target, Ricardo's body went rigid, his breath hitched in a painful-sounding gasp. The flush of embarrassment and anger colored his cheeks, his eyes ablaze with a defiance that belied his predicament. The futile clenching of his muscles was a silent rebellion against the violation.

With a tenderness that seemed out of place, Alex whispered, "Relax." His voice a low rumble that contrasted sharply with the violence of the act. "It'll be easier for you if you just relax."

But relaxation was a world away for Ricardo. His body was a battlefield, caught in the throes of an invasion that left him gasping for breath. His insides churned as the ruthless surge of water pouring into his bowels, an endless tide that swelled his belly to a grotesque proportion. A liquid inferno raged within him, a force both commanding and petrifying. His body, taut as a drum, throbbed in a slow, relentless rhythm as the enema waged its cruel campaign.

"Please," He gasped, his voice splintering with the effort, "stop! I can't... it's too much!"

Tears carved rivulets down his cheeks, bearing the weight of his plea for mercy.

Cramps rippled through him, each crescendo more powerful than the last. It was a brutal procession of discomfort, a savage orchestration of agony and shame that resonated in the very marrow of his bones. His body convulsed, awash with perspiration, as it struggled to withstand the onslaught of sensory overload.

His abdomen bulged obscenely, a cruel parody of fullness that made him feel less like a man and more like a vessel — a hollow thing to be filled and emptied at Alex's whim. The chains bit into his wrists as he clawed at them, his fingers scrabbling for purchase, for any semblance of control. But there was none. Only the relentless pressure, the unbearable fullness, and the looming dread of what came next.

Alex observed with an unsettling detachment, his hand unmoving upon the enema apparatus. His gaze was as unforgiving as the sea, devoid of sympathy or humanity. In his eyes, the man lying there seemed to be just an object — a thing to be used, filled, and discarded.

"Call me master, my little pet." He commanded. He had a velvet voice but it was heartlessly frozen. "If you admit you'll be my slave forever, and swear you're willing to accept anything I do to you, I can stop this suffering immediately." 

He loomed over Ricardo, a shadow cast across the glimmer of the boy's resolve. His presence was suffocating, a reminder of the power he wielded and the depths of his cruelty. The air between them was thick with tension, the unspeakable offer hanging like a noose — a chance for relief, at the cost of the soul.

Ricardo's body, entrapped in a dance of agony, contorted under the relentless siege of an enforced purging. Cramps twisted like serpents through his flesh. Yet, within the fortress of his spirit, a flicker of defiance endured, a candle flame in the tempest of his tribulation.

He turned his gaze upon Alex, a silent challenge issued from deep within. His voice, a mere whisper, emerged as a defiant shout in the stillness of their confrontation.

"Never... I'll never call you... master."

He uttered, the words scraping against the raw protest of his throat. Each syllable was a battle cry against the tyranny that sought to break him.

"I am not... your pet,"

The words tumbled forth, gaining momentum like a boulder barreling down the mountainside of his resolve.

"And I will never... be your slave."

Tears, betraying the vulnerability he fought so fiercely to conceal, clouded his vision, but they would not obscure the fire that burned within.

"Now... let me go," 

The command escaped his lips, a plea wrapped in the guise of authority.

"Or I will make you pay!"

A hollow vow, it seemed, from one so thoroughly ensnared, yet it resonated with the undeniable force of truth. For all the power Alex held over his body, he could not touch the core of who Ricardo was.

Alex's expression shifted, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes. For a moment, it almost seemed like respect — or perhaps regret. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by the cold detachment that defined him.

"OK, then." He said, with a mocking sigh, his gaze hardening as he moved closer. "You had your chance. Don't blame me for what comes next."

Almost casually, he settled onto the edge of the bed. One hand drifted to Ricardo's thigh, the touch deceptively tender. "Let the water sit in your gut for a while." He murmured, his tone seemingly conversational. "We've got other toys to play with."

Ricardo's breath hitched as Alex's hand moved higher, fingers closing around his cock, still hard and unyielding despite the torment. The touch was deliberate, calculated, a violation that sent a jolt of revulsion through him. Alex's thumb brushed over the head, massaging the pee hole, his nail scraping the sensitive slit with a precision that made Ricardo's stomach churn.

"How about we explore this little tunnel?" Alex asked with a grim smile. He pressed the tip of his pinky against the opening, the sharp edge of his nail teasing the delicate tissue.

As the world condensed into the singular point where Alex's fingertip dared to broach his most intimate sanctum, a ripple of tension coursed through Ricardo, every muscle coiled like a spring ready to snap. That invasive digit, crowned by a nail that felt as a knife's edge, skimmed the tender threshold of his urethra, and he clenched his jaw, warding off the alien touch that blurred the lines of agony and a perverse intensity he dared not acknowledge as pleasure.

"Get your filthy hands off me!" He snarled through gritted teeth, the sound that escaped from within a stranger's even to his own ears — a raw, primal growl from the crucible of his wrath and terror. The very notion of such a desecration, the obscene suggestion of surrendering that last bastion of his will, was anathema, a spark that ignited the fury within his veins.

And yet, his treacherous flesh betrayed him, throbbing with an unwelcome surge of desire, a physiological mutiny that mocked his outrage with its own shameful reveal. This paradox, this torment of mixed signals, whirled inside him, a tempest of contradictory emotions. How could his sovereignty be so callously disregarded, his form reduced to a puppet under another's command?

"You wouldn't dare." He challenged, though his voice wavered, a crack in the facade of his defiance revealing the kernel of doubt that gnawed at his core, "I'll fucking kill you if you try!"

Alex's lips curled into a grotesque parody of a smile, its cold malice seeping into Ricardo's bones, a chilling premonition of the torments his captor so eagerly envisioned. The pair of dark eyes, twin furnaces of sadistic delight, conveyed unspoken vows of suffering yet to come — ominous as the silence before a storm.

Without further warning, Alex produced a thin steel rod, its surface gleaming like a ray of moonlight. It was smooth, cold, and hard, resembling a silver chopstick. He held it aloft for a moment, letting the light catch its edges, before turning his attention to Ricardo.

A shudder overtook Ricardo as he caught the sight of it. An involuntary spasm echoed the turmoil roiling beneath his skin.

Slowly and carefully, Alex guided the rod toward Ricardo's most vulnerable part. The cold metal pressed against his entrance, a sharp contrast to the heat of his fear. Ricardo's muscles clenched, his body fighting instinctively against the invasion, but Alex's hand was steady, his movements unhurried.

The moment struck Ricardo with a vivid clarity that chills his very marrow — the cold, unyielding steel slipping into his urethra, stretching him in ways that defied comprehension. The sensation was so alien and invasive that it seemed to split his reality in two. There he was, shackled up, utterly at the mercy of a captor whose whims were as dark as they were unpredictable. His breath hitched, caught in the vise of pain that clamped down on his throat, turning his gasp into a silent scream.

"Fuck."

Again, he heard himself say, the word a ragged echo of his dwindling strength. 

The metal slid deeper, inch by excruciating inch, each movement was a fresh assault. He could feel every millimeter of its progress, cold and relentless, stretching his limits to the breaking point.

At first, the pain was sharp and all-consuming, a conflagration that burned away thought and reason. But as the metal advanced, it shifted into something deeper, more invasive — a dull, throbbing ache that seemed to resonate in his very core. His mind raced, desperate to distance itself from the violation, but there was no escape. The sensation was inescapable, a constant, oppressive presence that left him trembling.

"Stop... please, stop!"

The words were torn from him, a plea that hung in the air, unheeded.

Yet, amidst this torrent of suffering, there existed a treacherous undercurrent — a dark fascination with the very pain that wracked him. It was a paradox that ensnared his senses, a forbidden allure that beckoned from the shadowy corners of his consciousness.

And then, the tip reached his prostate.

A jolt of sensation shot through him, electric and unbearable, a sickening blend of pain and unwanted stimulation that left him reeling. His body convulsed, a strangled cry tearing from his throat as the metal pressed against the sensitive gland. The feeling was overwhelming, a cruel mockery of pleasure that made his stomach twist with disgust.

"How does it feel, my little puppy?"

Alex's voice cut through the haze, a sickeningly sweet serenade to his torment. The question hung between them, a twisted display of one's power over the other.

Ricardo couldn't bring himself to look at that man, his eyes brimming with tears that spoke of both agony and shame. They spilt over, tracing warm paths down his cheeks, silently telling of the turmoil he couldn't begin to articulate. And in that moment, he was lost — not only in the bewildering tapestry of pain and pleasure, but also in the man who sat before him, in those demonic hands that played with him.

Surrender... Surrender... Let him break you…

The rod in Alex's hand began to move in and out of the urethra, thrusting as if a tiny penis was working another. The sensation was overwhelming — the cruel friction of metal against tender flesh, the obscene wet sounds of forced penetration, and the never-ending waves of uncanny pleasure. 

Ricardo's swollen belly sloshed with every movement, the lingering enema fluid pressing against strained organs. He felt like a overfilled waterskin, stretched to bursting, each thrust of the rod sending fresh waves of pressure through his abused body. The dual assaults left him panting, his skin sheened with sweat that had nothing to do with heat and everything to do with the war being waged within him. 

Alex worked the rod with surgeon's precision, his movements calculated to elicit the most devastating responses. "So there's your body's truth." He murmured, watching Ricardo's abdomen bulge and contract in involuntary waves. The rod became a conductor's baton, drawing forth a symphony of twitches and tremors. "Hear how perfectly it sings for me?"

The rod twisted suddenly, finding some hidden nexus of nerves. Ricardo's back arched violently, chains clanking as white-hot sensation lanced through him. A sound escaped his lips — half sob, half moan — entirely beyond his control.

"Magnificent." Alex grinned. His voice, laced with malice and desire, cut through the whimpers. 

"Now come for me." The command left no room for refusal, vibrating with the certainty of a man who owned every trembling inch of the body beneath him. "Let me see you shatter." The rod became a relentless piston, each thrust calibrated to drag Ricardo closer to that precipice. "This is what you were made for — to take what I give you, to break when I say break."

There was a smugness in his words, and the chuckle was a bitter poison, yet within Ricardo, it stoked an ember of shameful excitement.

His defenses, once so steadfast, now teetered on the brink of collapse. Traitorous convulsions wracked his body, each one chipping away at his crumbling resolve. An unstoppable force gathered within, a tsunami of forbidden pleasure that threatened to sweep away all carefully constructed barricades, revealing the raw vulnerability beneath.

"I know you want to come. Your body knows its place, even if your pride won't admit it."

The stick thrusted and rotated at a relentless pace within the tender tunnel, pressing and provoking every single sensitive point.

"Isn't it beautiful, that your first orgasm in my hand is achieved by fucking your dick?" Alex purred, his eyes alight with vicious hunger, "Now pour it out. It's your Master's order!" The command cut through the air like a whipcrack.

"Damn you!" Ricardo snarled through clenched teeth, the voice cracking like splintering wood. "I'll never — ah! — never give you what you want! — Ugh…" Yet another moan, sweet and sticky, just like honey.

Alex laughed, the sound rich with dark amusement. He leaned close, looking down at the spectacular scene as the rod worked mercilessly. He could see every involuntary response, could feel every way Ricardo's body betrayed him. "But you already did, little pet. Every gasp, every tremor — they're all gifts for your Master." A particularly deep thrust drew another strangled cry. "And they are all under my command."

The rod, a silver serpent nestled within Ricardo's most intimate depths, conducted the illicit symphony of this power play. With every thrust, every cruel twist, the coiling tension built, a relentless crescendo towards the precipice of release. The rhythmic intrusion became a metronome counting down to his inevitable surrender, every movement calibrated to unravel his resistance thread by thread.

His fingers clenched at the restraints, toes clawing inward, muscles taut as bowstrings as he fought with his last strength against the rising tide within him.

Alex's command sliced through the haze like a scalpel, precise and inescapable.

"Come, my pet. Now!" 

"AAAAAUUUUUUUGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!" 

Finally, in the heart of the room, an earthquake raged, unleashed from the depths of Ricardo's being. His scream echoed off the walls, raw and guttural, the sound of a soul being flayed alive.

Alex watched, enthralled, as his body twisted and convulsed, ensnared in the grip of an orgasm that transcended the physical realm. His torso began to tremble, back arching like a bridge, and for a minute, he could only see darkness. His cock contracted and quivered wildly, as well as his soul, drawn into a vortex of sensation that obliterated all memory of what came before. With his urethra blocked and intestines filled with the enema, explosion happened deep inside. This was the moment pain and pleasure collided — a violent, molten tide that seared through him, scorching away every last pretense of resistance, leaving only trembling, shameful surrender.

"Here we go. Cute little thing." Came the voice of Alex, laced with cruel satisfaction.

The stick kept moving, prolonging the unbearable climax. And when it was finally withdrawn, Ricardo's body responded with an explosive release. The eruption left him gasping like a drowning man breaking surface, his release splattering across his stomach in humiliating stripes.

As the final ripples of ecstasy ebbed away, his back slumped onto the bed. In the silence that followed, broken only by his ragged breathing, he realized the most terrifying truth — some part of him had begun to crave these moments of obliteration, when the pain of resistance became too great to bear.

Chapter Text

The torturous orgasm tore through Ricardo's insides, yet in its wake, it also rendered his face into a canvas of ethereal beauty. Soft, moonlit skin carried a faint blush of dawn-kissed rose petals, the crimson in his cheeks betraying an irrepressible timidity. His watery blue eyes, brimming with unshed tears, gleamed like the heart of Mediterranean Sea under the noonday sun. Sweat beads oozed from the tip of his nose, while his parted lips, still quivering with the remnants of sensation, exuded a quiet, breathless temptation.

His body, a symphony of strength and grace, was sculpted with the precision of an artist's chisel — broad shoulders tapering into a lean waist, muscles shifting beneath fair, rosy skin like the currents of a hidden river. Yet in that moment, stripped of all defenses, he seemed achingly fragile, as though the gentlest touch might fracture him. His vulnerability was magnetic, an unspoken plea that made hearts ache and hands yearn to trace the fine lines of his existence, to test the boundary between resilience and ruin. He was like porcelain — exquisite, breakable, yet mesmerizingly untouchable.

For the first time, Alex truly looked at him, and he found himself unable to look away.

They had known each other for years, yet their words had rarely crossed. Ever since Alex's father had fallen in a brutal clash with the Southside Serpents three years prior, Alex had been forced to rise from the shadow of his grief and lead the Ironcrest Wolves — no longer just a son, but a leader, a survivor. Vengeance had burned hot in his veins, but necessity tempered his fury. He had stood across from Salvatore Garavani in tense negotiations and bitter standoffs, choking down his hatred and dignity, learning to smile and kneel for the sake of his own men's survival. And in those moments — amid the unyielding stares and the weight of unspoken threats — Alex had always felt a gaze lingering on him, a pair of eyes quietly studying him from across the room.

Ricardo.

The boy had been a phantom presence at Salvatore's side — a delicate shadow, well-guarded and untouchable — a symbol of his father's power. Alex would catch glimpses of him — the way his fingers tensed around his glass when negotiations turned hot, the subtle softening of his lips when ceasefire terms were grudgingly accepted. And whenever Alex tried to meet his gaze, he would quickly look away, but not before a faint flush betrayed him. It was a strange dance of stolen glances and quick retreats.

But Alex had dismissed it. His mind had been consumed with strategy, with the cold mechanics of war. He had no interest in deciphering the secrets behind those downcast eyes.  

All he had seen was opportunity — a weak point of Salvatore he could exploit.

Whispers slithered through the underworld, rumors that even Garavani's own men did not bother to silence — this mafia prince was soft, weak, and too pretty — a spoiled playboy, a vain ornament, unfit for this world of blood and brutality, let alone as Garavani's heir.

And now, the boy who once lived behind his father's shield had stumbled straight into Alex's trap, and there was nowhere left to hide.  

Whatever in Ricardo's mind hadn't mattered then. It didn't matter now. He was nothing more than a pawn in his father's palm, and now, a weapon in Alex's hands — a tool to dismantle Salvatore Garavani piece by piece. His only purpose of existence was to be shattered, bent, ruined from body to soul, and in the end, to be remade into something toxic, a poison to corrode his father's empire from the inside out.

And yet…

As Alex stood over him now, something wavered. A ripple beneath the surface.  

The more Ricardo was made to suffered, the more he seemed to slip away from his father's shadow. His pride was fierce, but not tainted with arrogance; his resolve was unyielding, but not laced with malice. The ruthless cruelty that defined Salvatore was nowhere to be found in the delicate lines of his face or the soft tremor in his breath. He was nothing like the man Alex swore to destroy.

Maybe the gossips were right. Maybe Ricardo never belonged in this world of violence.  

And maybe, just maybe… this cruel fate was never meant to belong to him either.

As if drawn by an unseen force, Alex reached out, his fingers brushing along Ricardo's cheek. The touch was light, almost tender — a contradiction to the violence he had promised. The skin was warm beneath his fingertips, too warm, stirring something deep within him, something unwelcome but undeniable.

"Let me give you one more chance." His voice emerged softer than intended, yet laced with an authority that allowed no disobedience. He let his fingers trail down Ricardo's jaw, slow and deliberate, before gripping his chin, tilting his face toward himself. Their eyes met — one gaze smoldering with rebellion, the other a fathomless void swallowing every spark of resistance.

"Call me Master, and I'll grant you pleasure. Deny me again…" A shadow curled around Alex's words, a threat as much as a promise, "And you will only know pain."

Ricardo stared at him through heavy-lidded eyes, lips sealed in silent defiance. The man before him commanded the waves of his own surrender, wringing pleasure from his nerves. But his will remained untamed, a storm raging beneath his stillness. He would not grant him the final victory with a shattered submission. This time, silence was his weapon.

Alex exhaled a quiet chuckle, dragging his fingers down Ricardo's throat, then lower — to his chest, his stomach. The touch was neither rushed nor hesitant, but purposeful, as if he sought to carve his control into Ricardo's very flesh. His fingertips grazed the white evidence of the unraveling, smearing it across Ricardo's belly like an artist blending paint.

"Look at you." He mused, his tone half humiliation, half something akin to pity. "My perfect, broken thing. So responsive, so full of fire."

Satisfaction flickered in his gaze, yet beneath it, something darker lurked. "Why fight it," he continued, voice coiling around Ricardo like a serpent, whispering venom laced with honey, "when you could trade pain for pleasure?"

Ricardo swallowed hard, his breath uneven, but when he finally spoke, his voice cut through the charged air like a blade.

"What exactly do you want, Alex?" His words wavered at the edges but held their bite. "Revenge? A way to vent your hatred? Or just the thrill of ruining me?"

For the first time, Alex hesitated.

His smile faltered, if only for a fraction of a second, his expression hardening into something unreadable. A predator should not be questioned by its prey.

"What do I want?" His voice turned to ice, his lips curling into a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "Why should that matter to you? Since when does a pet get to question its master?"

Ricardo clenched his fingers into fists as he shook his head slightly. "Is this really you?" His voice trembled, but not with fear — with something raw and desperate, clawing at the edge of his own understanding. "So impervious to reason?"

Alex's face darkened.

"You think you know me?" His voice dropped, quiet, lethal — a storm gathering on the horizon. His grip tightened around Ricardo's chin, his fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. His gaze was suffocating, bottomless, a black abyss refusing to be seen through. 

"Looks like you haven't suffered enough."

He walked to the end of the bed, retrieving a second nozzle from the enema kit — thinner, crueler — its tapered tip glinting under the harsh light. His fingers closed around Ricardo's half-soft length, squeezing just shy of pain, a mockery of tenderness before the violation.

Ricardo's body jerked at the contact, his urethra still raw from earlier torment, the inflamed tissue screaming at even this fleeting touch. But Alex didn't hesitate. He pressed the nozzle inward, a slow, deliberate invasion, the rigid plastic forcing its way into hypersensitive flesh.

Ricardo inhaled sharply, his muscles locking as fire lanced up his spine. His fingers clawed at the restraints, tendons standing out in stark relief as he fought to stay silent, to endure. But when the nozzle breached his bladder, when Alex twisted it deeper with a surgeon's ruthless efficiency —

A scream tore from his throat, raw and shattered.

Yellow urine gushed out through the catheter, a humiliating flood he couldn't stop, couldn't control. A surge of shame followed, hot and overwhelming, as his traitorous flesh yielding to Alex's command. It was worse than pain, this violation — watching himself obey, helpless as his own body became the enemy.

"You asked for this, Ricardo." Alex's voice dripped with malice as he loomed over Ricardo's trembling form. Then, with a sneer, he added, "But don't worry — I'm simply flushing out all that filth inside you. A proper cleansing, just for you."

In that moment, Ricardo felt as though the world had tilted on its axis, sending him tumbling into a chasm where the reality twisted into something absurd — where degradation was ritual, where violation masqueraded as purification. He was ensnared in Alex's sordid theater, a marionette bound by strings of anguish, each twitch a response to the puppeteer's sadistic skill.

"Stop... God, please make it stop!"

The words clawed their way out of his throat, a desperate prayer cast into the void, only to be swallowed by the echo of Alex's silence. Alex, the unflinching maestro of this private hell, orchestrated his suffering with a deft hand, each note a stab of pain that resonated through his very core.

"There we go." Alex crooned, the words slithering into Ricardo's ears like oil. "Let's drain it out. Make you hollow." His fingers trailed along the taut, trembling plane of Ricardo's stomach, pressing just enough to make him whimper. "Then I'll fill you back up with something much cleaner."

The laugh that followed was a blade, cold and sharp, sliding between Ricardo's ribs with every ragged breath he couldn't suppress.

True to his word, Alex swapped the bag. The icy flood hit Ricardo's core like a dagger, its chilly shock radiating into his bladder in paralyzing waves. It wasn't just liquid — it was an invasion, a glacial tide numbing him from within, leaching all warmth from his shuddering body. His muscles seized in animal panic as the cold permeated deeper, turning his insides to marble. In that crystalline moment of suffering, he realized the true depth of his plight — he wasn't a person here, not a man, not even an enemy. Just flesh to be carved open, a puppet with its strings cut, lying limp for a madman's amusement.

Is this really the man I have ached for?

The question cut deeper than the cold.

Inside him, the pressure mounted to a crescendo, unrelenting and unbearable. His bladder swelled to bursting, his bowels a leaden weight, his abdomen ballooned obscenely taut. This was a suffering that eclipsed mere pain; it was a force that seemed intent on ripping him asunder from the very core of his being.

Alex observed with a chilling detachment, lips curling into something too cruel to be called a smile. Every spasm, every choked gasp only fed the dark hunger in his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was poison wrapped in silk — smooth, deliberate, meant to destroy.

"Still playing the rebel, my little beast?" He purred, rotating the catheter in Ricardo's throbbing length with deliberate cruelty. The plastic tubing caught against over-sensitized flesh, each movement calculated to wring out another betraying tremor. 

"Such a proud, stubborn thing. Tell me—" His free hand clamped down suddenly, mashing tender skin against the unyielding intrusion inside the flesh with a vicious twist of pressure, "—does your defiance taste as sweet as your screams?"

Ricardo winced. The question was a noose, as suffocating as the water that strained against his insides. Each inhalation was a dire contest, a fight for existence on the battlefield of his body. Yet, amidst this tumult of pain, a defiant spark within him refused to be extinguished — a lighthouse standing tall against the raging storm.

He fixed his eyes upon Alex, letting the flames of his unyielding spirit shine through. His voice, frail from the relentless onslaught, somehow found its way through the haze of agony, infused with an unbreakable resolve.

"Go to hell." The words were raw, shattered, alive. "I'd sooner perish than bow to you!"

Alex exhaled quietly, almost as if bored, before flicking the enema device off with a lazy motion, halting the relentless flow.

"You are really tough." His gaze lingered on Ricardo, something unreadable flashing behind his eyes — Frustration? Amusement? Perhaps even a sliver of reluctant admiration.

He turned his eyes slowly to Ricardo's bulging stomach, glazed with the evidence of his violation — pearl strands of spend drying tacky against stretched skin. His palm descended with deceptive gentleness, fingers sinking into the yielding flesh as if testing the ripeness of a fruit. A perverse tenderness bled into the gesture, a mockery of affection twisted by cruelty.

"Guarda come sei," he murmured — look at you — voice thick with a revulsion that did not quite mask his fascination. "My little Madonna of the underworld. Should I carve a shrine for this?" His thumb circled the navel with a deliberate slowness, "Or shall we let the world see how well you carry my sins?"

Ricardo's body arched involuntarily, a gasp escaping his lips — half agony, half something unspeakable. Alex's breath hitched. Out of nowhere, a rush of heat crept up his neck, scorching and treacherous, as the leather of his pants grew taut — an unwelcome response from his own body.

He forced himself to ignore it, yet the words that slipped from his mouth betrayed his subconscious. "Someday," he sneered, the ridicule barely masking his yearning, "you'll beg to bear my heir. Not in your womb—" a nail scraped the distended flesh, "—but here. In this ruin I've made of you."

The laugh that followed was a serrated thing, echoing off the walls like the rasp of a blade being drawn. Yet his hand lingered, mapping the rise and fall of Ricardo's shallow breaths, as if memorizing the rhythm of a requiem he'd one day mourn.

The laughter chilled Ricardo's very bones with its mockery of his predicament — his body grotesquely transformed, swollen into a cruel imitation of motherhood. Alex's voice, laced with derangement, spun an obscene tale of a future that shouldn't exist: his seed taking root, his claim made permanent. A profane parody of creation, where Ricardo's body became a cradle for madness.

"You're insane." Ricardo rasped, voice fraying like torn silk. A shiver of fear ran down his spine at the thought of something growing inside him, of being shackled in this inferno forever.

And yet, buried beneath his revulsion, something darker stirred. A whisper of yearning so vile, so incomprehensible, it made his stomach twist. Even now, with Alex's cruelty laid bare before him, some fractured part of him still longed for the man he could no longer recognize. Worse still, some deep, treacherous corner of his soul even craved the degeneration Alex promised.

That was the true horror — not the twisted fantasy of a child, but the realization that even this couldn't kill his longing.

The laughter faded as Alex's fingers drifted upward, tracing sharp lines over the tautness of Ricardo's abdomen and the trembling ridges of his heaving ribs, before settling on the peaked nipples crowning his firm breasts like ripening red berries. 

Those fingers, which had brought so much suffering, now feathered over the swollen buds with horrifying tenderness. Slowly, carefully, Alex's thumb circled one nipple with a softness that seemed out of place in this chamber of torment. The peak stiffened against his touch, each pass coaxing it tighter, darker. 

Ricardo's breath hitched, his back arched into the contact before he could stop it. Betrayal — from his traitorous, accursed body. Fevered heat of humiliation crept up his spine, warring against the cold dread pooling in his stomach. He clenched his teeth, willing himself into numbness, but sensation disobeyed him. His own flesh, it seemed, was an unwilling participant in his downfall.

The room, once as frigid and sterile as a morgue, now pulsed with an unbearable heartbeat. The air was thick — thick with breath, with sweat, with something unspoken and twisted. The scent of their shared body heat clung to the space, mingling with the unwelcome chemistry between them.

"Stop... please..."

Ricardo heard himself plead, though the words tasted like ashes in his mouth. The heat that bloomed within him at Alex's touch was a perverse flame, igniting a fire that he had no desire to feel. Yet as Alex's thumb circled once, twice — a relentless mockery of intimacy, his hips jerked.

"Alex..."

His voice broke around the name — a single word heavy with the weight of tangled emotions — despair, anger, and an unspeakable longing so nebulous he couldn't grasp it.

He wan't even sure what he was asking for. To stop? To continue? Or to end this battle he was losing against himself with a final surrender — not to the pain, but to the man whose name had just slipped from his lips?

Alex's fingers froze against Ricardo's skin, the plea — his name, spoken like that — hanging in the air like a struck match. For a heartbeat, the room stilled, the only sound the ragged symphony of their breathing. Ricardo's body trembled, not from pain, not from fear, but from something else entirely.

"Don't."  

Alex's voice was low, edged with steel, yet beneath its hardness lay something unsteady. His fingers curled into a fist — not in anger, but in restraint, as if holding himself back from something he couldn't afford to touch.  

But when he spoke again, the tremor in his words betrayed him.  

"Don't say my name like that."

It was too soft, too intimate. Too dangerous.

The way Ricardo said it — like a forbidden prayer in the dark, like a lover's last gasp before ruin — threatened to cleave open the ice Alex had carefully encased himself in.

This was not how it was supposed to be. 

Ricardo was the enemy, the son of the man who had stolen so much from him — the man responsible for his father's death, for the countless lives lost to their bloodstained feud. Capturing Ricardo had been about power, about strategy, about revenge. He was not just a weapon to dismantle Salvatore Garavani's empire from its weakest point, but also a trophy — a symbol of Alex's dominance, and a prize for encouraging Alex's own men. 

He was meant to be punished, humiliated, ruined, then trashed after his very last bit of value was squeezed out. Alex should only be thinking of the suffering to come, of the ways his men would carve their vengeance into that flawless skin.

And yet, there was something in this mafia prince Alex couldn't ignore. 

Strength — real strength, not the hollow bravado of his father's men — strength that clashed with his too-pretty features, that defied every whispered rumor of his supposed fragility. By now, he should have shattered, should have been reduced to nothing but pleas and submission. But even in his deepest suffering, his spirit refused to break.

That defiance should have enraged Alex. It should have made him push harder, break him faster.

But instead, it stirred something inside him that couldn't help but rise.

Admiration, attraction, or something deeper… Feelings he had no right to entertain.

His gaze traced the sharp curve of Ricardo's jaw, the subtle twitch of his Adam's apple as he swallowed, those striking blue eyes burning with the remnants of his pride. 

He should have ignored it, should have crushed it, should have pressed forward with the fate already decided for this captive prince.  

And yet, he found himself leaning in, drawn to something he was not ready to comprehend.

His breath faltered. His resolve wavered. Then, with the momentum of a landslide, he gave in to the pull, his mouth descending upon Ricardo's heated skin, lips brushing against his chest before tracing onto the peaks of his breasts. Kissing, tasting, worshiping — slow, heated, indulgent. Each flick of his tongue, each lick, each suckling pull was a blasphemy against his own vengeance. It wasn't about power, wasn't about domination, but something far more dangerous. 

Something real.

The chamber seemed to hold its breath. Shadows trembled on the walls like witnesses to a sacrament as Ricardo arched beneath him, no longer just a captive of chains but also of the bewildering allure that pulled them together. The fair skin soon bore the scorched imprint of Alex's lips, teeth, and his hunger — a living testament to the chaos that had upended them both. Once so fiercely unyielding, a turbulent sea of sentiment roiled, defying the limitations of language. Each breath they shared was steeped in inevitability, their fates tangled in a way neither could fully grasp nor undo. 

Alex's touch — soft and silky — confounded the very notion of enmity. His lips, like whispers of apology against heated skin, traced a path that contradicted every cruel word, every act of dominance. It was as though he sought redemption through the very flesh, an act of silent rebellion against his own ironclad decrees.

A moan threatened to escape Ricardo's throat. He bit it back, but his traitorous skin burned where Alex's mouth traveled, every nerve alight with a craving that shamed him. The man who had shattered his world now mapped it with a lover's reverence, as if the very act of ruin had become a form of twisted creation.

Alex's teeth grazed a nipple, his hand splaying possessively over Ricardo's racing heart. "Ricardo." he murmured against damp skin, too intimate, too raw — an amplified echo from his own treacherous soul.

And within Ricardo, against all reason, an urge to answer sparked. It was treachery in its purest form, a flicker of something forbidden in the cold abyss of his captivity. Shackled, tortured, stripped of everything, and yet — somewhere in the deepest recess of his soul — his heart ached for the thing it should not crave.

The once austere confines of his prison had shape-shifted into a battleground of desires. The air, thick with the scents of their intertwined existences, whispered of the folly and the fervor that now held both captive.

In a voice barely above a murmur, Ricardo finally dared to break the silence, his words hanging between the two like a fragile bridge over a chasm of doubt.

"Is this our absolution, or merely another circle of our own personal hell?"

Chapter Text

Alex stilled. The question cut through the haze, a blade of reality slicing through the heat. His breath slowed, his body tensing as if suddenly doused in ice. Slowly, deliberately, he straightened himself up, lifting a hand, wiping the corner of his lips with his thumb — a measured gesture, yet laced with an undercurrent of barely contained rage.

"Absolution?" He echoed the word as if it were vile on his tongue, his voice dipping into a venomous hush, each syllable honed to a razor's edge. His expression shifted — hunger extinguished, softness erased — until nothing remained but a cold, ruthless mask. The flickering fire in his eyes died, replaced by a void, an abyss of seething contempt.

"You're a Garavani." The name left his mouth like a slur, thick with disdain, as though just speaking it tainted him. "Your blood is poison. There is no such thing as absolution between us. Not now. Not ever!"  

The words fell between them like a guillotine, cutting off whatever moment that had nearly taken root. A sentence. A sentence with no appeal.

Then, the leash on his temper snapped. He shot to his feet, his movements abrupt, charged with raw fury. His hand flew to the nearby table, fingers closing around a sleek metal box. The snap of its lid echoed through the heavy silence as he retrieved several thick, gleaming needles.  

"We are not over yet!"

His voice was a growl, low and edged with something dangerous.  

Ricardo barely had a second to react before Alex seized him, his grip unyielding as he pinched the nub of Ricardo's left nipple — flushed and sensitive from the canoodling moments ago. A wicked gleam flared in his dark eyes, his teeth clenched, his breath ragged with unspent aggression. Then he drove the needle through the swollen peak, a cruel, piercing claim against Ricardo's fevered skin.

Ricardo felt his breath catch, a gasp escaping at the sharp sting as the needle sliced through the delicate flesh of his nipple. A new surge of pain bloomed, hot and intense. Blood welled, bright and obscene against flushed skin, the metallic scent intertwined with the lingering hint of Alex's sweetness on his breast — a contradiction, a perversion of feelings and sensations.

"Is this all you've got, Alex?" He taunted, though his voice shook. 

Around them, the air itself seemed to curdle — the surroundings have transformed into a stage for something far darker than torture. Alex's mask of control hung by threads, falteringly veiled his own internal struggle.

Each piercing thrust of steel drew blood — and revelation. Ricardo fixed his gaze on Alex through the pain, his stare a scalpel peeling back layers of performative cruelty. He saw it — the faint tremor in Alex's hands, a fleeting crack in the carefully constructed facade of dominance. It was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there, betraying something raw beneath the mask of cruelty. 

Vulnerability. Hesitation. An unspoken confession hidden within.

It was a chilling yet intoxicating sight, one that upended the balance of power between them. For all his authority, for all his declarations of control, Alex was not immune to the weight of what transpired between them. That realization curled through Ricardo's chest like smoke, thick with intrigue and a dangerous, fragile hope. 

"Your hands, they tremble, Alex." His voice was quiet, almost gentle, yet laced with a knowing edge. Their eyes met, and Ricardo held his gaze, unflinching. "What torment could drive a man like you to such distraction… over his adversary?"

He wasn't expecting an answer. He didn't need one. The question itself was a weapon, a seed planted in the depths of Alex's mind, forcing him to confront what he refused to acknowledge. If only for a moment, Ricardo saw doubt flicker in those dark eyes — a hesitation that made him wonder if, beneath the violence, they were both just lost souls caught in their own private hell, searching for a way out through the hurt they inflict on each other.

The thought had barely settled before Alex erupted.  

"Enough!"

The roar cracked through the room, shattering the fragile thread of tension. His face twisted with fury, but Ricardo could see it for what it was — a desperate attempt to regain the control he felt slipping through his fingers.  

"And don't call me by my name!" Alex spat, eyes burning with a mix of anger and something far more volatile, "It's not yours to call. You will address me as Master!"  

He began to pace, his movements erratic, agitated. 

"You have no idea what's in store for you." he warned, voice dropping into a low, menacing growl, "I won't spoil the surprise, but hear me well — don't ever expect mercy. Not from me. Not from anyone in my gang."

Ricardo lay silently as he watched Alex prowling the room, whose presence stretched into every corner like a looming shadow. The air was thick with anxiety, and with each of his steps, the floorboards beneath him groaned as if in protest of the impending storm. The pale light cast sharp angles across his face, outlining the tension coiled in his features, the strain in his clenched jaw.

The man's voice, when it broke the silence, carried the weight of his dominance, a reminder that his will was the axis upon which Ricardo's world spun. Yet, beneath the sternness of his command and threats, there lay a vulnerability, a crack in his otherwise impervious facade.

Ricardo saw it —

The flicker in his eyes, the subtle hesitation in his breath. And in that moment, Ricardo was certain — he wasn't just fighting for control over his captive. He was fighting something within himself.

"I see into you, Alex." Ricardo said quietly, his words intentionally piercing, his voice an anchor in the tempest of their discourse, "Your threats and titles cannot conceal your essence. You are flesh and blood, capable of feeling, just as I am."

Alex froze mid-step, his attention snapping back to Ricardo. His eyes, normally so adept at concealing his thoughts, now revealed the faintest glimmer of truth, the barest admission of their shared humanity. In this space, the rigid boundaries of their roles seemed to dissolve, revealing the complex landscape of their intertwined fates.

"Mercy?" The word escaped Ricardo's lips, tinged with irony, as a fresh twinge of pain radiating from the newly inflicted wounds on his chest. "Do you honestly believe that mercy is what I seek from you, Alex? They all think I'm soft, but the truth is, my life has been forged in the fires of conflict and suffering no less than anyone else's. Pain holds no dominion over me, and I do not plead for leniency. But Alex," His voice rosed a little, blended with a hint of unbidden passion, "what I'm asking is… what you really want, who you really are!"

The room fell into a tense hush, his declaration resonating in the space between the two. He watched as Alex's jaw tightened, hands clenched, a silent battle waging within him.

"I didn't know you could be so… eloquent." Seconds later, with a long inhale, Alex loosened his hands and smiled bitterly, "But you are too naive, little philosopher. You think these pathetic sermons can change anything?"

He walked up to Ricardo's lower part, and in one brutal motion ripped both catheters free. Ricardo's body arched off the bed, a strangled scream escaped clenched teeth as fire lanced through his core. The tubes left behind a raw, hollow burn — a stark reminder of how deeply his sanctity had been breached.

"This torment knows no bounds." He whispered in despair, the words barely slipping out of his lips. His every muscle quivered, a silent rebellion brewing beneath the surface of his abused body.

Alex leaned in, voice dripping with mockery. "Now, you are free to excrete — the liberation you begged for." He sneered, resuming the game of humiliation, "Go ahead. Give me a wonderful show."

The piercing sting of physical pain slowly dulled to a throbbing ache, but in its place surged a flood of emotions — raw, relentless, and far more agonizing. Stripped bare, Ricardo lay broken, Alex's scathing remarks echoing in his skull like a mocking chorus. Each word a cruel reminder of how futile it was to search for humanity in that man's callous demeanor.

Then his body revolted.

A primal urgency seized him, his muscles clenching against the foreign intrusion, demanding release. But the thought of succumbing to such a base, intimate need under Alex's unyielding scrutiny sent a fresh wave of horror through his veins. This was a frontier of humiliation he had yet to cross, a complete subjugation that gnawed at the remnants of his pride.

Alex kicked a huge barrel to the end of the bed, his smirk venomous as he hauled Ricardo's butt to the edge. "Need help?" The question was a razor wrapped in silk before his palm slammed down on Ricardo's stomach.

"No...No..." Ricardo struggled in dread, but ultimately gave in to the tremendous pressure from both inside and outside. He could only watch in despair as water and all sorts of dirt poured out from the openings at the bottom of his body.

As the spasms racked his body, each wave brought with it a scorching flood of humiliation and outrage that sears his flesh more fiercely than the relentless water that had breached his defenses. Alex's hand, an iron weight upon his abdomen, commanded this mortifying exodus with a cruel precision. The torrent exploded into the barrel with a sickening slap — water and filth mixing in a grotesque baptism. The sound echoed off the walls, a vulgar applause for his complete desecration.

Yet through it all, a spark of resolve remained. Faint, flickering, but alive.

"Is this what you wanted, Alex?" He choked out the words, each syllable bloody with scorn. "To witness my utter debasement? To prove your dominion over me?"

His spirit hadn't shattered. It raged, a wildfire in the ruins, and for one fractured second — Alex faltered. A fleeting shadow of doubt crossed his visage.

He tried to harden his gaze, a stone mask concealing the chaos beneath.

"You are but a pawn, Ricardo. This is the destiny you can't escape." Alex hissed, his voice a honed edge meant to slice through Ricardo's remaining defiance.

His words, however, fell upon the void of the entwined enmity and desire. His repulsive deeds, as revolting as they might be, had laid bare a simple truth: His actions were a facade, a brittle shield against the depths of his own vulnerability. Ricardo saw through the charade, recognizing the fear that lied beneath his calculated exterior — a fear that, despite everything, bound them inextricably together.

Alex's face remained impassive, a carefully constructed mask of detachment, yet his hands told another story — slow, deliberate, almost reverent in their task. The damp cotton cloth traced over Ricardo's skin, wiping away the last remnants of water with meticulous precision. His touch lingered for a fraction too long, as if committing the sight of flushed skin and trembling muscle to memory. 

Then —

A hitch in his breath. A tremor in his fingers as they brushed the delicate, reddened entrance between Ricardo's thighs. It unfurled before him like a fragile daisy — blooming, exposed, utterly defenseless, tempting in a way that made his throat tighten.

Fuck.

The thin fabric of his pants did little to disguise the silent betrayal of his own body, the slow, insidious unraveling that crept through his veins. 

Without a word, he reached for the small vial at his side, coating his fingers in a sheen of cool lubricant. With practiced care, he pressed forward, breaching the warmth of Ricardo's body once more. This time, there was no haste, no brutality — only the slow, measured glide of his fingers as they sank deeper, a surrender disguised as conquest. Ricardo's body yielded with a quiet gasp, the sound curling low in Alex's gut.

Ricardo's senses teetered on the edge of sanity. Alex's hand, once iron-clad in its malice, now cradled his form in an unfamiliar tenderness that sent his pulse racing in rebellious beats. The lubricant, cool against his skin, became the accomplice to the man's touch, a slick conduit that eased him into his hallowed depths. 

With each careful advance of his fingers, Alex stoked the embers of a fire that Ricardo had been ill-equipped to resist, illuminating the shadowy recesses of yearnings he had long sought to suppress. The dialogue between them had been reduced to the subtlest of communication, a symphony of sighs and shuddering gasps that painted a vivid imagery of raw need. 

Ricardo arched against his restraints, a silent scream trapped in his throat as his body betrayed him. The man who should have been his executioner had become something far more dangerous - a dark gravity pulling him into orbit. In this twisted sanctuary of pain and intimacy, the rules of war had rewritten themselves. The enemy's touch spoke a language older than hatred, forging a silent pact acknowledging the unwanted yet undeniable connection that bound their fates together.

"Alex." He breathed, his voice a fragile echo of accusation amidst the quiet of their clandestine struggle. 

This name, which he had worn like armor, now tasted of surrender, a two-syllable white flag waving in the tempest of their tangled tremors.

"I told you not to say my name." Alex chided, but in a quiet whisper. He leaned closer, heat of his breath ghosting over Ricardo's flushed face, as his fingers pressing deeper, twisting, stretching, coaxing cries Ricardo refused to give. 

"This place is mine now." He continued, his voice a velvet sneer, dark and possessive. "But don't think it means anything. You?" A slow, cruel twist, "You are just a toy."

There was a sting in his reprimand, sharp and clear, yet the fire in his eyes betrayed a depth of emotion that his words could not mask. His breath, a moist gale against Ricardo's skin, whispered of the storm raging within him — a tempest that threatened to sweep away the fragile barriers he had so precariously constructed between them.

"Your actions speak louder than your words, Alex." Ricardo breathed out, the defiance in his voice barely concealing the ragged edge of his own desire. The man's fingers, each thrust deliberate, each twist calculated, sent shockwaves of sensation coursing through his body, igniting a fire that refused to be quenched.

In the stillness of their enforced proximity, the roles they had been assigned seemed to waver, the edges fraying under the relentless friction of what they endured together. Alex's touch, once a tool of subjugation, now whispered a language of need that resonated in the hollow of Ricardo's chest, a silent confession of hidden frailty in both.

"Just a toy," Ricardo echoed with a hint of sarcasm, "and yet here you are, playing with me as though I held the key to the mysteries of your heart."

Allowing those fingers to continue their relentless dance within him, Ricardo let his head fall back, yielding to the paradox of their unity — a tempest of conflict and yearning that held them both captive.

The realization hit Alex like a baton in the skull — he was losing control.

Ricardo's body arched beneath him, sweat-slick and trembling, every gasp, every shudder a provocation. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He was the one in command, the one who dictated pleasure and pain. But the way Ricardo looked at him — blue eyes watery with defiance and something dangerously close to allure — it unraveled him.

This slut is seducing me!

The thought was a spark in dry tinder. Rage, white-hot and sudden, flooded his veins. Before he could think, his entire hand was inside Ricardo, fisting him in one brutal motion, tearing a ragged scream from his throat. Blood slicked his knuckles, metallic and warm.

"Now you understand," Alex growled, his voice raw with fury. "You're not a person. You're a thing. Mine to use. Mine to break."

In an instant, Ricardo's world fractured. Pain, sharp and blinding, ripped through him, stealing his breath, his thoughts — everything but the searing stretch of Alex's hand inside him. For a heartbeat, he hung suspended in shock, his body convulsing around the invasion.

Alex's fury, a tempest of rage, crashed over him, his violence a brutal assertion of dominance that sought to sever the fragile threads of their unwanted bond. His hand, having briefly performed a complex dance of pleasure and pain, now wielded a merciless power again, stripping away the veneer of civility that once held his darker nature at bay.

"Alex..."

Ricardo's voice, strangled and weak, uttered his name, a plea hanging in the air, heavy with suffering and incredulity.

But the name was a mistake. It always was.

Alex's grip tightened, twisting, punishing. The air reeked of metal and sweat, of fear and something darker, something primal. Each movement was a claim, a reminder — you are nothing. Nothing but what I make you.

Yet even as his vision blurred with pain, Ricardo's lips curled into something too sharp to be a smile.

"Liar." He choked out.

Because Alex's hands shook. Because his breath came too fast. Because the fury in his eyes burned too bright to be hatred alone.

He could hurt him. He could ruin him. But he couldn't hide the truth — this wasn't just about power.

It never had been.

Alex's fury spent itself like a swirling tornado, his heaving chest the only movement in the sudden stillness. His fingers, wet and trembling, withdrew from the gaping wound he had carved, and with them, something grotesquely undone followed — a ruin of flesh, torn and spilling, a grim testament to his brutality. Blood clung to his skin in thick, glistening rivulets, warm and accusing, the scent of iron thick in the air. His hand hovered for a moment, as if he himself could not comprehend the destruction he had caused, before the gravity of it all settled like a stone in his gut.

"What have I done?"

His whole body was shaking, his breath shallow, barely forming the words that escaped his lips in a whisper. 

The weight of his actions crashed down on him like a tidal wave, suffocating, inescapable. His gaze drifted to Ricardo, and the sight nearly shattered him. The boy lay there, ravaged and trembling, his body a canvas of agony — pale, slick with sweat, muscles taut with the effort to endure. But his eyes. 

They burned.

Not with fear. Not with pain. But with a defiance that seared Alex to his core, laying him bare. That unbroken spirit, shining through the ruin of flesh — it undid him.

Alex turned away. He couldn't bear it. Couldn't bear himself.

He could not — would not — allow himself to falter. And yet, his heart hammered wildly in his chest, a war drum for a battle he was losing. This wasn't regret. Wasn't shame. It was worse — a hunger that went beyond flesh, beyond vengeance. The truth clawed at him mercilessly —  He was drawn to Ricardo, not just to his body, but to something deeper, something unbreakable. And that terrified him.

"I'll find a doctor for you." 

He muttered, voice cold, empty — a last attempt at control. And then he fled — steps uneven, breath ragged — leaving behind the one thing he couldn't escape: the knowledge that in breaking Ricardo, he'd shattered something in himself.

Ricardo watched as the door latched shut, sealing Alex's exit with a definitive thud that resonated through the stillness. He was left alone in the wreckage, marooned in the aftermath of their tumultuous clash, a scene etched with the stark lines of hurt and bewilderment. His own form, once a bastion of robustness, now felt like a crumbled edifice, bearing the indelible scars of their violent exchange. Each throb of his wounded body was a mocking echo of Alex's hands: one moment cruel, the next almost tender.

But deeper than the blood and bruises, something burned.

A spark. Unbroken.

He let the tears fall — not just from pain, but from the profound epiphany dawning upon him. Alex's hasty retreat, his voice betraying a faint quiver, echoed the inner tempest he struggled so vehemently to suppress. Despite his efforts to sound impassive, his words were unable to fully disguise the swell of feeling that had seeped into his timbre.

Ricardo had seen it — the crack in his facade, the vulnerability he so fervently sought to hide. The discovery that Alex was enthralled by him was a transformative insight that reshaped the battlefield of their interactions. It was an enigma clothed in the mantle of an adversary, a truth that at once repelled and beckoned him.

There, on the messy bed stained with blood and dirt, a curious calm began to settle over him.

"So, this is the game we play."

He murmured to the empty room, voice steady and resolute.

Chapter Text

For days, Alex did not return.

Ricardo remained confined, his world reduced to the four walls of his prison, the cold bite of iron shackles on his ankles a constant reminder of his captivity. The silence was suffocating, broken only by the distant echoes of footsteps beyond the door — footsteps that never stopped for him.

In the solitude, his mind became his own battlefield.

"My father's men should have found me by now." He thought bitterly, hands clenching on the long iron chain restraining his legs. "Or has father decided I'm not worth the risk?" The doubt gnawed at him, a serpent coiling in his gut. He was a Garavani, heir to an empire built on blood — yet here he lay, abandoned, reduced to waiting for his captor's next move.

But beneath the anger, another truth simmered.

"And what if they do come?" His fingers twitched, tracing the fading bruises on his chest — marks left by Alex in both violence and something far more ruinous. "Would I even want to leave?"

The thought almost revolted him, but in the mean time, it sent a traitorous heat pooling low in his stomach.

Because Alex had faltered.

That moment — when fury had given way to trembling fingers, when cruelty had cracked to reveal something raw beneath — Ricardo had seen it. Felt it. The way Alex's breath hitched when their skin met, the way his voice frayed around Ricardo's name like a man choking on a sacrament.

"You crave me," Ricardo mused, lips curling, "even as you hate yourself for it."

The realization was a drug, headier than any pain Alex had inflicted. He replayed it in the dark: the sear of Alex's mouth on his breasts, the brutal grip that had turned tender, if only for a heartbeat. The way his own body had arched into the intrusion, betrayal and desire fused into one unbearable need.

"Come back." He urged silently, teeth sinking into his lower lip. "Come back and ruin me properly this time."

But the door stayed shut.

The only visitors were the silent attendants who brought his meals and the doctor who tended to his wounds — efficient, impersonal, their eyes never meeting his. His body, resilient as ever, healed swiftly. The gashes closed, the bruises faded to shadows, the ache between his thighs dulled to a memory. Yet the hollowness remained.

The absence of clothing left him cloaked in nothing but a coarse cotton blanket, but he didn't mind. Let them see. Let Alex see, if he ever deigned to return — the way Ricardo's skin prickled under imagined scrutiny, the way his breath shallowed at every distant footfall.

"You're not done with me." He thought, defiant. "I saw it in your eyes. You can't stay away."

Then —

The groan of hinges. The shift of air.

Ricardo shot to his feet, his pulse roaring in his ears as the door swung open.

The familiar figure filled the threshold, and for a moment, Ricardo did not move. Alex stood before him, no longer the untouchable specter of control and cruelty, but something else — something quieter, wearier. The fire that once burned so recklessly in his gaze had dulled, veiled by fatigue, by something dangerously close to sorrow. It was subtle, but Ricardo saw it. He saw the weight dragging at Alex's shoulders, the hesitation in his stance, the shadow of unrest carved into the sharp lines of his face. The man who had broken him now stood before him, bearing fractures of his own.

Their eyes met, an unspoken reckoning crackling in the silence between them. Ricardo felt the shift, a strange and unnameable force threading itself through the ruins of their battle. Although his body still remained a testament to vulnerability in its state of undress — a stark reminder of the imbalance that persisted between them — he was no longer merely the wounded, nor Alex the unchallenged conqueror. There was something else now — something neither of them could quite grasp, yet neither could deny.  

Drawing a slow breath, Ricardo spoke, his voice a quiet chord of defiance and understanding, steady despite the rawness of their history.  

"Alex," he murmured, letting the name settle between them, heavy with unspoken truths. "I see it. The weight of this... of us. It's carved into you."  

The words hung in the air, a declaration, an acknowledgment. A shift in the game they played.

"Weight?"

Alex smirked at Ricardo's words, though the amusement didn't quite reach his eyes. He stepped closer, his presence a suffocating force, his shadow stretching over Ricardo like a claim. Though only half an inch taller, in that moment, he seemed to tower over him, his dominance seeping into every breath of air between them.  

His gaze, dark as the abyss, locked onto Ricardo's — those piercing blue eyes set in a face too delicate for the violence it had endured. Something flickered in Alex's expression, something tangled and unreadable, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.  

His hand moved again, ghosting over Ricardo's bare shoulder, leaving goosebumps in its wake. The touch was deceptively gentle, a whisper of sensation, yet it carried the weight of chains. With a faint tremor, the cotton blanket slid onto the floor, revealing Ricardo's naked body. Ricardo stood frozen, his pulse hammering in his throat. When Alex spoke, his voice was a quiet, mocking purr, wrapping around him like a velvet shackle.  

"Do you also feel the weight now?"

The words slithered between them, dangerously smooth, almost sweet. But Ricardo knew better. He knew this was another move in their unending power play, another test, another layer of the intricate web Alex wove around them.  

"Alex." Ricardo breathed, the name a delicate invocation, a plea for connection or perhaps a last-ditch effort at maintaining some semblance of control. 

Alex's fingers danced across his skin, each point of contact a spark that threatened to ignite the very air around them. His gaze, dark and fathomless, seemed to peel back the layers of Ricardo's brittle armor, threatening to expose the trembling core of his yearning.

"Tell me, do you feel it too, Il mio piccolo pet?"

Alex asked again, his voice a low thrum that pulsed through the room, tethering Ricardo to his will. The endearment — "my little pet" — was a brand, burning into Ricardo's very essence, an attempt to shape him into a vessel of pleasure and submission.

Ricardo's breath hitched, a traitorous stutter that gave away the pounding tempo of his heart, but he refused to look away. He met Alex's stare head-on, something in him — small, but unyielding — pushing back against the force that sought to unravel him.

"Your words, Alex," He murmured, his voice steadier than he expected, "they're just a veil. A poor attempt to mask the truth that lies beneath."

For the briefest moment, something in Alex's expression shifted — something raw, almost vulnerable. But then, just as quickly, the mask was back, the smirk curling at the corner of his lips, dangerous and unreadable.

"What truth?"

With a forceful push, he shoved Ricardo onto the bed. The sharp clink of shackle chains drowned out Ricardo's ragged breath as gravity pulled him into the mattress's embrace, leaving him sprawled beneath the crushing intensity of Alex's gaze — penetrating, possessive, and utterly inescapable.

Alex stripped away his own shirt in one fluid motion, every movement unraveling the fragile threads of restraint that barely held him together. The sight of his sculpted torso, the tension in his muscles, the barely checked hunger in his eyes — it was intoxicating, a heady mix that blurred the lines between adversaries.

He threw himself onto the bed, straddling Ricardo's waist, his gaze raking over the exposed flesh beneath him. 

"Is this the truth you're talking about? You want me to fuck you, don't you?" The words were blunt, edged with raw need. His voice was a low rumble, a quiet storm crackling in the charged air. His eyes — an unrelenting tempest of desire and control — locked onto Ricardo, determined to strip away every last trace of resistance and uncover the truth he refused to surrender.

But Ricardo was not so easily ensnared. Summoning every shred of defiance, he locked eyes with Alex, his voice steady despite the undercurrents of danger swirling around them.

"You mistake my endurance for submission, Alex." His words were a quiet blade, cutting through the illusion of power Alex so desperately wove. "This isn't about what I want. It's about the depths you're willing to plumb to assert your dominance."

Yet even as he spoke, his body betrayed him. Heat coiled low in his abdomen, his own treacherous flesh responding to Alex's nearness, a spark that threatened to ignite the powder keg of their entwined fates. In that moment, as their gazes clashed and the tension mounted, it was clear that this dance of power was far from over.

Alex's expression darkened, a feral glint flashing in his eyes before he let out a low, guttural growl. "Shut up."

And then he crushed their mouths together.

Ricardo barely had time to blink before Alex's lips claimed his in a brutal, searing kiss. It wasn't just a kiss — it was an invasion, a forceful conquest that left no room for protest. His tongue swept into Ricardo's mouth, relentless, unyielding, stirring something deep within him that he refused to name. A storm roared inside Ricardo, waves of desire crashing against the fragile walls of his resistance.  

And in that moment, memory struck him like a lightning bolt.  

This was not their first time.

The past came rushing back, vivid and unrelenting. Three years ago — before the war, before the killing, before the tangled mess of their present — Ricardo had lost a bet. A stupid, reckless bet with his buddies that had sent him into a bar dressed as a woman, tasked with seducing a stranger, stealing a kiss, and vanishing into the night.

He had chosen Alex.

He hadn't known who he was at the time, only that something about him — his quiet, elegant melancholy, the mystery in his eyes — had drawn him in like a moth to flame. Ricardo had kissed him, a fleeting act of audacity — an intruder in a moment never meant to be his. At first, Alex had frozen, startled, his hands moving to push him away. But the instant their tongues met, the tables flipped. Alex had seized him, taking control, deepening the kiss with the same unrelenting fervor he wielded now — devouring, claiming, leaving no room for escape.

Ricardo had panicked, torn himself away, and fled. But before he rushed out of the bar, he had caught a glimpse of Alex's expression — a slow, yearning smile. And the way he had licked the smudge of lipstick Ricardo had left behind.

Since that night, Alex had become a ghost haunting the deepest parts of Ricardo's heart.

And when Ricardo discovered the truth — Alex wasn't just a stranger but his greatest enemy, the son of the rival gang's boss — he had tried to purge him from his mind. But forgetting had proven impossible. Desperation had even driven him to beg his father for a ceasefire, a futile attempt to halt the inevitable.

Fate always had other plans.

Not long after their encounter, the massacre occurred. His father took Alex's father's life.

Ricardo remembered the night the news reached him — how his stomach had hollowed out, how his hands had trembled not with triumph, but with something sickening. Dante Chiesa is dead — The words had slithered through the Garavani estate like a curse, whispered in corners by men who didn't yet know the war they'd just reignited. His own father had returned that dawn, sleeves stiff with dried blood, his smile a blade in the dim light. "Justice, Ricardo." He'd said, gripping his son's shoulder. "Never forget what we are."

But Ricardo had forgotten. Or perhaps he'd never truly understood.

Because even after the bloodshed, Alex lingered in the marrow of his bones, a poison seeping deep into his soul.

Worse — the guilt festered into something monstrous, something hungry. He found himself tracing the memory of that stolen kiss in the dark, the way Alex's fingers had dug into his hips before he'd fled. He dreamed of the smear of lipstick on Alex's mouth, the way his tongue had flicked out to taste it after, like he wanted to savor the ghost of Ricardo's touch.

Madness. It was madness.

Yet Ricardo leaned into it. He begged his father to let him attend every negotiation, every tense standoff with the Ironcrest Wolves, under the guise of learning strategy. "Let me watch." He'd insisted, voice steady even as his pulse roared. "Let me see how you break them."

And oh, how he'd watched.

From across smoke-choked rooms, through the haze of cigarillos and threats, Ricardo studied Alex — the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his voice never shook even when his knuckles whitened around a glass. He memorized the flicker of Alex's gaze when it landed on him, brief but electric, a spark in the dark, yet it always made him flinch, as if caught in the act of crime. Did Alex recognize him? Did he remember the boy in smeared lipstick, the one who'd vanished like a coward?

Ricardo was torn by the contradiction — aching for Alex to remember, yet dreading what might happen if he truly recognized him.

He became a master of calculated accidents — timing his movements so their paths would cross in the dim corridors, letting his fingers linger a heartbeat too long when passing documents his father demanded be signed. He perfected the art of the distracted step, the too-sudden turn that brought them shoulder-to-shoulder in crowded rooms, each nearness sending electric currents down his spine that left him breathless. The scent of Alex's cologne and gunpowder would cling to his clothes for hours after, a secret torment he both craved and cursed.

And always, always, he would flee before Alex could notice his breath hitching.

The obsession should have shamed him. Instead, it became his most sacred liturgy.

Alex was everything his father despised — proud, smart, radiant with a kind of strength that couldn't be bought or bargained with. Treacherously, Ricardo was drowning in it. In him.

And now, here they were, entangled in a collision that Ricardo had never dared to dream of.

Alex's mouth was still pressed to his, the kiss a live wire between them. Ricardo could taste the past on his tongue — the bourbon, the lipstick, the years of unsaid words.

"Submit." Alex's touch whispered without words, a silent command that Ricardo felt more than heard.  

The room spun around them, the air thick with something raw and dangerous. Ricardo's heart pounded, a frantic rhythm against the storm raging inside him. He could feel the undeniable evidence of Alex's own turmoil, a hardness that pressed hot and insistent against him — a silent confession with no need of words.

Alex's hands, once instruments of torment, now moved with a hunger that bordered on reverence. Every touch carried the weight of his power, yet that power no longer belonged to him alone — it ensnared them both, binding them in ways neither could escape.

Their lips moved in a perilous waltz, Ricardo teetering on the edge of reason, caught between resistance and surrender. It was intoxicating, terrifying — this fragile balance of control and passion, as if they were dancing on the edge of a blade, one wrong step away from the abyss. 

And he wasn't sure if either of them would survive the fall.

Deep within Alex, a whisper of déjà vu stirred — a fleeting specter of recognition he couldn't quite grasp. It tugged at the edges of his mind, elusive yet persistent, as though a memory long buried beneath the weight of time struggled to resurface. But no matter how hard he reached for it, the truth remained intangible, dissolving like mist before dawn.

That kiss — their first and most ruinous — had long since been eclipsed, drowned beneath the tide of blood and vengeance that followed.

Back in the present, Alex let his hands roam over Ricardo's bare skin, mapping every inch with an almost devout touch. Each curve, each subtle tremor beneath his fingertips, spoke a language more honest than words. He was both executioner and worshiper, carving his claim into the very flesh he exalted.

And then he felt it — the unmistakable rigidity pressing against him — Ricardo's arousal mirroring his own. A fire licked through his veins, scorching away the last vestiges of restraint. The tenuous thread of control snapped. With a swift, decisive motion, he shed the final barrier between them, the fabric falling away like a discarded pretense. 

The moment his hardened length sprang free, it met Ricardo's own, the heat of their flesh colliding — an unspoken admission neither could ignore.

Ricardo's skin pressed against Alex's heated form, their legs entwined, shafts rubbing, an intoxicating testament to the tension and desire woven into their tangled history. Each caress stoked the embers of a long-smoldering longing, now threatening to erupt into a firestorm that could consume them both. 

As their bodies moved together, an unspoken conversation unfolded between them. Their gazes locked, and in that fleeting connection, a silent pact was acknowledged. The walls they had so carefully built were crumbling, leaving them exposed, stripped of disguise. The air was thick with the musk of their shared arousal, a primal scent that told its own tale of need, echoing through the discord that had long defined them.  

Their dance was ancient — a choreography older than their feud, defying the turmoil that kept them apart. Alex's hands, strong and insistent, roamed the expanse of Ricardo's torso, fingers etching fire into his skin. Ricardo, compelled by something deeper than lust, gripped Alex's back, pulling him closer, anchoring himself in the storm of sensation.  

"Alex." he breathed, the name escaping in a whisper — part plea, part invocation.  

Alex answered with a low growl of approval, the sound reverberating between them, an unspoken affirmation of the forces that bound them together. Their connection was a precarious balance of power and vulnerability, each memory a thread in the intricate tapestry of their shared past.  

Then, Alex shifted. His hardened manhood dragged slowly down Ricardo's abdomen, gliding lower, pressing against his perineum before finally teasing the narrow entrance to his waiting heat.  

"Tell me, do you want it?"  

The whispered question curled against Ricardo's ear, insidious and warm, laden with the echoes of a history they both carried. His body coiled with anticipation, muscles trembling beneath the weight of what was to come. Alex's arousal burned hot against his flesh, promising pleasure, threatening to unravel him entirely.  

Ricardo inhaled sharply, caught in the push and pull of defiance and surrender. The question hung between them, deceptively gentle yet carrying the weight of a dare — a demand for truth wrapped in temptation. It was a test, a provocation meant to strip him bare in ways beyond the physical.  

"Want it?" he echoed, his voice laced with resistance… and something dangerously close to eagerness.  

"You'll take what you want, Alex. With or without my blessing."  

An undeniable truth lay between them — the magnetic pull of their entwined fates, something that transcended mere flesh.  

But even as the hunger licking through Ricardo like a wildfire, deep in his core burned an ember of rebellion that no amount of desire could extinguish. He would not crawl to Alex like some tamed beast, would not offer himself as a shattered prize. This was not how love should be claimed, not how he would be remembered in the story of their lives. The man who haunted his dreams deserved more than broken submission; he deserved fire matching fire.

His breath came ragged as he met Alex's gaze, the ghost of a challenge sharpening his voice.

"But remember," he murmured, locking eyes with Alex in a silent clash of wills, "my body may yield to you, but my soul remains mine. That, you will never own."

As the echoes of his proclamation hung heavy in the charged air, his body, a canvas of both exquisite torment and rapture, braced itself for the the storm ahead. And in the space between surrender and resistance, between destruction and redemption, their fate awaited.

Alex's gaze burned with an unholy mix of desire and triumph, his lips curling into a smirk laced with mania.  

"You're too stubborn." He murmured, voice thick with the thrill of conquest. "But the more you resist me, the more you tempt me to break you."  

His eyes, dark with hunger, bore into Ricardo's as if reading the silent war raging beneath his defiant exterior.  

"We shall see." Alex continued, a promise tinged with wicked certainty. "The time will come when you beg for more."  

Then, without warning, he drove himself forward, his thick, rigid length breaching Ricardo's body in one swift, merciless thrust.

Chapter Text

The moment tightened between them, taut as a bowstring, as Ricardo's breath caught in his throat, stolen by the sheer force of Alex claiming the deepest parts of him. His body tensed instinctively, struggling against the invasion, but it was a losing battle. He was stretched wide, utterly filled, his very being forced to accommodate the relentless girth that now carved itself into his depths. Every ridge, every pulsating vein seared into his flesh, branding him from the inside out.

A strangled sound escaped his lips — a mix of a grunt and a gasp — too raw to be silenced, too visceral to be denied. The room felt smaller, the air thicker, every nerve in his body alight with the unbearable intensity of it.

"Fuck." He breathed, the single syllable slipping free in a shuddered exhale, as if the word alone could encapsulate the raw, maddening sensation of being utterly possessed.

It was too much. It was not enough.

Ricardo forced his gaze up, meeting Alex's eyes with a glare that held no trace of surrender. Despite the burning stretch, despite the way his body trembled under the strain, he smirked, voice a taunting rasp.

"Satisfied now?"

His challenge was a spark in the storm, and Alex responded in kind. His grip on Ricardo's hips turned vise-tight, his muscles coiling with renewed fervor.

"Was that all you got?" Ricardo goaded further, his voice threaded with both bravado and something intoxicating — a sliver of anticipation, a thrill that neither of them could ignore.

The taunt snapped whatever restraint Alex had left.

"You tell me." With a growl that rumbled deep in his chest, he pulled back only to slam forward again, the force of it sending a shockwave through Ricardo's entire being. Again. And again. Each thrust was a ruthless declaration, an unrelenting rhythm that stripped away pretense, leaving only the raw, unvarnished truth between them.  

Ricardo could feel the pleasure creeping in, insidious and undeniable, threading through the pain until he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. Every powerful drive of Alex's body ripped a raw, guttural sound from deep within him core, sending him closer to the edge, threatening to unravel him completely. His cock ached, leaking against his stomach, every nerve alight with the filthy, perfect friction of Alex taking him apart. His nails scored red lines into Alex's arms, seeking purchase against the overwhelming tide of sensation that threatened to pull him under.

There, in the crucible of their tangled bodies, Ricardo faced a truth he could no longer deny — 

He wanted this. Wanted it so badly.

Even amidst the tumult of their entangled histories — the feud, the rivalry, the bloodshed, and the tortures Alex had inflicted on him — the yearning for the profound connection that came from such a primal joining remained undiminished.

Surrendering to the maelstrom of sensations that ravaged his body, Ricardo let go, allowing himself to be swept away by the tempest that raged between them. In those moments, nothing else existed but the passionate fury of Alex's cock claiming him, over and over, as though branding his very soul.

In the sweltering embrace of their exertions, time warped and stretched, each moment thick with the weight of unrelenting desire. Ricardo's breaths came in short, ragged bursts, the echoes of a tempest Alex had unleashed within him. Every thrust of Alex's unyielding length forced a gasp from his lips, a symphony of surrender and defiance intertwined, feeding the fire of the other man's relentless dominion.

The tension coiled deep inside him, winding tighter with every drag of heat and friction, every press of Alex's body against his own. It spiraled higher, climbing toward an inevitable crescendo, until, without warning, it shattered. A violent tremor seized Ricardo's frame, his muscles clenching, his back arching as if strung taut by unseen hands. The sheets twisted beneath his grip, knuckles whitening with the force of his unraveling. And then — release.

A strangled cry tore from his throat, raw and unbidden, as pleasure crashed over him like an unrelenting tide, obliterating his last facade. His body convulsed in its final surrender, his member pulsed, releasing a torrent of desire that splashed hot across his stomach — a carnal mark of his capitulation.

The sight seemed to ignite something darker, something primal, in Alex. His pupils flared, a predator scenting blood.

"Look at you," His voice, low and thick with mirth, cut through the heavy air. His lips curled into a smirk, eyes raking over Ricardo's trembling, spent form with shameless satisfaction.

"You're such a slut."

The insult, meant to diminish, to carve away at the last remnants of Ricardo's pride, only stoked the embers of his defiance. Even now, with his body conquered, his spirit refused to yield. His gaze, half-lidded and hazy with the aftershocks of release, met Alex's with something that still dared to challenge.  

Alex stilled, his thickness buried to the hilt, not moving an inch. his breathing heavy but steady. His chest rose and fell, muscles coiled beneath sweat-dampened skin. And yet, in the midst of this storm he had created, upon the trembling and wrecked body beneath him, he remained maddeningly composed.

This was a punishment thrown back to Ricardo. The deliberate stillness was worse than any thrust. It left Ricardo aching, desperate, every nerve itching. His nails bit into his own palms, and his hips arched — just a fraction — seeking more.

Alex saw it. Of course he saw it.

A slow, knowing grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he returned the defiant gaze with an infuriating serenity. It was not the grin of a man merely satisfied — it was the look of a ruler surveying his conquered kingdom, knowing that no matter how hard Ricardo fought, no matter how much he resisted, he had already lost.

Alex's lips dropped again, a feather-light touch upon Ricardo's, offering a stark contrast to the fierce possession of moments past. This tenderness, foreign yet searing, sent a different kind of shudder through Ricardo's body. It was not mercy. Something more sinister was brewing.

Alex's cock, unabated within Ricardo, stirred anew the fiery longing that had moments before threatened to consume them both. With slow, deliberate thrusts, a masterful conductor, he coaxed from their union a crescendo of exquisite sensations, walking the razor's edge between ecstasy and sweet agony, each movement drawing a gasp, a moan, a plea Ricardo refused to give voice to. The room was thick with the sound of their union — the slick, rhythmic echoes of flesh meeting flesh, an unspoken war waged in sweat and gasps.

Then, Alex's voice — a blade of silk — cut through the haze of Ricardo's lust.

"I knew you wanted me, Ricardo." His breath was warm against Ricardo's ear, each syllable dripping with knowing cruelty. "From the moment you stepped into my world, I saw it in your body. Tell me, why are you so sluttish, craving your captor so badly?"

The accusation sliced through him, and before Ricardo could summon a response, Alex thrust — sudden, ruthless — hitting deep, as though puncturing the very secret Ricardo had buried for so long. A choked moan escaped his throat, betraying him, leaving him bare in more ways than one. His body shuddered, stripped of pretense, stripped of pride. And Alex knew it.

He could not hide it anymore.

If Alex realized the truth — if he pieced together the memory of that night three years ago, the kiss stolen in the dark, the "girl" he had chased with reckless want — would he gloat? Would he mock him? Would he despise him even more?

Alex's rhythm slowed, teasing, tormenting, holding Ricardo at the precipice of unbearable need. Then, in a voice rich with command, he whispered, "Beg me. Beg me like the slutty whore you are. Only then will I give you more."

Ricardo's body burned with want, desire clawing at his resolve, demanding surrender. He clenched his jaw, his pride warring with the unbearable ache of unfulfilled pleasure.

And then Alex bit down — teeth sinking into his lower lip, a mingling of punishment and possession. A thin ribbon of blood bloomed between them, metallic and sacramental. Ricardo gasped, then exhaled a breathless, broken laugh.

Enough.

He would take back control.

"You still don't remember, do you?" Ricardo murmured, grabbing the back of Alex's neck, lips brushing against his earlobe, relishing the slight tremor that followed. "That night, three years ago." He felt Alex still, the faintest flicker of hesitation. He pressed on, "The taste of cherry gloss… The way you chased me into the alley after."

Alex went rigid. A memory flickered — scarlet smudged on his lips, laughter ringing like wind chimes in the dark — but he crushed it before it could take form. 

"Bullshit." he spat, yanking Ricardo's wrists above his head, fingers like iron shackles around them.

Ricardo's smile was a blade pressed to the throat. "You called me bella ragazza, pretty girl. Begged for my name."

The words struck their target, cracking through Alex's carefully built walls. His body jerked back as if recoiling from a blow. For a moment, the world tilted — the memory surfacing like a long-lost specter — the stranger's ocean-blue eyes, the same as Ricardo's; the phantom scent of gardenias and nicotine. A touch that had lingered long after it should have faded.

"Impossible…" He murmured, his voice barely more than a breath as his grip slackened.

Ricardo seized the moment. With a swift, fluid motion, he locked his legs around Alex's waist and twisted, flipping them. Now, he was the one straddling, pinning Alex beneath him. His fingers tangled in Alex's curly hair, yanking his head back as he breathed, "Look at me." His voice was raw, electric. "I've haunted you longer than your father's ghost."

Alex's pupils dilated. For a single heartbeat, he surrendered — staring at Ricardo in disbelief, breath ragged, lost in the truth that had unraveled between them.  

Then, with a growl, he surged up, flipping them back, his weight crushing Ricardo beneath him. His hand wrapped around Ricardo's throat — not to choke, but to feel the frantic pulse beneath his palm, the rhythm of Ricardo's fear and want throbbing against his skin like a secret message.

Thud-thud. Thud-thud.

A Morse code of surrender. A confession neither could speak aloud.

Alex's fingers trembled. The furious pounding of the pulse underneath was mirrored by the wild drumming of his own heart, a chaotic rhythm of revelation and rage. The world around him blurred, the present folding into the past — shadows in the smoky dim bar, flashes of the moonlit alley, the ghost of the cherry-slicked kiss, laughter like a song that had haunted him ever since.

He had searched for that phantom. Weeks of restless nights, scouring the streets, chasing a shadow he couldn't quite define — was it her? Him? He hadn't cared. The mystery of that fleeting touch had possessed him, enchanted him, stolen something from him before he even knew it was his to lose.

And then — blood. Gangs colliding in violent crescendo, shattering the fragile spell. The dream had been ripped from him, replaced with war. Revenge had taken its place, carving its way into his heart where longing had once lived.

Only now, staring into Ricardo's too-familiar eyes, did the truth crash over him like a tidal wave, drowning him in its unbearable weight. The one he had craved, the one he had ached for in silence, had been here all along — on the other side of the war, the very man he had sworn to break.

His fingers curled tighter for a moment before loosening entirely.  

"No."

Alex's voice shattered like glass, rough with a truth too heavy to name. His forehead pressed hard against Ricardo's, their breaths tangling — hot, uneven. "It was you." A whisper, raw as an open wound. "Always you."

Ricardo's lips parted, but no words came. He could only watch as fury and anguish warred within Alex's storm-lit eyes, consuming him.  

"Do you know what you did to me?" Alex's voice cracked as he pulled back, staring down at Ricardo as though trying to carve the truth into his very soul. "I spent weeks searching for you. Didn't care who — what — you were. I just wanted you. Just knew I'd die if I didn't find you. And then —" His breath hitched, eyes burning. "Then it was over. The blood, the war — I had to shut it out. I forced myself to forget. I fucking made myself erase you. I… I had to..."

Ricardo swallowed hard, his chest rising and falling in shallow, stuttered breaths. He had known his own longing, had lived with it every day, but never — never had he imagined that Alex had felt it too.  

Alex let out a shuddering breath, his body quaking with something perilously close to breaking. "And now, I find out that it was you? The one I swore to hate? The one I swore to destroy?"

His hands trembled as they ran over Ricardo's cheeks — hesitant, reverent, lost. And then, as if something inside him collapsed, Alex crashed down, burying his face in the crook of Ricardo's neck. His shoulders shook.

Ricardo barely had time to process the weight of him, the warmth, before he felt it — hot, wet — dropped against his skin.

Alex was crying.

His body pressed closer, arms winding around Ricardo with a desperation that defied words. His lips, fevered and trembling, sought Ricardo's with something far beyond hunger — beyond lust.

It was grief. It was longing. It was love that had been buried alive, clawing its way back to the surface.

And Ricardo — Ricardo couldn't fight it. Didn't want to. Didn't need to.

Their flesh joined again, no longer a battle but a surrender — an unraveling of years lost. Alex's thrusts grew uneven, frantic, laced with sobs that he could no longer suppress. He clung to Ricardo like he was afraid he would vanish again, disappear like a dream upon waking.  

Every ragged breath Ricardo took was tinged with the taste of bittersweet inevitability, the weight of what had transpired pressing them into the mattress, into this moment — inescapable.

And then, Alex's voice, hoarse with sorrow, cut through the hush like the mournful strains of a requiem.

"Ricardo, why?" His words trembled, caught between anger and despair. "Why are you the son of Garavani? Why must you be the heir to my bitterest enemy?"

The anguish in his tone struck Ricardo deeper than any blade ever could. The questions, born from a torment Ricardo knew all too well, were not merely anger — they were a lament for what could have been, for what fate had so cruelly denied them. Their bloodlines had been their prison, chaining them to a war neither had chosen, a hatred neither had truly owned.

With each driven, passionate thrust, Alex's torment was laid bare, his desperation woven into the fevered cadence of his movements. It was as though, in claiming Ricardo, he sought to defy the cruel design of their inheritance, to rewrite a destiny that had been carved into their very bones. Ricardo felt himself unravel beneath the force of it — not just the physicality, but the sheer, unbridled yearning that poured from Alex in waves, breaking against him, demanding to be felt.

And Ricardo, despite everything, could not resist him. His body surrendered to the rhythm, his soul yielding to the tidal wave of need that neither of them could deny any longer. Every stroke, every heated breath, every frantic press of lips against sweaty skin was an act of defiance against the world that had sought to keep them apart.

As Alex reached the zenith of his own fervent release, his body tensing, his voice breaking into a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a sob. Ricardo felt the sheer force of emotion that surged between them — undiluted, unguarded, undeniable. And then, as the last shudders wracked through him, Alex collapsed, trembling, his body wracked with silent cries that spoke of far more than pleasure.

His face was buried against Ricardo's shoulder, his breath hitching, and then, barely above a whisper, shattered and raw —

"I really wish you were only mine."

The words broke something within Ricardo, an ache so deep it felt as though it had always been there, waiting to be recognized. His arms came around Alex instinctively, gathering him close, sheltering him from the world, from the cruel fate that had bound them in chains of war when they were meant for something else entirely.

His fingers wove into Alex's damp hair, anchoring him, as if cradling the heart of a man who had finally remembered how to feel.  

"I AM yours, Alex." His voice was steady, unwavering. A vow. "ALWAYS yours."

For the first time, Ricardo realized — Alex had been just as lost as he had. And all along, all these years, they had been searching for the same thing.  

Each other.

Chapter Text

In the hallowed space of their mutual surrender, their lips met once again — a tender fusion that masked the intensity of their shared passion. Tongues entwined in a delicate duel, each caress a silent oath to cherish the ephemeral sweetness within their grasp. This was no mere collision of flesh, but a profane communion that soared above the rancor of their warring bloodlines.

Ricardo's lips were pliant, warm and yielding — too yielding, as if he'd decided to let Alex take what he wanted, only to betray himself with the sharp, restless flick of his tongue. A challenge. A taunt.

Alex groaned into his mouth, licking deeper, chasing the taste of him, mixed with the iron sting of blood where Alex's teeth had split his lip earlier in an moment of ignorance. Alex's tongue swept in, claiming, devouring, as if he could consume Ricardo whole, as if he could carve his name into the wet heat of his mouth and leave it branded there forever. Ricardo moaned, the sound vibrating against Alex's lips, and the vibration traveled lower, pooling hot and thick in his gut. Their breaths mingled, ragged and uneven, each exhale a confession neither dared speak aloud.

Their torsos were a study in contrasts — Alex's skin sun-darkened and scarred, Ricardo's moon-pale and flawless. Sweat painted them in glistening strokes, their chests sliding together, sticky with the evidence of their earlier coupling. Alex could smell himself on Ricardo — the scent of sex, the bitter-salt of release smeared across his thighs, the way his own fingers had left bruises in the shape of worship on his hips.

Ricardo arched beneath him, his throat bared like an offering. The chains around his ankles clinked, a cold counterpoint to the fevered heat between them, a flicker that instantly submerged into the boiling sea of desire. Alex slammed Ricardo's wrist into the mattress, their fingers tangling in a bruising grip, grinding bone against bone. Ricardo gasped — not in protest, but in want. His free hand mingled in Alex's hair, pulling him deeper into the kiss, his nails scraping against his scalp in a way that sent lightning down his spine.

Alex broke the kiss only to trail his lips down Ricardo's throat, biting at the pulse that fluttered there, not enough to break skin but enough to wring a choked moan from Ricardo's lips. He laved the mark with his tongue, soothing the sting with mocking tenderness before dragging his mouth lower, lower — until his lips closed over one peaked nipple, sucking it into the searing heat of his mouth. Ricardo arched off the bed with a shattered cry, his back a perfect bow of pleasure-pain as Alex's tongue swirled relentlessly at this side, flicking the hardened nub until his body trembled.

Alex's hands roamed, possessive, reverent — skating over the dip of his waist, the swell of his ass, the trembling inside of his thighs. Every touch was a contradiction — tender and cruel, worship and punishment.

Then he let out a ragged exhale — half laugh, half groan, the sound torn from somewhere deep in his chest — before bending to Ricardo's quivering stomach. His tongue, hot and wet, dragged through the spilled mess with deliberate obscenity, lapping up every pearlescent streak. The taste exploded across his palate — bitter salt, the faint metallic tang of exertion, Ricardo, Ricardo, Ricardo — and he groaned low in his throat, the vibration making Ricardo's abdomen muscles flutter like a trapped bird beneath his lips.

"Alex—" Ricardo gasped, fingers twisting violently in his hair, caught between shoving him away and yanking him closer. His thighs trembled, still spread where Alex had left them, the insides sticky and flushed pink. "You don't... God, you don't have to—"

Alex ignored him, mouth sealing over sweat-slick skin to suck gently at the dip of his navel, tongue swirling through the faint trail of hair leading downward. The scent here was overpowering — musk and sex and the heady, animal sweetness of him, of them, of everything they'd just done to each other.

"It's gross." Alex muttered against his skin, but the way his tongue darted out again, licking a slow, filthy stripe upward, betrayed the lie. His lips shone when he finally pulled back, his pupils blown black with something far beyond hunger. "But I can't fucking stop."

Ricardo made a broken sound, hips jerking helplessly.

Alex surged up, cradling Ricardo's face in both hands, thumbs brushing the tears streaking his temples. His voice, when it came, was raw and broken: "I love you, Ricardo. I want to devour every part of you — the beautiful, the ruined, even the things you hate about yourself. All of it. All."

Ricardo sobbed, dragging him down into a desperate kiss. The taste of himself on Alex's tongue was salt and sin and surrender, and for the first time in his life, he didn't care if he drowned.

The kiss lasted forever, before Alex finally growled low in his throat and flipped Ricardo onto his stomach with a single powerful motion, pressing him face-first into the sweat-damp sheets. Ricardo gasped as Alex's thick, throbbing length found him again — harder now, almost painfully engorged, sliding between his trembling thighs.

Slowly and gently, Alex pushed inside, savoring every inch of resistance, every desperate clench of Ricardo's body around him. The tight heat was nearly unbearable, drawing a guttural moan from Alex's chest as Ricardo arched beneath him, hips tilted in shameless invitation.

"Alex—" Ricardo choked out, his voice fracturing into three distinct notes — reverence, damnation, and surrender all tangled together in the sweat-drenched air between them.

"Ricardo." Alex answered into his ears, his own voice thick with something perilously close to devotion. The name caught in his throat like a sob, like a secret too sacred to speak aloud.

Bending over Ricardo's prone form, Alex blanketed him completely — one broad hand splayed between trembling shoulder blades, his mouth finding the vulnerable curve where neck met shoulder. His thrusts gained momentum, each snap of his hips drawn more powerful by Ricardo's ragged moans. The air between them grew thick with the sounds of their coupling — rough breathing, the creaking of the bed, the slick, obscene noise of flesh moving against flesh.

With an urgency born of an unspoken acknowledgment that these moments were precious and possibly numbered, they moved together in seamless rhythm, hips rolling against hips, a carnal ballet of need and surrender. Their tangled limbs drew them ever closer, as if proximity could shield them from the inexorable pull of fate. With each intentional gesture, each fervent joining, each soaring climax, they sought to etch the essence of their union into the very core of their souls.

In each other's embrace, they found a fleeting haven — a space where they could pretend, if only for a little while, that they were untouched by the burdens of their lineage. For Ricardo, the weight of his captivity, the cold bite of the iron chains still fastened around his ankles, faded into the background. For a span both fleeting and eternal, they were just two common lovers — twin flames incinerating the world beyond the bed's disheveled sheets.

The bed bore witness to their unbridled ecstasy, its fabric a parchment inked with the salt of exertion and spent desire — each stain a psalm to the thresholds they'd crossed. Linens coiled like the serpentine roots of a strangler fig, ancient and ravenous, binding them to a truth too primal to name. The air hung thick with the musky aroma of their passion, a potent fragrance that spoke of the heights they had reached and the depths they had explored in the dark embrace of the night.  

Even the moonlight seemed to curdle as it filtered through the curtains, gilding their ruin in silver, turning sweat into liquid mercury, their entwined limbs into a mythical statue — a testament to what they'd forged, and what they'd burned.

The first hints of dawn crept into the room. Ricardo lay tangled in the sheets, his breath slow and deep, his body still humming from the storm they had weathered together last night. Alex's arm was draped over his waist, possessive even in sleep. The warmth of his body radiated against Ricardo's back, his breath quiet and measured. 

Just for a moment, in the fragile serenity of morning, Ricardo almost felt that the world beyond this room had ceased to exist.

He turned his head slightly, studying the face of the man who had undone him. Alex was beautiful in a way that was almost terrifying. His features were carved from Mediterranean heat and violence: dark curls framed a face of undeniable intensity, thick brows arching over deep-set eyes, sharp cheekbones, a strong, chiseled jawline meeting the shadow of neatly trimmed stubble, lips full and shaped, carrying an air of both arrogance and seduction.

Ricardo drifted his gaze lower, taking in the powerful lines of Alex's body: broad chest, the ridges of his muscles, sculpted arms that had held him so tightly hours ago, a torso that tapered down to a lean, defined waist. His skin, kissed golden by the sun, bore the marks of his past: a thin, pale scar ran along his collarbone, another just above his ribs, faint but deep. A history written in blood and survival. Ricardo's fingers ached to trace them, to learn their stories, but he knew better. 

He was still a captive. And the man lying next to him was the one who would decide his fate.

A knot of unease coiled in his stomach as Alex stirred, lashes fluttering open to reveal molten amber eyes that seemed to glow in the morning light. For a fleeting second, Ricardo saw something there — hesitation, longing — but it was gone before he could grasp it. Alex's expression became subtle, as if the weight of reality came crashing down around them.

A kiss lingered on Ricardo's lips — damp, bruise-soft, a brand masquerading as benediction — before Alex's arms uncoiled from his body like vines relinquishing their claim on sunlight, leaving his skin chilled in his absence. 

The morning light caught the sinewy curve of his biceps as he tossed a towel onto the bed, the motion effortless, a panther's grace in a Herculean frame. "Shower." The word velvet-wrapped yet edged with command, smile concealing something obscure, "I'll return with breakfast."

Ricardo watched the door swallow him whole. For a suspended moment, he let himself imagine this was life: waking to the heat of Alex's chest pressed against his back, the rasp of his stubble at his chin, mornings unspooling into years. But the iron coiled around his ankles hissed a colder truth. Its links, frost-bitten and serpentine, bit into flesh — a mockery of the wedding bands his heart dared envision.

Prisoner.

The word slithered through him. Alex's men might come soon, he knew, with plans that reeked of blood and gunpowder. As the night-long frenzy fading away, he began to feel fear.

Steam curled from the espresso like ghostly tendrils, dissipating into the morning air as Ricardo sat, a towel slung low on his hips, the fabric a flimsy barricade against Alex's gaze. Breakfast sprawled between them — croissants blistered golden, olives glistening like onyx, cheese weeping cream, and a selection of fresh fruit that looked almost too ripe, too perfect — a feast meant to distract.

Ricardo sipped his coffee in silence, his eyes never leaving Alex. The man lounged opposite him, top few buttons of his dark shirt undone, fabric clinging to the sculpted ridges of his torso. Sunlight pooled in the hollow of his throat, tracing the corded muscles of his neck — a column of strength that made Ricardo's fingers itch to touch, to test if the night had softened the iron beneath his skin.

Alex looked up, his gaze steady, contemplative, as if trying to commit Ricardo's morning-lit form to memory.

"You should eat." His voice was quiet, almost gentle.

"Alex." Ricardo's voice cut through the fragile stillness, his composure fraying at the edges. Uncertainty coiled tight in his chest as he pressed on, "Let me go. Let me speak to my father — I'll tell him that you never took me captive, that I came to you willingly, that I'm already yours in every way that matters." The admission burned his tongue, sweet as stolen honey. "We can end this war, Alex. We can find peace, and more than peace…"

Alex's lips curved. Sunlight caught the wet gleam in his eyes. For a blinking second, he was swimming in the sea of dreams that Ricardo had depicted. But slowly, his gaze darkened, his smile shattering into shards of broken glass, the fork in his hand hovering midair before clattering onto the plate with a dull clink. 

"This is a beautiful dream." He murmured as he rose, his shadow engulfing the table, and Ricardo's breath hitched at the raw power coiled in his stance — the way his shoulders blocked the light, the veins snaking down his forearms as he braced his hands on the table. "But you make it sound too simple, little dove." His thumb brushed Ricardo's lower lip, rough yet unbearably warm. 

"Your father doesn't want peace. He wants my bones bleached in the sun, especially when he finds out what I've stolen from him." Alex stroked his fingers under Ricardo's chin with terrifying gentleness, nudging him to lift his head and meet his own gaze. "He'd serve you my heart on a silver platter and call it mercy."

"Then take me!" Ricardo's fist struck the table, silverware rattling. "Not as your prisoner. Not as your bargaining chip — as yours. Truly yours. Let me be with you, Alex, even that means I have to betray my own blood."

Alex froze. The air between them grew thick, heavy with all the words they'd never spoken. Then, with trembling hands that betrayed the storm inside him, he cradled Ricardo's face like something precious — not as a conqueror claiming spoils, but as a drowning man clinging to his last breath of air.

Their kiss tasted of goodbye. Of espresso and unshed tears, of the salt from last night's sweat still lingering on their skin. Alex's lips moved with desperate tenderness, each brush a silent apology, the scrape of his stubble leaving marks more permanent than the bruises he'd put on Ricardo's body. His palm against Ricardo's nape held no possession now — only the awful, aching knowledge that this might be the last time.

When they broke apart, Alex's breath came ragged. His thumb traced the curve of Ricardo's cheekbone, memorizing its shape. The hand that had wielded knives with lethal precision now shook as it brushed a strand of hair behind Ricardo's ear — so gently it hurt more than any blade.

"Forgive me."

The words were raw, scraped from some ruined place inside him. His amber eyes burned low, embers in the dark.

Ricardo's pulse stuttered. "For what?"

He could feel the heat of Alex's hand on his cheek, fingertips grazing his skin with a gentleness that belied the tumultuous emotions churning within. The man's sculpted features betrayed a fissure in his armor: the faint tremor of his lashes, the vein throbbing at his temple, the way his throat bobbed as if swallowing a scream. His body, a monument of muscle honed by violence, seemed to sway imperceptibly, like a cypress resisting a gale.

"Ricardo," The name was a dirge on Alex's lips, his voice a mournful song that reverberated in the stillness of the room, "You are a dream I never dared to imagine. In another life, we might have been strangers who met on a sunlit street — two souls fortuitously crossing paths amidst the intricacies of the living world, and falling in love without blood between us."

The confession hung between them, fragile as a spider's silk. Ricardo's heart swelled — a wild, foolish thing — until Alex's next words turned the air to ice.

"But this world is painted in our fathers' blood. And peace is no salvation." His hand fell away, leaving a phantom burn. "You are the heir to everything I've vowed to destroy."

A chilling dread seeped into Ricardo's bloodstream, an icy omen that threatened to sever the fragile strands of hope woven through the night. He clutched Alex's wrist, a silent plea for lucidity — a plea for tenderness in the face of an unspoken terror.

"You're letting them take me, aren't you?" The realization hit like a thunderclap.

Alex's jaw clenched.

Ricardo's stomach twisted. "Tell me I'm wrong."  

Silence.  

The floor felt like it had been ripped out from under him.  

A bitter laugh escaped his lips. "So last night — what was that? A farewell gift? One last taste before you hand me over like a piece of meat?"

"I don't have a choice." Alex's head hung heavily, his lips trembling, and water gleamed behind his amber eyes. "It's too late."

"Too late?" Ricardo echoed, the words tasting like ashes on his tongue as the cruel realization settled in his chest — Alex had never truly given him a choice at all. That decisive blade had fallen long before their bodies tangled in the dark, before whispered confessions stained the sheets. This was never about selection — only predestined betrayal dressed in the finery of stolen intimacy.

"I'm sorry, Ricardo. Nothing can change our fate. Not even..."

For a moment, Ricardo saw the deepest desperation in Alex's eyes. And then — 

A knock at the door.

Alex's entire body tensed.  

Ricardo knew. This was it.

The door opened, and faceless men filed in — Alex's men, their unreadable gazes settling on him like vultures scenting blood.

Panic surged through Ricardo like wildfire. 

They descended upon him, their hands iron shackles as they wrenched him from the chair. The towel slipped, crumpling to the floor like a discarded shroud, leaving him exposed — raw and vulnerable in a way much more than nudity.

"No," Ricardo gasped, thrashing. "Alex, don't do this."  

Alex didn't move.  

Ricardo struggled harder, his heart pounding. "Alex!" His voice was raw, breaking, "Please! Tell them to stop!"  

Alex's fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white. 

Still, he said nothing.

The men yanked Ricardo toward the door. His bare heels scraped against the floor. The iron shackles sawed at his ankles with every desperate kick, the chains shrieking as they swung behind his thrashing legs.

"Alex!" Ricardo's scream was filled with the desperation of a last-ditch effort. "We can still change this! It doesn't have to be this way!"  

Alex closed his eyes, his silhouette etched against the dawn-lit window — a statue of marble and shadow. His fists pressed into the table, the wood groaning under his grip, veins snaking up his forearms like cracks in a dam about to burst. 

When his eyes finally opened, they were void of warmth, his expression a mask of cruel amusement. A slow, mocking smirk curled at his lips as he scoffed, "This fool actually believes I've fallen for him… that I'd be too weak to see him suffer."

The men laughed, a chorus of hyenas.

Ricardo froze.

No. No, this wasn't —

"But remember our rules." Alex continued, his tone careless, almost bored. "No killing. No maiming. No permanent scars. Just… use." He exhaled, feigning nonchalance, as though issuing orders about a business deal rather than a man who had broken his heart for him. "He's still a nice toy. I want him to last."

Ricardo's mind fractured.

One of the men chuckled, teeth flashing. "Don't worry, Boss. We'll keep him pretty for you."

The words landed like blades, cutting into Ricardo with merciless precision. The fragile tenderness of the night before — the way Alex had licked his body, the whispered confessions — crumbled beneath the weight of this brutal reality.

It was a lie.

All of it.

"You're a coward!" Ricardo snarled, rage igniting in his chest, searing away the last remnants of hope. He bucked against the hands holding him, muscles burning. "You think this will make you forget?" His voice was raw, edged with fury. "You think if you push me away hard enough, it'll erase what we were?"

Alex did not respond. He only watched like an indifferent bystander.

The laughter of Alex's men echoed against the cold walls, each chuckle another nail in the coffin of Ricardo's fragile hope. His chest constricted, breath coming in shallow gasps as the cruel betrayal settled into his bones. He had known, deep down, that love had no place in a world carved by war, yet he had dared to believe — dared to dream that perhaps, for once, bloodlines and vendettas could be washed away by the touch of lips, the silent whispers between tangled sheets.  

Now, he was nothing more than a prize, a possession, a plaything in the hands of the man who had, just hours ago, held him with the tenderness of a lover.  

The grip on his arms tightened as he struggled, his muscles burning against the unyielding force of the men dragging him away. Heat crawled up his skin — not from shame, but from the sheer, blistering rage building in his gut.  

"How pathetic." One of the men sneered, shoving him forward. "Thought being fucked by our boss makes you special, did you?"  

Ricardo gritted his teeth, refusing to let them see him break. He would not give them the satisfaction. He squared his shoulders, meeting Alex's gaze one final time, searching — pleading — for even a flicker of the man who had whispered confessions against his skin.  

Nothing.  

Alex stood unmoving, a statue carved of ice and cruelty, his face an unreadable mask. If there was hesitation in him, he buried it deep beneath the weight of his command. The golden embers of his eyes were dim now, void of anything but the cold detachment of a man who had made his decision.  

"Don't fight it, Ricardo." Alex said, voice low, devoid of emotion. "It'll be easier that way."  

Easier?  

A sharp, bitter laugh tore from Ricardo's throat, the sound hollow, broken. His entire world was crumbling around him, but somehow, this was supposed to be easy?  

"I hate you!" He spat, each word laced with venom.  

A flicker — just a flicker — of something unreadable passed over Alex's face — a crack in the monolith. Then his mask snapped shut.

"Take him."

The door loomed ahead, dark and yawning, a gateway to Ricardo's fate. Panic coiled in his stomach, but fury burned just as fiercely. He would not go down like this.  

With a surge of defiance, Ricardo jerked his body forward, twisting with all the force he could muster. The element of surprise worked in his favor — one of the men lost his grip, his balance wavering for just a fraction of a second. It was all Ricardo needed. He lashed out, sending the man sprawling with a well-aimed kick.  

The victory was fleeting.  

A fist slammed into his gut, knocking the breath from his lungs. He doubled over, gasping, as rough hands yanked him upright once more.  

"Feisty one." Another guard chuckled. "Boss, you sure you don't want us to break him up a little first?"  

Ricardo's stomach lurched, dread seeping into his bones.  

Alex's gaze darkened, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. "I said no permanent damage to my property." He repeated, his voice sharp as a blade.  

He didn't even look at Ricardo.  

That hurt more than any punch ever could.  

As Ricardo was pulled into the hallway, kicking, cursing, clawing for anything to hold onto, he caught one last glimpse of Alex — standing alone at the ravaged breakfast table, cradling the coffee cup Ricardo's lips had touched, his shoulders rigid, his hands trembling.

And then, nothing.  

Only darkness between them.

Chapter Text

The corridor yawned before Ricardo, an endless tunnel of suffocating darkness that seemed to swallow him with each step. His pulse hammered against his ribs, his breath coming in shallow bursts as rough hands dragged him forward. Their fingers were like iron brands, digging deep into his biceps, leaving bruises that would outlast this night — if he even lived to see another.

His bare feet scraped against the cracked stone floor, raw skin catching on jagged edges, the cold seeping into his soles as if the earth itself sought to claim him. He struggled — twisting, thrashing — but every movement was met with brutal retaliation. A knee rammed into his ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs. Fingers wrenched his arms tighter, digging into the sore muscles already stiff from restraint. Pain bloomed in sharp bursts beneath his skin, but it was the fear coiling in his gut that threatened to consume him.

This can't be happening.

Not after last night.

The memory slashed through his mind like a blade, cruel in its contrast. Alex's trembling hands. The press of his fevered breath against Ricardo's collarbone. The salt of his tears on Ricardo's skin. A touch that had been desperate — pleading — yet filled with something fragile, something Ricardo hadn't dared to name. But now that memory turned rancid, curdling into something ugly as the jeers of his captors echoed off the cold stone walls.

The corridor spilled into a vast, cavernous space — a church, desecrated beyond recognition. The scent of damp stone mingled with something more insidious: rot, decay. The remains of something once sacred, now twisted into a grotesque stage for whatever nightmare lay ahead.

Ricardo's gaze swept the ruined grandeur before him.

The stained-glass windows, once bursting with divine color, were shattered, their empty frames replaced by jagged iron lattices. The sunlight filtered through them in broken shards, casting shadows that stretched like skeletal fingers across the crumbling stone. The altar, once the heart of devotion, lay in ruin — splintered wood, warped and rotting, its presence now a mockery of faith.

And there, against the back wall, loomed a crucifix.

Unscathed, towering, its Christ figure hung in eternal agony, glass eyes fixed downward in unseeing judgment. Hollow. Cold. As if he, too, had abandoned this place.

Ricardo barely had time to breathe before a violent shove sent him stumbling forward. The impact jolted through his body, the stone unyielding beneath his feet. His pulse roared in his ears — erratic, wild. The air in the room thickened, pulsing with something dark and hungry. From the shadows, figures gathered, faceless and watching. A murmur spread like a fever, escalating into a twisted chorus of anticipation.

Then, without warning, hands — too many to count — descended upon him.

Grabbing. Clawing.

Ricardo jerked, muscles coiling as he fought against the phantom-like figures, but they moved with practiced ease, stripping him of the last vestiges of control. His arms were yanked behind him, the rough bite of rope coiling around his wrists. The fibers were coarse, already scraping raw skin, but then —

A sudden pull.

The strappado.

A strangled gasp tore from his throat as his arms were wrenched high above his head, the position merciless. Pain exploded through his shoulders, a searing fire that ripped down his spine, his muscles stretched to their limits, screaming in protest. His body bowed, contorted, the unnatural arch forcing his ribs against his lungs, making each breath a struggle.

Then, his legs were kicked apart, forced wide. Iron shackles locking around his ankles were bolted into the stone beneath him. The cold metal bit into his skin. He teetered on the edge of his toes, desperately trying to ease the relentless strain on his shoulders, but the effort sent sharp, searing pain through the raw soles of his feet. His knees trembled violently, overworked muscles spasming as they struggled to hold him upright, caught between agony and exhaustion with no relief in sight.

A tremor coursed through him. His body fought instinctively, uselessly, against the unnatural suspension. His nerves shrieked in protest, burning, tearing. Sweat beaded at his brow, cold against his feverish skin, mixing with the raw sting of his own labored breath. Each inhale felt like swallowing glass.

Then, light.

A single, searing spotlight split the darkness apart, its ruthless glare slicing through the void like a blade honed for execution. The stark illumination bled across Ricardo's body, stripping away the shadows that might have offered even the smallest mercy. Every taut muscle, every trembling inch of exposed skin, was laid bare — raw, unhidden, inescapable.

His breath hitched. His body quaked against his will, the fine tremors of exhaustion and strain making a spectacle of him.

Don't shake. Don't show them.

He locked his jaw, forcing his chin upward in a brittle imitation of defiance, but the light betrayed him. It caught the pulse thrumming wildly at his throat, the quiver in his thighs as his strength faltered, and the way his cock — shamefully limp now — curled against his belly like a helpless creature seeking shelter.

Above him, the lifeless gaze of the crucified Christ bore witness, hollow-eyed and indifferent. A martyr on the wall, a sacrifice in the flesh.

Laughter rippled from the shadows, low and slithering at first before swelling into a raucous chorus of whistles and jeers. "Guarda come trema!" Someone sneered — Look how he shakes. The words hit like a fist to his gut. Ricardo twisted instinctively, but the motion only sent fresh agony lancing through his shoulders. The ropes groaned under the strain, fibers digging into torn skin, burning deeper with each useless struggle.

He sucked in a sharp breath — Focus. Breathe. Survive. But the pain was relentless, gnawing at him with every second he remained trapped in this cruel tableau. And beneath it, something colder crept in — a sickening dread, curling like smoke in his chest.

Then, another wound, deeper than the rest: the doubt.

Flashes of Alex, from a lifetime ago — last night. The way his fingers had ghosted over Ricardo's cheekbones, reverent. The way his lips had traced the edges of words he hadn't dared to say. The way he had held him like something precious, not this… thing strung up for slaughter.

Was any of it real?

The question festered, poisoning him from the inside out.

Even now, his body waged war against itself, his mind battling the unwelcome memory of Alex — his touch searing, his presence consuming. A flicker of warmth, before shame doused it.

"Look what we have here, pup of Il Diavolo."

The voice slithered through the shadows, thick with mockery and something far uglier. A figure stepped across the edge of the light, his face hooded, but the voice — gravel-rough, steeped in cruelty — was unmistakable.

Ramon the Mastiff.

The name coiled in Ricardo's memory like a venomous snake. A brute who had once lurked in the shadow of Alex's father, now gnawing at the leash of his own ambition.

"So much for being untouchable." The vicious amusement continued, igniting a fresh wave of anger in Ricardo's chest.

He forced his head up, though every tendon in his neck screamed in protest. The strappado's merciless pull had turned his arms into dead weight, his shoulders alight with a blistering, grinding pain. But pain was secondary. It had to be. He locked his jaw, his voice steadier than the tremor in his limbs.

"What do you want, Ramon Luciano? A trophy to prove you're more than your master's dog?"

The crowd tittered, low and ominous. But at a mere flick of Ramon's fingers, the jeering fell into a sharp, unnatural silence. He stepped closer, the harsh edge of the spotlight catching on the cruel angles of his face. Now, Ricardo could see the hunger in his eyes, the sick pleasure twisting his mouth.  

"You think this is about power?" Ramon sneered, voice turning to steel. "Oh no, Ricardito. This is for me. For MY son."

A chill licked down Ricardo's spine. His son?

"My boy. My flesh and blood." Ramon's voice trembled — not with grief, but with something far worse. "Tortured. Butchered. Carved into pieces. By your father's hands." His teeth gnashed together like a shark scenting blood. "He was only fourteen!"

The blood froze in Ricardo's veins.

Fourteen. 

The weight of it settled like iron in his gut.  

This isn't about me. He realized it with a cold, helpless certainty. This isn't strategy. This isn't power. This is vengeance.

The sin he carried from his father made him a sacrificial lamb in a game he had not played.

A chant began to rise from the darkened figures surrounding them, a rhythmic, guttural hum, swelling in unholy anticipation. It echoed through the rotting church walls, slithered beneath his skin, pulsed in time with the erratic hammering of his heart.  

Is this the end?

The thought clawed at him. The rush in his ears — was it panic, or rage? Or something else?  

A flicker of something too raw to name surfaced in his mind — Alex's hands, hesitant yet fevered, mapping the contours of his body just hours ago. The whispered words, hoarse with an emotion Ricardo hadn't been ready to perceive.

"I really wish you were only mine."

So this is it? This is the reason he had to hand me over?

Ramon's smirk widened as he produced a dagger, the steel gleaming wickedly under the unforgiving light. He wrenched Ricardo's head back by the hair, pressing the blade to his cheek, the ice-cold steel leaving a ghost of fire in its wake.

"What a beautiful face." He mused, almost tenderly. "The face of an angel… masking the blood of Satan."

The blade traced downward, slow and deliberate, gliding along Ricardo's jaw, his throat. He tensed, stomach coiling, every nerve screaming as he waited — waited — for the inevitable slice of pain.

Then — 

"Boss said no scars. We need to keep him pretty." The words sliced through the air like a whip.

A henchman loomed at the fringes of the light, face obscured, but his words made Ramon still.

Ricardo's pulse lurched.

Amber eyes, sharp as embers — intense, unreadable — a gaze that had stripped him bare long before these ropes had.

Alex.

A shield — delicate as glass, fragile as the tremor in Alex's voice when it ghosted against his skin — but still, it was there.

Had last night's tears been a plea for forgiveness… or a farewell?

Ramon let out a humorless chuckle. The blade twirled between his fingers before disappearing into the folds of his coat.

"Still a little boy coddling his toys." He muttered. "He has to grow up. This kind of obsession makes him weak."

The crowd jeered, some disappointed, some amused. Ricardo barely heard them.

No scars. No permanent damage. Still a nice toy, still — 

"Camera's ready!" Someone barked.

Ricardo jolted. The words sent a cold shiver through him.

Camera?

Then he saw it.

Blood drained from his face, icy tendrils of dread creeping up his spine as one of the thugs stepped forward, a phone in hand. The screen's sickly glow cast eerie shadows over his sadistic smirk.

The crowd stirred, their anticipation swelling like a dark tide. The man adjusted the angle, ensuring every inch of Ricardo's exposed, trembling body was captured.

The bastard was recording him.

A murky sense of horror settled in his stomach, heavy and nauseating, as realization dawned. This wasn't just for the degenerates in the room. It was something worse. Something infinitely crueler.

A massive LED screen flickered to life in front of him, its harsh glare searing his retinas. And there — staring back — was himself.

Ricardo sucked in a sharp breath.

The camera fed his image onto the monitor, his strained form illuminated in merciless detail. Every shudder, every tremor, every involuntary twitch laid bare. The ropes bit deep into his wrists, forcing his spine into that agonizing bow. His skin marked with the cruel indentation of his bindings. Sweat glistened over his body, catching the light as it rolled down his neck. His chest heaved, betraying the raw panic clawing its way through his ribcage. Even the agony twisting on his face was reflected back at him, a grotesque mirror trapping him within his own suffering.

And then, beside the image, comments began flooding the screen.  

    "Look at the pretty prince! Where's your crown now?"

    "Wow, is this really Garavani's son?"

    "IronCrestWolves you have such big balls!"

    "Bet he's tighter than his daddy's vaults."

    "I'd pay extra to see him break."

    "Pull out his dick and show us!"

Ricardo's stomach twisted violently.  

Pain, he had expected. Savagery, he had braced for. But this? His torment broadcasted like a spectacle, like a commodity to be consumed by thousands of faceless monsters?  

He forced himself to lift his gaze, his breath ragged. His lips parted, shaping a single word in silence —  

Alex.  

Are you also watching? Also enjoying? Is this really what you want about me?

Somewhere, behind many walls, Alex sat frozen in the darkness of his private chamber, the computer screen the only source of light. Its glow casted shadows across his face as he watch the video, amber eyes locked on the scene before him. His fingers curled into fists on his desk, knuckles white. The moment Ricardo's lips formed that name, something inside him shattered.  

A knife. A knife twisted deep in his chest.  

Ricardo was right. He was a coward. A disgrace. Watching from the shadows, drowning in his own guilt, yet paralyzed — unable, unwilling to step into that church, to stand before Ricardo as the monster who had orchestrated this.

"Son of Il Diavolo, now a porn star of the underworld!"  

Ramon's voice rang through the desecrated hall, dripping with triumph.

"Say hello to your adoring fans, Ricardito."

A brutal hand clamped around Ricardo's jaw, wrenching his face toward the camera. On-screen, his lips — cracked, raw, bleeding — twisted into a silent snarl.  

    "Look at those eyes! Like a scared rabbit!"

    "Pathetic little bitch, getting what he deserves."

    "500 credits if you make him piss himself."

Laughter roared around him, vicious and unrelenting. The mob closed in, slipping on their three-hole masks, shifting restlessly, their eyes gleaming with perverse anticipation. They were no longer men — they were jackals, circling a wounded animal, waiting for the first bite to be taken.  

Except for Ramon. He made no move to hide his face, instead, with deliberate calm, he pulled back his hood, revealing a face carved from cruelty itself — sharp cheekbones, a mouth curled in perpetual disdain, and a long, jagged scar running from his brow to his jaw, a brutal testament to the life he'd clawed his way through.

He stepped fully into the spotlight, the harsh light accentuating the merciless glint in his eyes. Turning to the camera, he made sure the world saw him — the emcee of this spectacle — as he tightened his grip on Ricardo's chin, fingers digging into the hollow beneath his jaw like a vise.

"Look, Salvatore Garavani. If you're watching, this will be your last time seeing your son."

Ramon's voice dropped, each word weighted with venom.

"Today, the world watches you pay for your sins — through your own blood. Your heir will drown in filth and degradation. Watch carefully! Watch how your son becomes our public sex toy. Watch as we tear him apart. Watch as we break him, ruin him, devour him until there is nothing left but scraps."

The crowd whooped and whistled, their voices rising to a fever pitch. On the monitor, comments scrolled like a never-ending avalanche, flooding with emojis: laughing skulls, fire, eggplants ejaculating on-screen. The viewer count surged — 12,893 and rising.

His father's legacy, his name, his very existence, reduced to a fetish stream for sadists lurking in the blackest pits of the internet.

It was then that the truth hit Ricardo like a bullet to the spine.

This was more than public humiliation — it was a message — no, not just a message.

It was a declaration of war.

They wanted his father to see this. They wanted Il Diavolo to watch his only son, the heir to his empire, shattered, trussed up like a lamb for slaughter. They wanted the world to see that the heir to a bloodstained empire, was a ragged cloth that everyone can spit on — weak, hopeless, easily breakable — a prelude to his father's downfall.

And Alex…

Alex didn't just want this.

He designed this.

Last night — those trembling hands, those whispered words, the burn of the kiss that had felt too much like goodbye —

It was all a lie.

Ricardo, you fool. You naive, lovesick fool.

How dare you believe it meant anything? How dare you think he felt something?

An accident, that's all it was. A mistake. A distraction from the plot Alex had meticulously crafted.

Ricardo let out a sudden, broken laugh.

It started as a chuckle, dry and breathless. Then it grew — raw, jagged, a sound that didn't belong in a human throat. Each hysterical cackle tore at his soul, ripping away the last shreds of hope and leaving behind only hollow desolation. His whole body shook with it, tears streaming freely down his face as the laughter ripped through him, unraveling into something wild and unhinged.

The laughter rang through the desecrated church like a war drum, rough and defiant, slashing through the lecherous jeers. His whole body burned — wrists shredded from the ropes, shoulders screaming from their forced suspension — but he drank in the pain, let it fuel him.  

He bared his teeth at the camera, lips slick with saliva and blood. 

"Alex Chiesa, you coward! Where are you hiding?" His voice, hoarse yet seething, cut through the cacophony. "You want a war? Then I'll be your fucking war! I will survive this. And when I find you, Alex —" He leaned forward as much as the ropes allowed, his breath ragged, "I'll make you watch as I burn your world to ashes!"

For a moment, silence. A thin, breathless pause.

Then the room erupted.

Laughter, mockery, the rustling of bodies shifting in restless anticipation.

Ramon scoffed, rubbing his jaw as if Ricardo's words had physically struck him. "Mouthy little shit." He muttered, although there was something in his eyes — something wary.

Across the screen, Alex heard it all.

The moment Ricardo's laughter bled into a snarl of vengeance, Alex felt it crack through his ribs.

That tone. That hatred. — The loathing born of betrayal.

Alex inhaled sharply, his whole body tensed, fingers gripping the edge of his desk. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out the surrounding noise.

Ricardo meant it.

He would live. He would come for him.

A single tear slipped down Alex's cheekbone, vanishing into the hollows of his skin. He had known pain, known fear, known guilt. But this was something deeper, something irreparable.  

Ramon sneered at Ricardo's frenzied glare and flicked his fingers toward the henchmen, "Shut him up."

A pair of gloved hands seized Ricardo's chin with a bruising grip, ripping his mouth open. Something cold, metallic, pressed against his lips. 

A ring gag.

He thrashed instinctively, but the restraints held him fast, his own saliva dribbling down his chin as they forced the gag between his teeth. The cold metal pried his mouth wide, stretching his jaw until it ached, the heavy iron ring perversely forcing his lips into a rictus grin. Dull edge dug into tender flesh, blood oozing from the corners of his mouth. His fear was palpable, each panicked breath razor-sharp through his throat.

The ominous click of buckling straps in the back of his head was the final touch to finish. The sadists who had done this to him stepped back, drinking in his agony with bulging, unmoving eyes. Like a painting brought to life solely for their insane pleasure.

The chat exploded on the blinking display.

    "Finally! That mouth was getting annoying."

    "Those tears — a tear-jerking performance!"

    "Look at that pretty, wet little hole — perfect for cock."

    "Examine that oral cavity, it looks primed and ready to be utilized."

    "Bet he could deep throat like a champ."

    "He must be salivating for it already."

The screen flooded with emojis: eggplants, drooling faces, handcuffs, skulls laughing in unholy glee. The viewer count ticked upward — 15,476.

Ricardo gasped and retched, breaths coming in harsh, ragged bursts. His chest convulsed with each desperate inhale, lungs burning as he fought for air. Bile rose in his throat, threatening to choke him. His stomach heaved, but he forced it back, refusing to give them the sick satisfaction.

He could no longer voice his defiance, his rage; his laughter twisted into guttural, choking rasps as spittle trailing in a glistening strand from his deformed lips before splattering onto the floor. But he flexed his fingers, nails digging into his palms, his eyes blazed with blue fire — a silent roar promising retribution for those who witnessed his humiliation.

He would not break.

Ramon crouched in front of him, tilting his head mockingly. "Now, now, Ricardito. No more pretty threats? No more promises of revenge?" He dragged a gloved thumb across Ricardo's spit-slicked chin, smirking as his captive's chest heaved.  

"Starting to understand where you truly belong, huh?"

He chuckled, standing up and turning back to the camera, spreading his arms wide.

"Gentlemen, our prince is finally ready for the show."

The crowd roared. The screen blinked again.

    "Fuck his mouth!"

    "Shove your cock down his throat! Make him squeal like the bitch he is!"

    "Bend him over and give him something to really choke on!"

    "Flood his throat til he drowns!"

    "Make him our fucktoy."

Alex's breath hitched as he watched the screen, his vision blurring at the edges. Ricardo, bound and broken yet still defiant, stared back at him through the camera lens. Even gagged, even humiliated, he was still fighting.

Alex's nails dug into the desk. His fingers twitched as if to reach out, to stop this, to shatter the screen and pull Ricardo away from the hell he had orchestrated. But he couldn't.  

Because this — all of this — was his doing.

The agony twisting in Ricardo's eyes was a direct result of HIS decisions, HIS machinations — three years of careful planning, every move meticulously calculated to ensnare Salvatore Garavani in a web of ruin.  

And Ricardo was the bait at the center of it.  

Alex had known — he had always known — that there would be a cost. 

He had steeled himself for this moment, convinced himself that pain was necessary, that he could stomach the cost of his revenge, that Ricardo was merely a piece on the board, a sacrifice to be played, not to be mourned. He had even believed he might relish it, just as he had on that first day. 

But no, not anymore. Not after last night.

And now, it felt like he was the one being strangled.

His throat burned. His muscles locked. His body coiled so tight he thought he might shatter. The voices from the stream — the jeering, the filth dripping from the chat — pounded against his skull like nails being hammered in, one by one.

He wanted to look away. But he couldn't.  

If he looked away, it meant he was weak. If he looked away, it meant he cared.  

And Alex Chiesa could not care.

Not when this was only the beginning.

Chapter Text

The cheers and jeers swelled into a fevered crescendo, but as Ramon raising a gloved hand, they faded to a hushed, hungry silence. 

"Let's break him slowly." His voice reverberated through the hall, tinged with a unsettling mix of sadistic euphoria and cruelty.

Deliberately, he reached out and was handed a long, black stick — an electric cattle prod with its stern metal prongs gleaming under the harsh spotlight like fractured teeth. With a casual flick of his wrist, he activated the device, and a low, menacing buzz filled the air as the current danced forbiddingly along its cold surface.

Ricardo's eyes widened.

The chat feed exploded, a flood of comments scrolling too fast to read. But he didn't need to see them. He could feel their depravity, their sick anticipation wrapping around him like a vice.

Ramon toyed with his prey, tracing ominous patterns up Ricardo's tense form with the sizzling prongs. Each inhumanly hissing touch elicited a shiver of revulsion. The device's wicked journey across Ricardo's skin left a trail of goosebumps in its wake. 

Then, he smiled — sharp, cruel, the jagged scar on his cheek pulling with the motion.

"Let's see if our little prince can dance."

With a snap of his wrist, the metal tips pressed against Ricardo's chest. A crackling burst of electricity tore through him.

White-hot pain exploded from his left nipple, then the right, sharp and searing, like fire pouring straight into his nerves. His back arched involuntarily, muscles spasming, feet scraping against the stone floor as his body struggled against the strain. The ropes held fast, biting into his skin, rendering his suffering a spectacle for the faceless masses.

His vision whited out, but the screen forced him to watch his own degradation — the convulsions, the drool trailing from his gaping mouth, the sweat dripping from his brow.

Ramon chuckled, tilting his head as if admiring a piece of art.

"Good start. But let's turn it up a notch."

The prod slid lower. The next jolt struck his abdomen.

Agonizing sparks spiderwebbed through his nerves. Muscles jumped and rippled at each cruel jolt. His core clenched violently, a strangled gasp ripped from his throat. His vision flickered, the LED screen in front of him warping, distorting, but still captured it all — the gasp he couldn't stifle, the convulsion of his torso, and the way his cock twitched traitorously under the current's perverse stimulation.

Another round of comments flooded the feed.

    "LOOK AT THAT! HE LIKES IT!"

    "Beautiful twitch."

    "Betcha he loves it. Masochistic little pervert!"

    "He's gonna melt like butter in a microwave!"

    "Grill him until his insides cook!"

    "1000 credits for another shock!"

    "2000 to make him scream!"

His jaw clamped tight, teeth grinding into the metal until his gums bled. He wouldn't cry. Wouldn't scream. He refused to give them that.

But then, the prod trailed lower.

A jolt of realization struck a fraction of a second before the pain.

The moment the electricity surged through his groin, agony detonated inside him like a live wire snapping against raw flesh.

His throat convulsed, a guttural choke escaping, but still — no scream.

"Louder!" A masked spectator shouted, hurling a bottle that shattered at Ricardo's feet. The crowd grew inpatient, feet stomping against the stone like wild animals. The chat exploded in a sickening frenzy of obscene emojis and crude demands.

Ricardo's vision swam. His body was no longer his own, nerves set ablaze, muscles betraying him with involuntary spasms. His head hung forward, damp curls clinging to his forehead, breath coming in ragged gasps through the metal ring forcing his mouth open. His throat burned from the effort of swallowing down the sounds they wanted from him.

He wouldn't give them that.  

But he was close. Too close.  

Ramon leaned over and grasped his wet chin, feeling the erratic beat of pulse beneath his skin. "Still holding on, pup? Impressive." His fingers curled, nails biting into Ricardo's flesh. "Let's see how long that lasts."  

The chat on the screen exploded with new demands.  

    "More. More. MORE."

    "Make the little prince beg."

    "BORING! Make him cry for real."

    "Strike his cock!"

    "Shock his balls!"

    "SHOCK HIS DICK! SHOCK HIS DICK!" 

    "Break him. Ruin him. Tear him apart."

    "5000 to make him scream!"

Ramon smirked at the scrolling filth, then turned back to Ricardo. "You see that?" He jerked his chin toward the screen. "Your fans want a show. So why don't you give them something to remember?"  

He lifted the prod again.  

Ricardo gasped as the prod inched closer, the smell of ozone flooding his nostrils. Below the buzz of electricity, he could "hear" the chat going wild, thousands of twisted viewers cheering for his destruction.

The cruel metal prongs brushed the sensitive flesh of his most vulnerable part, the ice-cold bite of steel an eerie prelude to the torment soon to come. Though the initial zap was merely a surprising jolt, like static electricity, he soon learned the true agony had only begun.

The prod flared to life, a thick surge of electric current blasting through his testicle, radiant agony spreading to his guts and piercing every nerve in his body. His head snapped back, a scream locked in his throat. A thousand needles impaling him, stabbing through his entire being. His form convulsed, twisting in anguish as the ropes cut into his wrists. The metal ring in his jaw clanked with teeth as his eyes bulged. Every muscle clenched and seized, locked in an unyielding spasm. His mind blanked out, vision blinding white, all while the air whipped against his exposed skin. The pull of the ropes on his shoulders, the bite of the shackles on his ankles felt like his nerves were vividly exposed, aroused, then shocked into submission. 

And then, amid the agony twisting on his face, the desperate struggle against his bonds, something else emerged — something that clawed at his chest like a starving beast seeking nourishment.

Pleasure.

In shock, convulsion, and the grimacing lips stained with drool, Ricardo's body betrayed him. Ramon's electric prod danced along his length, leaving a trail of dark arousal. His shaft, throbbing obscenely, twitched with each jolt, a perverse reaction to the excruciating stimulation. Each shock was like a lightning bolt, igniting his nerves with sickening bliss.

"Look how our little prince dances!"

Ramon roared, his voice cutting through the haze of pain and pleasure. The camera zoomed in on the throbbing member, the screen capturing it in merciless detail. The pink flesh rod glistened with sweat and precum, teetering on the edge of a precipice from which there was no return.

They saw it all. They saw the way his hips jerked, the way his dick swelled and pulsed, the way his face — usually a mask of cold defiance — contorted in a twisted mockery of ecstasy.

They saw the betrayal of his own flesh.

The chat went frantic, a fresh wave of donations flooding Ramon's accounts.

    "It's twitching!"

    "He loves it!"

    "I bet he's gonna cum!"

    "5000 to make him cum!"

    "10000 to make him piss himself!" 

    "You're gonna cum, princess?"

    "Cum! Cum! CUM!"

The crowd's cheers were a howl, a growl, a beast hungry for his suffering. They fed off his every twitch and moan, their sadism inflamed by his helpless responses. Thousands of viewers gazed with predatory eyes through the camera lens, tongues lolling to wet their lips at the spectacle of Ricardo's violation unfolding on their screens. His degradation was their sustenance, their insatiable lust for his pain an erotic cocktail crescendoing with each glistening throb of his engorged cockhead.

His body reacted treacherously in the most unspeakable ways as the electric shocks tore through his nerves. He could feel the perverse tingling, the vile heat blossoming in his core despite his mind's desperate pleas for it to stop.

His gaze was filled with horror and defiance as he stared up at the camera, at the cheering crowd. His pale skin was slick with sweat, his chest heaving with each desperate breath.

"It's no use fighting it, little lamb." Ramon's voice purred sadistically, "Your body craves this, even as your mind rebels. Watch yourself bloom for them — for all your thirsty fans craving your ruin."

Ricardo's heart raced in his chest, pulse thundering in his ears. His balls drew up tight. His cock throbbed and twitched, beads of precum dripping down the shaft. The orgasm was coming. He could feel it building like a wave crashing against his very soul, threatening to drag him under in its dark riptide.

NO! He screamed internally. 

This couldn't be happening. Not here, not now, not like this, not for them! 

But it was futile.

Ramon pressed the prod against the underside of his cock, the metal prongs kissing the veined flesh. He couldn't breathe, couldn't speak, a silent plea wedged in his throat.

"Do it." Ramon hissed, his voice a low, insidious whisper. "Show them what a pathetic little slut you are."

A crackle of electricity, then —

White. Hot. Agony.

The current surged through Ricardo's length, a searing blast of pure sensation. His hips bucked wildly, a guttural moan wrenching from his chest as his body convulsed. Cum shot from his cock in thick, ropy spurts, splattering across the stone floor like an offering to the hungry masses.

The camera zoomed in, capturing every primal twitch as his release crashed through him in waves. His eyes rolled back, spittle welled up, a stream of tics rolling down his throat. The floor quickly became a tacky mess, marred by the proof of his debasement.

    "HOLY SHIT!"

    "Look at that cum! So fucking much!"

    "He came so hard!"

    "Like watching an artesian well at full throttle!"

    "Fuck, I've never seen anything hotter."

    "That's it, cum like a good little bitch!"

    "DROWN IN YOUR OWN JIZZ"

    "Make him lick it up!"

    "Just as foul as his father!"

    "This is the price for your sin, little bastard!"

The crowd jeered and taunted, their laughter a vicious symphony. The chat erupted into a cacophony of debased revelry, each lewd comment painting a portrait of cruel rapture in pixels. Eggplants and cum emojis danced across the screen, a debased celebration of his humiliation. 

"Feast your eyes on this, boys." Ramon turned to the camera, savoring the depraved spectacle he had orchestrated. "The mighty Salvatore's heir, nothing more than a cum-addicted whore!"

The shame was excruciating. Ricardo felt like he was drowning in a sea of howling cruelty, the mocking voices crashing over him in a tidal wave of degradation. Each taunt, each jeer was a fresh gash carved into what remained of his fragile ego. 

His chin sank to the chest as he fought to keep his composure, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing him broken. But the tears betrayed him, hot and shame-filled, carving tracks down his cheeks, mingled with drool on his chin. 

The screen flickered, his tears captured in high definition, each droplet magnified, his anguished face a grotesque close-up for the world to dissect and mock. The camera lingered on the wet trails streaking his cheeks, the way his chest heaved with each choked sob, the way his body trembled as if it might collapse, and the engorged cock, spasming in the afterglow of his unwilling ejaculation. 

    "Aww, is the little prince crying?"

    "Bawling already? Lil' pussy."

    "Entering bitch mode now!"

    "I bet he's enjoying every second of this."

    "Tears and cum... what a combo!"

    "Garavani's heir, brought to tears by a cattle prod. Priceless."

"Pathetic little slut." Ramon rasped, his gaze raked over Ricardo's trembling form, a wicked smile curling his lips. "You like that, don't you? Having your body used for our entertainment?"

He sneered, trailing a finger down the boy's tear-streaked cheek. "We've only just begun to show you the depths of degradation, Ricardito. By the time we're done with you, you'll be nothing more than a cum-hungry, brainless cocksleeve..."

    "FUCK him raw!"

    "Pump his slutty holes!"

    "Piss on the bitch!"

    "Ruin his tight little hole!"

    "Drown that little cunt in cum!"

    "Who wants his prostate for 8000 next?"

Ricardo dangled from his ropes, shuddering in the aftermath of his shameful climax, sweat-soaked hair clinging to his skin. He gasped for air in ragged pulls, each breath a searing anguish in his chest. Unbidden, his thighs shivered, the proof of his surrender slick and damning between them.

He wanted to scream, to spit, to tear himself apart. But the gag held fast, the ropes an unyielding prison.

With each insult, another fracture split through his inside. His heart, his soul, his very being — all of it, broken and bleeding. He was nothing more than a plaything, a toy for their cruel amusement.

But through the haze of jeering voices and scrolling filth on the screen, only one name rang in his skull, over and over, like a war drum.

Alex.

The name seared through his mind like a brand, igniting a storm of emotions — rage, betrayal, and a hatred so deep it threatened to consume him. Last night, Alex had held him like something precious, whispered words that felt like promises, kissed him like he mattered. And now? 

Now, when Ricardo was reduced to a broken toy strung up for the amusement of sadists, he watched. From the darkness beyond the stage, past the sea of masked spectators, he just watched.

Ricardo slowly raised his head, looking into the unblinking lens of the camera. His eyes, once a vivid azure, now blaze with the cold, unforgiving fury of ice. 

He could feel it. Even without seeing him, he knew. Knew the weight of that gaze, the silent presence lurking just out of sight.

Alex had planned for this.

Not just his captivity. Not just his suffering.

This.

This moment where Ricardo's last shred of defiance would crumble. Where he would break, irrevocably, under the weight of his own humiliation.

And the worst part?

It worked.

His body had betrayed him. His father's enemies had witnessed his degradation, the live stream capturing every involuntary twitch, every desperate gasp, every shameful tear.

Ricardo Garavani was supposed to be untouchable.

Now, he was a spectacle. A commodity.

Because of Alex.

The man he had once — stupidly, blindly — loved.

"You coward!" Ricardo roared in his mind, his jaw clenched against the metal gag, "You spineless, heartless monster. You did this to me. You wanted this."

His hatred burned brighter than the electric current that had torn through him, hotter than the shame that clung to his skin. He vowed, silently, that if he survived this, he would make Alex pay.

He would kill him.

Not quickly. No, Alex didn't deserve something so merciful.

He would tear him apart, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but the hollow shell of the man who had destroyed him.

But before Ricardo could drown in the storm of his own rage, the screen flickered again. A new comment appeared on the screen, cutting through the flood of obscenities like a knife. The username was familiar — LupoFalco — Loyal Hawk. It was Matteo Bianco, one of his father's most trusted lieutenants, the man who'd taught him to shoot at twelve. 

The words were cold, mocking, and utterly devastating.

    "Look at the little prince, crying like a whore. Your father would be ashamed of you, Ricardito. Maybe we should've gutted you when we had the chance."

The name glowed in stark white letters, a betrayal so blatant it sent ice slicing through Ricardo's molten fury. This wasn't just humiliation — it was abandonment. His own man, his father's loyalist, was mocking him, reveling in his suffering. 

The chat erupted with fresh taunts, and to his horror, more and more familiar usernames appeared — all from his own side.

    "Even your own men hate you!"

    "Daddy's little failure!"

    "No wonder your father never trusted you with anything important."

    "You're a disgrace to the Garavani name!"

    "Pathetic. Salvatore's bloodline is so weak."

    "He's soft. He always was."

    "Boss won't save him. It doesn't worth it."

These weren't just outsiders watching his suffering. These were men who once fought beside him. Men who pledged loyalty to his family. Yet here they were, witnessing his degradation, doing nothing, only taunting and enjoying. The last shred of hope he'd clung to — that someone would come for him, that his father would save him — shattered into dust. 

His vision blurred, the screen swimming before his eyes. His chest tightened, a sob clawing its way up his throat. He fought to choke it back, refusing to give them the satisfaction. He wouldn't break. Not completely. Not yet.

But inside, he was crumbling.

The words lanced deeper than the prod. 

Weak. The ultimate Garavani sin. 

Ricardo's mind fractured — childhood memories of his father's disdain when he'd cried over a broken wrist, the cold praise when he'd first gutted a traitor at sixteen. "Emotion is a bullet in your skull," Salvatore had said, "Never let them see it."

Now, millions saw.

Alex had seen enough.

Ricardo's broken form filled the screen — his tearful face, his trembling body, the way his chest heaved with each ragged breath. The sight of him, so utterly defeated — Alex had watched the exact moment something inside him finally shattered.

And it hurt.

More than it should have. More than Alex had prepared for.

He had done this.

To Ricardo.

To the boy he once —

No.

He couldn't afford to think that way.

This was necessary. 

Pain was necessary. Hate was necessary.

Ricardo's suffering was the key to finishing what he had started three years ago.

"This is what you wanted." He reminded himself, his voice a low, bitter whisper. "This is what you needed."

His heart hammered against his ribs as he forced himself to remain still. His hands curled into tight fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms with enough force to leave crescent-shaped imprints. The screen's cold glow bathed his face in an eerie light, accentuating the rigid set of his jaw, the tension coiled in every muscle. His amber eyes — normally keen, unwavering — were veiled with something unnameable, something raw, something dangerously close to regret.

He had anticipated this moment, planned for it with the same cold precision he had used to orchestrate Salvatore's downfall.

He needed Ricardo broken. He needed him lost, drowning in humiliation, in despair.

Only then would the next phase of his plan take root.

And yet…

The memory of last night clung to him like a ghost — Ricardo's body pressed close, his skin radiating heat, his eyes soft and searching, as if they held the weight of a thousand unspoken promises. The whispered confession echoed in his mind, relentless and unyielding: "I am yours, Alex. Always yours."  — a vow now twisted into something cruel and even ironic.

It had been a mistake, letting himself feel anything. A weakness he couldn't afford. But as he watched Ricardo's tears fall, as he read the ruthless comments from Bianco's account — an account his own men had hacked — he felt a surge of guilt so sharp it threatened to choke him. He had orchestrated this. Every humiliating comment, every taunt, every second of Ricardo's suffering was his design. 

The chat continued to flood with insults, each one a fresh wound to Ricardo's already shattered pride. Alex's men had done their job well, infiltrating the Garavani ranks, sowing discord, and ensuring that Ricardo's own people turned against him. It was a masterstroke, a calculated move to break Salvatore, to dismantle the Garavani empire piece by piece.

So why did it feel so much like loss?

When he watched Ricardo's face — the way his eyes flickered with pain, the way his lips trembled despite his efforts to stay strong — he felt something shift inside him. A crack in the armor he had spent years building. A flicker of doubt.

His hand hovered over the keyboard, his fingers trembling. For a moment, he considered stopping it. Ending the stream. Calling off the next phase of the plan. But then he remembered his father's lifeless body, the blood staining the cobblestones, the vow he had made to destroy Salvatore Garavani no matter the cost.

He couldn't stop. Not now. Not when he was so close. Not when the pieces were falling into place.

"Forgive me." He whispered, his voice barely audible. But the words felt empty, even to him. 

And as he saw Ricardo's bloodshot eyes darken — not with defeat, but with something colder, sharper, more dangerous — Alex knew.

Ricardo would never forgive him.

And for the first time, Alex wasn't sure if he would ever be able to forgive himself, either.

Chapter Text

The cattle prod's buzz faded into a distant hum as Ramon tossed it aside with a clatter. He paced like a predator circling wounded prey, calculating gaze raking over Ricardo's bound form. 

He jerked his chin at one of the masked men towering behind him, who stepped forward, handing him an uncoiled bullwhip — a braided monstrosity of leather and steel, its tip barbed with tiny hooks. He dragged it slowly across Ricardo's chest, savoring the way his breath hitched. "This one has licked the blood of your father's capo." Ramon purred. "He begged me to kill him before the tenth strike. You'll beg sooner."

The crowd's chants morphed into a fevered mantra: "Whip him! Whip him! WHIP HIM!"

Ramon paused, his scarred face splitting into a grin. "You hear that, principino? And look, even your own men are hungry for your screams." He gestured to the screen, where Garavani loyalists — men Ricardo had trained with, fought beside — spewed venom:

    [LupoFalco]: "Your father's watching, Ricardito. He's finally seeing the weakling you are."

    [Cacciatore10]: "Five lashes and you'll piss yourself like a dog."

    [SangueVecchio]: "Luigi died proving he was a Garavani. You're living just to prove you're a disgrace to his name."

Ricardo's jaw clenched against the gag. Luigi, his elder brother, took an assassin's bullet for their father at the age of seventeen. Ricardo had been only ten. From that moment on, Salvatore had kept Ricardo under relentless protection, unwilling to lose another son. But the world saw it differently. They whispered that he was nothing like Luigi, that he had been coddled, sheltered — a fragile heir unworthy of the Garavani name. A prince wrapped in silk, while his brother had died in blood.

Ricardo had always looked up to Luigi — his courage, his loyalty, the way he had stood tall beside their father without hesitation. But now, Luigi's name was no longer a beacon — it was a weapon, sharpened and thrust against him. They turned his brother's legacy into a chain that bound him in shame.

Ramon took his time, circling behind Ricardo, letting the anticipation gnaw at him like a starving beast. The camera followed his movements, its mechanical eye drinking in every detail. The screen now displayed Ricardo's back and hips — smooth, unblemished, pristine.

Ramon's gloved hand trailed along the curve of Ricardo's spine, fingertips brushing skin with a gentleness that felt profane. He paused at the dip of his lower back, then slid his palm lower, over the swell of his hips, kneading the flesh with the slow appreciation of an artist, as if admiring a masterpiece before defacing it. "Pale as parchment." He murmured, his voice a low, mocking purr. "Perfect for writing a lesson in blood."

The crowd roared in approval, the chat erupted with more vicious comments:

    "Look at that baby-smooth skin! Did daddy's money pay for your spa days while the rest of us bled, you porcelain-faced princess?"

    "Not a single scar, not a fucking callus. Bet your soft little hands never held anything rougher than a silk pillow."

    "How'd you even survive this long? By sucking cocks instead of pulling triggers?"

    "Garavani's heir? More like Garavani's whore."

    "Rip him apart! Give him a lesson!"

    "Rip out his spine and feed it to the dogs. Oh wait, does he have spine?"

Ricardo steadied his breath, each inhale deliberate, each exhale measured — a tempered rhythm of rebellion. He braced himself, muscles coiling beneath his skin. The screen before him pulsed with vitriol, a relentless scroll of venom that clawed at his resolve. Yet he refused to blink, refused to cower, even as the feed displayed his own ravaged form: a body tethered like a martyr to the sacrificial pyre of brutality, swallowed by a maelstrom of scorn.

The first lash split the air with a CRACK — a sound like bones breaking.

Agony bloomed.

The whip's tail struck his ribs, slicing across his back like fire kissing flesh, leaving a welt that quickly darkened with blood, hot and slick. The impact was a searing explosion of pain. He arched against the ropes, a strangled grunt barely making it past the gag. 

Alex's knuckles turned white as he bit into his fist, muffling the instinctive cry rising in his throat. The first strike jolted through his own body, a phantom pain lancing across his back as if the whip had struck him too. His breath hitched. His vision blurred. But he couldn't look away.

He forced himself to keep his gaze fixed on the screen, his wide eyes not only absorbing the sight of Ricardo's tortured body but also scanning the chat, tracking every venomous name that appeared.

    [BlazeReaper]: "Look at him writhe! Just like the scums did when I set them ablaze. They screamed louder than you, Ricardito — maybe you should take notes."

    [VitoSpada]: "The pretty back's already splitting. Pathetic. If I had a blade, I'd carve my name into your spine — at least then you'd finally have some worth on your skin."

    [Cacciatore10]: "Four more and he'll be howling for his mother!"

    [SangueVecchio]: "Filthy piglet! Your blood's too thin for the Garavani name! Your old man must be choking on shame right now. What a disgrace!"

    [DiegoViper]: "Scream, Ricardito. Let Daddy hear you. Or is he already praying for your death in exchange of Luigi's life?"

    …

Usernames poured onto the monitor, a relentless torrent of vicious taunts. Within them were fresh handles from Garavani's own ranks — accounts not hijacked by Alex's men, but willingly drawn out by those already compromised:

[BlazeReaper] – Lorenzo "Enzo" Moretti: Commander of Garavani's fire squads, responsible for torching businesses, sending brutal messages through arson, and erasing evidence with flames. He earned his name for burning an enemy's estate — while the family was still inside.

[VitoSpada] – Vito De Sanctis: Garavani's blade, a former fencer turned assassin, known for his precision with both blades and bullets. Cold, methodical, a master with knives, he enjoys carving his victims slowly, ensuring their agony lingers.

[Cacciatore10] – Marco Ricciardi: A sadistic tracker, leading the hunting squads, specializing in tracking down traitors, debtors, and enemies hiding from Garavani. He enjoys the chase almost as much as the kill, known for dragging out his victims' suffering for sport. 

[SangueVecchio] – Silvio Bernardi: An old-school lieutenant, fiercely traditionalist, and a firm believer in bloodline purity. He oversees the recruitment of loyalists to the Garavani family, and it is no secret that he always despises Ricardo for being "unworthy" of the Garavani legacy when compared with Luigi.

[DiegoViper] – Diego Renzetti: A cunning interrogator with a silver tongue and a poisoner's touch, who led the intelligence and interrogation unit, breaking enemies not just physically but mentally. He specializes in knowing exactly what to say to push someone over the edge, and relishes playing mind games, twisting the knife in psychological wounds. 

…

Alex flipped open a notebook, scanning the intelligence meticulously gathered on each of them. This was the moment he had been waiting for — the seeds of doubt, ready to be sown deep into Salvatore's mind, spreading like rot through the steel foundation of his empire.

Ricardo had vanished from a nightclub under Garavani's control, and the security footage had conveniently gone dark that same night. No question — traitors were in their midst. Traitors Alex himself had carefully placed over the last three years. But despite his brutal methods, Salvatore had yet to uncover them. He had tortured the innocent club owner to death in a futile display of wrath, but the true infiltrators remained hidden, so did Ricardo's whereabouts.

And now, the live stream. The taunts, the jeers — each comment from Salvatore's own men was a spark in the tinderbox of his suspicion. Those who had reveled in Ricardo's humiliation had unwittingly painted targets on their backs. They had become the most visible cracks in Salvatore's once-impenetrable armor.

Alex leaned back, his expression unreadable as he closed the notebook with a quiet snap. The game was unfolding exactly as he had planned. Yet, when his gaze flicked back to the screen, a weight settled in his chest — heavy, unshakable, like a stone pressing against his ribs.

A smirk of triumph curled on Ramon's lips as he chuckled behind Ricardo. "Ahh, look at them, principino," he murmured, voice dripping with amusement. "Your men are feasting on your agony." He leaned in, his breath damp and cloying against Ricardo's ear. "Shall I give them more?"  

The second lash came before Ricardo could brace himself.  

It crisscrossed the first and cut deeper, his body jerking forward from the sheer force of it. Barbs hooked into skin, blood sliding in thin rivulets down his spine. A choked, unwilling sound clawed up his throat. He tasted copper — his own blood, from where he had bitten into the metal gag to keep silent.  

Ramon wasn't satisfied.

"Louder!" he roared, dragging gloved fingers over the fresh welt. He pressed down hard. Ricardo's body flinched involuntarily, shudders betraying him. "I know your game, playing the mute. But you won't win, boy."  

The pain burned, sharp and unrelenting, turning his mind into a sluggish haze, as if drowning in thick, suffocating mud. He tried to swallow, but his throat was dry, the metal cutting deeper into the swollen flesh of his cheeks with every ragged breath.  

Defiance. Defiance. The only word he could latch onto, a fragile lifeline in the abyss.  

Then the third strike landed — low, across the hips. It ripped the breath from his lungs.

The fourth crushed what little strength he had left in his knees.

The fifth sent his body sagging against the ropes, shoulders wrenched to near dislocation under his own weight. The fresh welts spread like a map of suffering, streaking his back in raw red. Sweat and blood slithered down the curve of his spine, a sickening blend of heat and iron. His breath stuttered, a ragged tremor barely holding on. His head drooped forward, vision tunneling at the edges, darkness curling in like a predator, waiting for the moment to drag him under.

The crowd's chants had reached a new pitch, their bloodlust insatiable, yet Ramon paused, his gloved hand hovering mid-air, the whip dangling like a serpent tasting the air, poised to strike at the slightest command.

A voice crackled in his earpiece. The order directed otherwise.

"Enough. No more whipping."

For the briefest moment, Ramon's smirk faltered, a shadow of displeasure flickering across his scarred face. He let out a frustrated breath, stepping just beyond the camera's frame as he muttered into the intercom on his collar, "Give me two more. Just two. He'll break."  

Alex's voice came sharp and unyielding: "I SAID ENOUGH. " 

A pause. Then a slow exhale from Ramon, his irritation barely concealed. But he knew Alex. Orders were orders.

"As you wish. I'll use a much gentler tool."

With slow, deliberate movement, he turned back toward the camera. A flick of his wrist sent the bullwhip tumbling to the ground, the bloodied leather coiling like a slain snake at his feet.

The crowd started to murmur. A tidal wave of protests flooded the chat. Messages scrolled at a breakneck pace, each one dripping with frustration and bloodthirsty disappointment.

    "Why stop now? He hasn't even screamed!"

    "What's the matter? Is the princeling too delicate for a real lesson?"

    "Keep going! I paid to see him bleed!"

    "Pathetic! That's all you got, Ramon?"

    [VitoSpada]: "What's the hold-up? He's still standing, still silent. Make him earn his scars!"

    [Cacciatore10]: "This isn't a lesson — it's a joke. Five strikes and you're already backing down? I've seen rats endure worse!"

    [SangueVecchio]: "Salvatore raised a coward. Strip him down to the bone, maybe then he'll remember what family he belongs to!"

Emojis of whips, knives, and grinning skulls congested the stream, a digital storm of bloodlust. — Anonymous spectators, Garavani's own men, even those who had once been indifferent to Ricardo's fate now fed the fire, swept up in the hysteria.

Ramon ignored them and motioned to one of the masked henchmen lurking at the edges of the scene. The man approached, carrying a black iron pot with steam coming out of it. Molten wax bubbled inside, the stench of burning paraffin cutting through the metallic tang of blood.

"Change of plans, principino." Ramon sneered, dipping the ladle into the pot, the wax glowing amber. A few drops hissed as they hit the stone floor. 

The chat surged in thrill again, their hunger shifting from violence to something crueler.  

    "Ah, there it is. Boiling wax — an artist's touch."

    "Watch him howl. Bet he cracks before it hits bone."

Ricardo barely had time to register the shift — the absence of the whip's searing bite — before a fresh torment took its place.  

A slow, deliberate tilt of Ramon's hand sent molten wax dribbling over the raw welts on Ricardo's back. The heat licked at his open wounds, igniting a fresh kind of agony — one that didn't strike like a blade but seeped in, claiming his flesh with a relentless, scalding caress.  

His body convulsed, a strangled groan escaping the gag.

The chat exploded with excitement:

    [LupoFalco]: "Hear that? The puppy's finally whimpering!"

    [Cacciatore10]: "Hot wax on fresh wounds? Genius move."

    [SangueVecchio]: "This is what the weak Garavani bloodline deserves. Pain that lingers, pain that seeps into the bone."

    [VitoSpada]: "The whip tears, but the wax seals — burning the lesson deep. Beautiful."

    [DiegoViper]: "Clever. Every drop is branding him with shame. This is what real discipline looks like."

    [BlazeReaper]: "Watching him twitch from every burn is perfection. Almost makes me wish I had a turn."

This was more than just sadistic entertainment. It was a test. A challenge. The mob's hysteria was a contagion, spreading through the crowd like wildfire, consuming reason and compassion in its path. In the midst of this frenzied cruelty, already spiraling beyond control, no one was immune from corruption — neither the faceless viewers, nor the haters among Garavani's own ranks, nor even those who had once hesitated. Here, in this desecrated church-turned-arena, cruelty was the currency, and Ricardo's suffering was the commodity.  

Ramon grabbed a fistful of his damp, sweat-soaked hair, forcing his head up. "You should be grateful to our dear Alex." Ramon whispered into his ear, his voice a mockery of comfort. "He's the only reason your back isn't flayed open right now."

Then he laughed — a rich, indulgent sound — as he scooped another ladle of molten wax, tilting it just so. This time, he poured faster.

The wax struck Ricardo's spine and slithered downward, creeping into the fresh gashes, sealing raw flesh with blistering heat. His body jolted violently, every muscle convulsing in tortured resistance. His throat burned from the effort to stifle screams, his face a twisted mask of anguish. Tears, hot and unchecked, carved thin, glistening tracks through the filth smeared across his skin.

Yet through the pain, fury roared to life in his chest. Grateful? He should be grateful to Alex? The same Alex who had commanded this, who had spared him from the whip only to let this sadistic bastard find a more insidious way to break him? The irony was suffocating, a noose tightening around his throat. If this was Alex's way of showing mercy, then he was either a fool or an incorrigible hypocrite.

Alex's grip on the intercom tightened, his pulse a fierce drumbeat of agony. 

A gentler tool? Wax might have been softer than the bullwhip, but against torn flesh, it was a far crueler torment. Burns were unpredictable — slow to heal, impossible to forget. The pain didn't just sear the skin; it sank in, branding itself into the body and mind, a torment that lingered long after the wounds had closed.

"No. Not this. Stop it."

Ramon hummed in amusement at the sharp command crackling through his earpiece. "Again? Are you sure?" He muttered, voice pitched just low enough to avoid reaching the broadcast but laced with a knowing edge. 

"Burning leaves scars." Alex's voice came again, colder this time, the ice beneath his restraint beginning to crack. "You are breaking my rules."

Ramon chuckled. "Of course. Your rules." The words dripped with mock obedience.  

He exhaled through his nose, and tossed the ladle back into the pot. It landed with a clang, splashing droplets of wax against the rim. The masked henchman hesitated, eyes flicking between the pot and his face, waiting for further instruction. Ramon waved him off with a lazy flick of his fingers, irritation threading through his movements.  

The disappointment was palpable, rippling through the chat. Their anticipation had been whipped into a ravenous beast yearning to feast on blood, only to be left starving and snarling at his sudden halt.

    "What the hell? Why stop again?" 

    "Boo! We want blood!"

    "More wax! Make him scream!"

    "Who gave the order to stop?"

    "Someone's getting soft behind the scenes."

    "Ramon, blink twice if your boss is holding you back."

    "Prince sympathizing with prince, huh? How touching."

    "Was that your voice, Alex? Getting cold feet?"

    "Tell us, Alex — does seeing your pet broken make you feel something, or is it guilt?"  

    "Pathetic. So damn weak. You forget how your father died?"

The tension in the air crackled like static before a storm. Ramon's fingers ghosted over something hard at his waist — the handle of his gun. He tapped the weapon against his thigh as if weighing his next move, then tilted his head slightly, pressing a finger to his earpiece.

"You want to stop, Boss?" he murmured, his voice a hushed taunt in Alex's ear. "How about we end it all?"

Before Alex could respond, Ramon's expression shifted — his lips curled into a wicked grin, and he turned to the camera.

"No, no, no." he cooed, his voice a serpentine purr slithering through the speakers. "My boss is just being impatient." He chuckled, the sound rolling through the desecrated church like a prayer turned blasphemy. "He doesn't want to waste time on these small pleasures. He wants the grand finale."

With deliberate ease, he slid the gun from beneath his coat, lifting it just enough for the camera to catch the glint of its barrel — sleek, black, its polished surface gleaming under the harsh spotlight. He looked into the lens, his expression calm, almost paternal, the way an elder might look upon a reckless child. The message was clear, unspoken but deafening: I'm saving your ass, Alex.

Alex's breath caught in his throat as his eyes widened in horror.

No, Ramon, you won't dare...

Chapter Text

The chat scrolled in a chaotic frenzy, words clashing in a whirlwind of bloodlust, fear, and cold calculation.  

Some erupted in rabid anticipation, hungry for violence:  

    "Oh? Now we're talking!"

    "Pull the trigger! Blow his brains out!"

    "Do it already. Finish him!"

    "End the Garavani line!"

Others, out of an instinctive sense of self-preservation, trembled in panic:

    "You're playing with fire. If you kill him, Salvatore will burn the world to ash."

    "Ramon, stop! If you do this, Salvatore will slaughter us all. Don't drag us into your suicide mission!"

Some spoke with strategic coldness, their minds calculating consequences over the kill:

    "If you pull that trigger, you'll make him a martyr and lose your leverage."

But the loudest voices came from those steeped in cruelty — discontented by the idea of a quick death, craving prolonged suffering:  

    "No, don't! He hasn't suffered enough!"

    "A bullet's too quick! String him up and peel him like an apple!"

    "You're stopping too soon! Give him the 'gradual' torment he deserves!"

The most twisted of all, Garavani's own executioners, weighed in with their own brand of brutality:  

    [BlazeReaper]: "How boring. You're skipping straight to the funeral when the real fun is in the burning."

    [VitoSpada]: "One clean shot? What a fucking waste. I would carve my name into his ribs first."

    [Cacciatore10]: "The fun ends too soon. Cut him loose, let him run — then hunt him down."

    [SangueVecchio]: "His disgrace should be drawn out, branded into history. A bullet erases him too easily."

    [DiegoViper]: "Oho, now that's interesting. A mercy kill? How very unlike you, Ramon."

The bloodlust was deafening. A single bullet would be too merciful.

This made no sense. Ramon knew exactly what the plan was. How could someone so unwavering in his obedience suddenly veer so wildly off course?  

"Ramon, what are you doing? Put down the gun. Now!" Alex's voice cut through the intercom, sharp and cold, laced with an urgency that barely cracked his iron composure.  

But Ramon seemed to ignore the command. His smirk remained fixed, his movements unhurried as he stepped closer. With a vicious tug, he wrenched Ricardo's head back by the hair, forcing his neck into a cruel arch. The gun pressed past Ricardo's parted lips, the barrel sliding into his gagged mouth, cold steel scraping against his upper jaw. A shudder rippled down his spine as the bitter tang of iron and gun oil coated his tongue. His heart pounded, pulse roaring in his ears. The muzzle pressed heavy, unyielding. His mind raced.

Is this it? Is this how it ends?

Ramon leaned in, his breath a ghost against Ricardo's ear, his voice a slow, venomous drawl.  

"If I put this bullet into your brain, would your father grieve you? Or would he finally sigh in relief… that his disappointment of a son is gone?"

Ricardo barely had the strength to lift his eyelids, but he forced himself to meet Ramon's gaze. That scarred face, twisted into a grin sharper than the barbed whip, loomed over him like a specter. The pain tethered him to the moment — but beneath it, something far crueler gnawed at his chest.

For the first time, he found himself asking the same question.

"He is too dangerous to be left alive, Ricardo. A young wolf. Let him grow, and he will bite back — harder, sharper, fiercer than his father ever did."

Salvatore's voice had been quiet, final.

Ricardo still remembered the way those words had settled in the room like a death sentence. He had been younger then, more desperate, barely thinking when he burst into his father's office. He had overheard the order — Alex was to die.

He had dropped to his knees before Salvatore's desk, hands clenched into shaking fists. "Please… He just lost his father. He's yielded already. Why can't you spare his life?"

His father had studied him for a long moment, and in that silence, Ricardo felt the weight of that gaze — assessing, dissecting, realizing something before he could deny it himself.

"You have a particular sympathy for him."

"No—" He had snapped too quickly. "I just don't want more bloodshed. That's all."

It hadn't mattered. The assassin was sent. And Alex survived.

But Ricardo had been marked ever since.

In the months that followed, the whispers began — murmurs in the hallways, lingering glances from his own men. Too soft. Too weak. Unworthy of the Garavani name.

And now?

Now he was bound, beaten, and ruthlessly tortured, the cold steel of a gun shoved down his throat. A spectacle for the sadists — watching him shattered, reveling in his downfall, mocking his "softness", and wishing him a brutal, drawn-out death.

And Alex?

Alex had set this up precisely for him.

The weight of that truth pressed down on him, heavier than the steel in his mouth. He had begged for Alex's life once. And now, the man he'd shown his softest mercy to was the one exploiting it the most.

How ironic.

His pulse thundered in his skull, each beat deafening, as if counting down the last moments of his life.

I should've seen this coming. No — he almost laughed, I did see it coming. I just let it happen anyway.

Alex had outplayed him, broken him, and thrown him to the butcher like some pathetic animal awaiting slaughter.

And yet…

If this was how he was going to die, there was only one regret clawing at him.

Alex…

He wanted to speak. A curse, a plea, something. But what was left to say?

I gave you my mercy. I shed tears for you. I betrayed my own blood for you.

His jaw tightened around the metal. And you still want more?

He should hate him. He wanted to hate him. But beneath the anger, beneath the humiliation, there was something else. Something raw and hollow and aching.

Was any of it real?

That night, years ago, when Ricardo had stood between Alex and death. When he had begged his father to spare him. When he had believed, against every rationale, that Alex was worth saving.

Did you ever —

The words were swallowed by the taste of steel.  

But he already knew the answer, didn't he?

Ramon's finger hovered on the trigger as the camera zooming in. For a heartbeat, the world hung suspended — even the chat, a relentless scroll of vitriol, froze mid-taunt.

The only sound in the cavernous hall was the faint crackle in Ramon's earpiece.

"Ramon, don't be stupid. Ricardo has to live!" Alex's voice cut through again, still laced with its usual steel, but the command was fraying — desperation seeping through the cracks, raw and unguarded.

And then —  

CLICK.

The gun's empty chamber echoed through the silence. No gunshot. No explosion. No blood.

Ricardo flinched, his body tensing for a impact that never came. Ramon's grin widened, a predator savoring the fear in his prey's eyes. He pulled the gun away, shrugging with mock innocence.

"Oops. Forgot to reload."

Laughter erupted from the crowd. The chat flooded with laughing emojis, mocking jeers, and twisted relief.

    "Tease."

    "LMAO I almost thought he was gone. Damn, that was cruel."

    "Joke's on you — this is the most fun I've had today!"

    "Did you see his face? He looked scared for a second there."

    "Disappointing. Thought he would piss himself."

Ricardo let out a slow, shuddering breath, willing his pulse to steady. His eyes, wide with fury and disbelief, locked onto Ramon. So this was just another act in the play. His suffering was far from over.

Ramon turned to the camera, his smirk sharp enough to cut glass. He holstered the gun with a flourish, his voice dripping with mockery. "Looks like it's not the time yet. We still have so much more to do."

The crowd roared, their bloodlust reignited.

Alex sat frozen in the darkness, fingers digging into the armrests of his chair until the leather groaned beneath his grip.

This was spiraling.

Too fast. Too far.

He had accounted for the suffering. He had calculated the layers of humiliation. But not this.

Not the gun.

Not the moment he thought, for a single unbearable second, that Ramon might actually fire the weapon.

He inhaled sharply, but it did nothing to settle the storm inside him.

Ricardo could not die — not yet, not according to his plan. But at that moment, the plan was meaningless.

All he could think about was him — Ricardo, the boy he had once held so dearly in his arms, the one person who had ever made him hesitate.

Only at that moment did he realize he couldn't lose him. Not for this. Not for anything.

But maybe Ramon had sensed it too. Maybe this was his way of protesting — reminding Alex that his iron will was softening, his resolve for vengeance wavering.

And Alex had to live with it.

Ramon had taken the fall for the Chiesa family — a murder charge that left him rotting in a cell for eight years while Alex's father ruled. Ramon's son, barely fourteen, had been slaughtered by Salvatore in retaliation. Alex knew, and the whole gang knew, that how much the Chiesa family owed him.

"You don't get to tell me when to stop."

Ramon had said those words when they started their revenge plan against Garavani. And now, they echoed in Alex's mind, a bitter reminder of the line he should have never crossed.

But how could he not end it now, knowing the more terrifying things awaiting Ricardo — the ones he himself had designed?

"End the show now, Ramon." Alex's command came sharp and absolute, slicing through the tension like a blade. "We've got what we need. It's time to stop."

Ramon stepped just beyond the camera's range, his expression unreadable. Then, with quiet defiance, he asked, "And what about what we want?" The words carried weight, deliberate and cutting. "This revenge isn't just yours, Alex."

"Our enemy is Salvatore."

Ramon scoffed, shaking his head. "So much difference." He muttered. Then, louder, "Fine. But if we stop now, we look weak. And Salvatore will exploit that the second we blink." His gaze flicked to Ricardo, still bound and breathing heavily. "If it were you in that place, do you think he'd stop? Do you think he'd show mercy?"

"I am not Salvatore. And neither is his son." Alex insisted, unyielding.

A bitter laugh. "You're comparing yourself to this filthy whelp now?" Ramon's resentment seeped through his voice, his grip tightening at his sides.

Before Alex could answer, a sudden shift rippled through the crowd. A murmur, then a swell of unrest.  

Alex turned to the screen. 

The chat — once a flood of jeering and demands — had gone still, messages freezing mid-scroll. One line, bold and immovable in blood-red font, loomed at the bottom of the screen:

    [SalvatoreGaravani]: "How amusing. Is this the best you can do, Alex?"

Silence choked the room.

Then, a voice crackled through the intercom. "Confirmed, Boss. It's him. Salvatore himself."

Alex's breath hitched. His pulse hammered.

No, Salvatore. Not now. Not like this.

Salvatore was watching — calculating, cataloging every slight, every debt. Measuring what was his to reclaim.

And Alex had expected it. Planned for it. 

But Salvatore had mistaken the moments of hesitation for fear, the restraint for weakness. He thought his arrival would rattle them, that his mere presence would bend them into submission.

He was wrong. Terribly wrong.

This wasn't a warning shot — it was the point of no return.

For Ricardo.

For Alex.

A slow grin unfurled across Ramon's face. "See, Boss?" He murmured, head tilting toward the screen. "If we stop now, we might as well wave a white flag in front of Il Diavolo's face." He let the words settle before adding, "And what perfect timing — just as we were about to unveil our special program for him."

Alex said nothing. Because Ramon was right.

A slow exhale. Then, at last —  

"So be it." Alex conceded. "Proceed as planned."

The church was suffocating in its stillness, a cavern with the humming monitor and flickering shadows. The air hung thick with sweat, blood, and the sickly static of the live stream — an audience of thousands, yet no one dared to speak now.

Then — 

Ramon's voice sliced through the silence, smug and lilting.

"Oh, we have a special guest!" He spread his arms wide, then mock-bowed toward the screen. "Don Garavani himself! Here to watch his precious heir squirm? Or just to bark orders from your gilded throne?"

He grinned like a clown. The edge of the spotlight caught the jagged scar across his cheek, making it look deeper, crueler, as he turned toward the screen where another line of blood-red, unshakable letters appeared.  

    [SalvatoreGaravani]: "Alessandro Chiesa, send my son back now with your dog Luciano's head, then I may consider sparing you and the rest of your men. Otherwise, I'll hunt down every single one of you until I squeeze out the last drop of blood from your pathetic, broken corpses."

The threat hung like a guillotine over the hall. The deliberate use of Alex's full name transformed the words into an execution order, inked in venom and sealed with fury.

The chat, once a frenzied sea of taunts and jeers, froze. The flood of laughing emojis, gore-hungry demands, and mockery came to a halt as if the viewers themselves had been seized by an invisible hand, too afraid to breathe in the face of Salvatore's wrath. 

Il Diavolo had spoken.

Even among bloodthirsty criminals, his presence commanded a different kind of attention — one laced with fear, respect, and the knowledge that his words could shape fates with a mere breath — the promise of ruin, written in blood.

Ramon stalked leisurely around Ricardo, whose body still trembled from the torment he had endured. He was barely upright, swaying against his restraints, yet his blue eyes — dusted by pain and humiliation — flickered with something subtle. Was that hope?

But Ramon chuckled, placing his hand on Ricardo's shoulder, his voice full of sarcasm.

"How about this, Don Garavani?" He purred. "You donate €10,000 to my account, and we'll wrap up this show early. We'll be kind enough to spare your son… for today."

He leaned in, fingers trailing over Ricardo's bloodied cheek before gripping his jaw, forcing him to face the screen. "Otherwise, we continue. And I promise you — our next program is one you won't want to miss."

It was a sharp insult — one aimed precisely at a man as arrogant as Salvatore.

The response was instant.

    [SalvatoreGaravani]: "I have no interest in your childish game. My son's suffering is his own failure. Weakness festers, and weakness dies."

Ricardo's stomach twisted. Glimmer in this eyes vanished.

His father knew what those words meant for him. Knew exactly what it would do to him. And yet — 

He. Did. Not. Care.

Alex's voice broke through — low, controlled, but edged with something desperate, something personal.

"Don Garavani," he said, his voice carrying across the live stream, "I advise you to think twice. Your son is here, alive. We can return him… or we can make this show legendary. Negotiate, and this may end. Refuse…" He tried to make it sound ominous, "…and the world watches your legacy crumble." Yet a tremor betrayed him. For a heartbeat, his mask slipped — begging, not threatening.

It was a final attempt. Not as Alex Chiesa, the enemy. Not as the man who orchestrated all of this.

But as the one person who — somewhere in the depths of his treacherous heart — still did not want to see Ricardo fall any further.

That is totally out of the plan. Ramon's lips curled into something close to scorn.

Even now? Even in front of Salvatore? Alex is still trying to spare him?

But Salvatore's reply came swift and merciless.

    [SalvatoreGaravani]: "You mistake me for a man who fears spectacle. Do whatever you want. I do not negotiate with fools. I erase them."

Something inside Ricardo shattered.

Not in shock. Not in betrayal.

But in inevitability.

The memory surfaced unbidden, as sharp and cold as the gun pressed against his tongue just moments ago.

He was seven — small hands trembling around the grip of a pistol too large for him. His father stood behind him, a looming shadow.

His pony had gone lame.

"It's useless now." Salvatore had told him, voice devoid of emotion. "When something you have is weak, you eliminate it. Otherwise, it will become your weakness."

Ricardo had sobbed, pleaded — just like he had begged three years ago for Alex's life.

It hadn't mattered then. It didn't matter now.  

Now, he was the lame pony. He had become his father's weakness.  

And weakness had to be eliminated.

He let out a slow, shaky breath. If he had any foolish hope left — any lingering dream of salvation — it had just been ripped away, crushed beneath Salvatore's heel like dust. 

The laughter that followed was soft at first — a breath, a whisper. Then Ramon chuckled fully, shaking his head. He leaned down, his scarred face inches from Ricardo's, his breath warm and cloying against the boy's bloodied skin.  

"Oh, poor prince." He murmured, his voice a mockery of tenderness. "Your dear daddy just abandoned you."

His gloved hand brushed a damp curl from Ricardo's forehead, the gesture almost gentle, almost pitying. But his other hand moved to the buckle of his belt, the metallic snick cutting through the silence like a blade.  

"Now, prepare yourself." He continued, his tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "If you knew what Alex had planned for you… you'd wish there had been bullets in my gun." 

Ricardo's blood ran cold.

The screen continued to flicker, the chat feed eerily stagnant, as if severed mid-stream — Salvatore's words still lingering, unchallenged, on the bottom. Only the viewer count soared wildly — 20,000… 22,000… 25,000 — as the underworld held its breath.

And Alex — enshrouded in the dim glow of his shadowed room — slowly shut his eyes, as if unwilling to witness what came next. His chest tightened, a volatile mix of fury and dread coiling deep within him.

Chapter Text

The air thickened with a nauseating blend of sweat, blood, and the acrid sting of burnt paraffin. Ramon's belt hit the stone floor with a metallic clang that echoed like a funeral bell. His hands worked with practiced ease, loosening his pants, peeling leather from his hips in a slow, obscene unveiling.

Ricardo's breath came in short gasps as he watched Ramon's lewd display, his mind spinning with the realization of what was about to happen. The weight of his father's abandonment crushed him, and now, the final humiliation — he was about to be defiled in the most degrading way, for the entertainment of thousands of sadistic strangers.

This was Alex's plan — cold, calculated, vile — unfolding with surgical precision. It was never just about breaking Ricardo. It was about flaying Salvatore's pride raw, forcing him to watch as his dynasty's heir was reduced to a panting, debased thing. A message carved not in blood, but in shame.

The camera zoomed in, its lens unblinking, capturing every flicker of terror in Ricardo's bloodshot eyes, every tremor in his bound limbs.

"No..." Ricardo tried to beg, but the word came out distorted and weak through the gag. His eyes widened in terror as Ramon's erect cock sprang free, hard and vulgar, from the confines of his pants.

Ramon gripped himself with a smirk, stroking slowly, tauntingly, "Just relax, little prince. Daddy's watching."

The silence on the screen was finally broken by a daring comment:

    "Holy shit! At last the fucking real thing!"

The dam burst — Alex's own men disguised as anonymous spectators flooded the chat with dirty mockeries and howling demands. Others followed, emboldened, Salvatore's presence forgotten or deliberately ignored. What was a devil when his horns had already been seized?

Ramon's smirk widened. His tongue darted over his teeth as he drank in the depravity unspooling on screen.

"They're hungry for it, my sweet. So very hungry."

His hand caressed the weeping head of his erection, glistening with a mix of lust and sadism.

Ricardo's jaw ached. He wanted to close his mouth, but the metal gag still wedged between his teeth. Ramon's hand fisted in his hair, pushing his neck down while yanking his head back.

"Swallow your legacy, principino." Ramon sneered, his cockhead staring hungrily at Ricardo's open mouth, "Not blood. Not honor. Just a wet, willing hole."

The intrusion was sudden — unyielding flesh shoving past Ricardo's lips, thick and suffocating, the salt-bitter taste of skin and precum coating his tongue. He gagged, throat convulsing in reflexive protest. Tears welled at the corners of his eyes, spilling over as Ramon thrust deeper, the head of his cock bumping against the tight ring of muscle at the back of Ricardo's throat.

The camera captured it all — the way his Adam's apple bobbed grotesquely with each thrust, the drool pooling at the corners of his stretched lips, the wet, obscene sounds of violation that boomed through the church's hollowed bones.

"Look well, Salvatore!" Ramon snarled at the screen, hips pistoning, his free hand splayed possessively over Ricardo's scalp. "You butchered my boy — now yours takes his place. Every cry, every shudder, every drop of shame, is interest on your debt."

The chat was alive with a frenetic energy, a chaotic blend of shock, excitement, and revulsion. The underworld was watching the scene unfold with morbid fascination.

    "FINALLY! Tear that pretty throat apart!"

    "Dear god… Is this really happening?"

    "Pathetic heir. Unworthy in every way now."

    "Look at those tears! He's crying like a bitch!"

    "Fuck, that's hot. I'd pay a fortune to be next."

    "Salvatore must be seething. His heir, reduced to a cocksleeve."

    "Jesus Christ! This is a suicide show. You'll all be dead."

Ricardo's mind splintered.

Air. He needed air.

His lungs burnt, vision speckling with black stars as Ramon's thrusts grew erratic, brutal. Each snap of his hips carved a fresh hell into Ricardo's throat, the friction raw and searing. He could feel the man's pulse thrumming against his tongue, the heat building, the inevitable climax looming like a grenade pin about to be pulled.

Alex. Alex is watching this. Alex wanted this.

The realization struck like a blade between his ribs, twisting deeper than the lash's kiss, burning fiercer than molten wax upon his wounds. That tender voice which had murmured devotion into the hollow of his throat, those reverent hands that had mapped his body like sacred scripture — how could they now consign him to this profane altar? The whispered "I love you" still lingered on his skin like a brand, even as the same lips that shaped those words now gave the order to break him. The cruelest cut wasn't this brutal violation and humiliation — it was remembering how Alex's touch had felt like salvation while orchestrating his damnation all along.

Ramon's groan rumbled through him, animalistic and triumphant. "Take it, you fucking princess —"

The first spurt hit the back of Ricardo's throat, bitter and viscous. He choked, convulsing, but Ramon held him fast, emptying himself in thick, relentless waves until cum dripped from Ricardo's nostrils, until his gagging turned to weak, wet whimpers.

When Ramon finally pulled out, Ricardo sagged against his restraints, vomit and semen streaking his chin, his lips oozing red around broken, panting breaths. His head ached like fire, chest heaving violently, each ragged inhale a knife dragged through his ribs. The camera lingered, zooming in on the ruin of his face — the swollen hole dripping spent seed, the tear-tracked cheeks, the hollow, shattered glaze in his eyes, his expression stripped raw of everything but the knowledge of what had been done to him. What had been allowed. By Alex.

The monitor's glow painted Alex's face in sickly blue hues as his fingers dug into the desk hard enough to splinter wood. Every muscle locked — a statue carved from pure agony. Ramon's thrusts mirrored the rhythmic stabbing in his chest, each one driving the knife deeper. Ricardo's tear-glazed eyes stared through the camera — through Alex — as his throat bulged obscenely around Ramon's cock. — His throat, the same one Alex had kissed with trembling devotion hours ago.

"I really wish you were only mine." 

His own words from last night curdled in his stomach like spoiled milk.

A wet click echoed through the speakers as Ramon pulled out, strands of saliva and cum tethering Ricardo's swollen lips to the glistening tip.

Alex's fist slammed into the edge of the desk. Wood shattered. Blood spattered from his knuckles to the keyboard, smearing across F5 — refresh refresh refresh — as if he could unsee the ruin he'd orchestrated.

"Enough." The word was a broken thing. "ENOUGH!" He roared, but not into the intercom this time. Only to himself.

The monitor pulsed crimson again:

    [SalvatoreGaravani]: "You are doomed now, Chiesa. My son's shame dies with him. Yours will live forever when I nail your intestines to your father's tombstone."

His knees struck the ground. Not from fear of Salvatore's wrath, but from the crushing epiphany: the point of no return had been crossed. There were only two paths left — to see this through with merciless finality, or to watch everything burn, Ricardo included.

Bile surged up his throat. He choked it down, fingers clawing at his sternum like he could rip out the rotting thing his heart had become.

Salvatore's threat failed to mute the chat as before. It ignited it — a new volley of psychological artillery launched by Alex's forces, every calculated taunt engineered to find the chinks in Salvatore's ego. The digital onslaught unfolded with military precision:

    "Big words from a don who just let his heir get throat-fucked on live stream!"

    "Come claim him then, old man. We'll save you a front-row seat for the real show."

    "The great Diavolo — watching his dynasty end with his son gagging on enemy cock."

    "Look at your precious heir now! Choking on cum like a common whore!"

    "Your son's tears taste so sweet, Salvatore. Want a sip?"

    "You must be so proud, Salvatore. Your son is a natural at sucking dick!"

    "Your heir's throat remembers Ramon better than he remembers you."

    "The mighty Diavolo can't even protect his own family."

    "All that power and you won't even bargain for your own blood?"

    "You disowned your son, but you can't disown your shame!"

Each comment struck like a sniper's bullet, aimed squarely at the legend of Salvatore Garavani. The chat scrolled faster now, a coordinated assault dissecting his inaction. Every passing second chipped away at decades of carefully cultivated fear, each mocking comment a hammer strike to the monolith of his power.

Alex's fingers shook as he pulled out his phone, the glow of the screen cutting through the dim room like a blade. He knelt like a prayer as he typed a single, urgent question: "Is S moving yet?"

The reply came within seconds, the words like a death sentence: "No. His men are sharpening their knives, but the old fox is still calculating."

Alex's breath hitched. This wasn't working. Salvatore wasn't reacting — wasn't breaking. The plan demanded chaos, demanded fire, demanded a man pushed past reason into rage. But Il Diavolo remained ice.

His hand closed around the intercom like a noose. For a heartbeat, he hesitated — then spoke, his voice raw, hollow, the sound of a man already grieving what he was about to say.

"Do it. Give him the final blow."

And then he fell. Not gracefully, not dramatically — just broken, collapsing as if the prayer had been denied. Hands struck stone first, then arms, then chest — a marionette with severed strings, as if his skeleton had turned to ash. 

Somewhere, in the back of his ruined mind, a whisper:

Ricardo. Forgive me.

Ramon's grin split his face like a fresh wound when the order came through. Finally. He'd been waiting for this moment all the time.

He had just pulled on his pants, but now he waved a hand at the masked men lining the ruined church in restless anticipation, their breath hot behind black fabric. "Pants off." He commanded, voice thick with amusement.

The men obeyed without hesitation. Belt buckles clinked, zippers hissed, fabric pooled at their ankles, and soon a line of exposed cocks stood at attention under the flickering church lights. The camera panned slowly, deliberately, from their anonymous, masked faces down to their hardened lengths — then swung back to Ricardo.

The lens zoomed in mercilessly on his bare backside, the skin flushed pink from Alex's possession last night. The camera lingered on the swollen, reddened entrance between his thighs, still glistening faintly from where Alex had taken him hours before.

The chat exploded.

    "FUCK, look at that hole — already broken in!"

    "Alex left him nice and loose for the rest of us!"

    "I bet he's still tight after Alex's use — BREAK HIM WIDER"

    "FUCK YES STRETCH THAT PRETTY HOLE"

    "Daddy Salvatore watching his heir get turned into a slut!"

    "Garavani's heir — spread open for the whole world to fuck!"

    "Garavani's whore! Garavani's WHORE!"

Ricardo's breath came in shallow, panicked bursts. His wrists strained against the ropes, his back still stinging from the whip and burn, but nothing compared to the icy dread coiling in his gut.

No. No, no, no — This isn't happening. This isn't —

Ramon chuckled, low and dark, as he stepped aside and gestured to the first man in line — a hulking brute with a jagged scar across his right shin. "You first. Make him feel it."

The man didn't hesitate. He spat into his palm, slicked himself roughly, then grabbed Ricardo's hips, and shoved into him with a single, brutal thrust.

Ricardo's body jerked violently, a raw, choked sound tearing from his throat. The stretch burned, a white-hot violation that ricocheted through his nerves. — God, no — His teeth ground into the gag, a scream trapped behind metal. 

Alex. Alex did this. He had thrown him to the wolves and dared to look away when they started tearing into his flesh. 

You let him in, and now he's letting them…

Ricardo's back arched, strips of wounds stretched wider as he tried uselessly to twist away. His shoulders screamed from dislocation. The man didn't slow. He set a punishing rhythm, each snap of his hips making Ricardo's body jolt forward, the coarse fibers sawing through flesh already raw from struggle.

Pain. Pure pain. Make it stop make it stop —

Tears meant nothing now — just salt to season his degradation. The gag stretched his mouth into a macabre smile, his sobs strangled into wet, animal hiccups. The physical torment was excruciating, each juddering pound an explosion of searing fire against his battered hole. But the humiliation burned deeper, flaying his soul raw, sacrificing it upon the altar of Alex's merciless design.

The man groaned, fingers pressing cruelly into the raw gashes across Ricardo's hips, fresh blood welling up under his grip. "Fuck, he's tight — even after boss used him —"

Then he came with a grunt, pumping his release deep inside, before pulling out with a wet pop. The proof of violation seeped from reddened entrance, pearly streaks stark against abused flesh.

The chat went feral.

    "HOLY SHIT HE TOOK IT RAW"

    "Look at him take it! Like he was made for this!"

    "Salvatore, you seeing this? Your boy's a natural cocksleeve!"

    "Daddy watching? Bet you'er hard right now."

    "I bet you're stroking yourself watching your boy get used, huh?"

    "Someone get a close-up of his face — I want to see those tears!"

Ramon obliged, directing the cameraman to capture Ricardo's expression — his blue eyes wide and glassy with pain, tears streaking through the sweat and grime on his cheeks. His lips, stretched around the metal gag, trembled as he fought to keep silent.

    "Garavani's legacy — a limp-dicked little bitch!"

    "Bet you're proud of him, Salvatore? Crying like a whore while his enemy fucks him raw!"

    "Every tear from your boy is another nail in your legacy's coffin."

The second man was thicker. He didn't bother with spit.

Ricardo whimpered when he felt the blunt pressure again, his body still clenched from the last assault. The man growled and forced his way in anyway, tearing a ragged scream from Ricardo's lips.

This one started slower, dragging his cock almost all the way out before slamming back in, savoring the way Ricardo's body tried to clench shut around him. "Think your daddy's watching?" he taunted, rolling his hips. "Think he's proud?"

Ricardo squeezed his eyes shut. No. No. Don't think about him. Don't think at all.

The man gradually increased his speed to a brutal pace, each thrust punching a choked sound from Ricardo's throat. His cock dragged over that swollen, abused spot inside, and despite the pain — despite the hatred, the humiliation — Ricardo's traitorous body responded.

A spark of pleasure.

No. No, not this. Not like this —

But his cock stirred, filling against his will, dripping onto the stone floor beneath him. The chat howled.

    "LMAO HE'S GETTING HARD"

    "Pathetic. Getting off on his own rape."

The man finished with a violent shudder, painting Ricardo's insides with another layer of filth. As he withdrew, Ricardo's hips jerking in a pathetic, involuntary spasm, craving the fading heat. The whimper that escaped his swollen lips wasn't from pain, but from the shame of being left gaping and unsatisfied.

Ramon laughed watching Ricardo's hole flutter, trying to close. "Next."

The next masked figure took the former's place immediately — no preparation, no pretense of mercy. This one was rougher, crueler.

Ricardo's body arched violently as the man slammed into him, the brutal angle forcing a scream from his raw throat. His thighs trembled, muscles straining — not to escape, but to endure the relentless assault.

Then the worst betrayal —

His cock, hard and leaking, twitched against his stomach. He tried to hate it, tried to will it soft, but his body wasn't his anymore. The man's thrusts found his prostate with ruthless precision, and Ricardo's hips jerked forward, chasing the sensation like a starving dog.

He came with a broken gasp.

Ropes of white streaking the floor beneath him, his orgasm ripped from him without a single touch. The chat erupted in a volcano of crude commentary, lewd emojis, and twisted mirth. The depravity of the commentators plunged to new low, each message a fresh shovel digging his humiliation deeper.

    "FUCK YES! He came from getting raped! This is beyond any hotness!"

    "He didn't just get raped. He fucking loved it."

    "Fucking cum rag! He probably begged for it."

    "A filthy slut to the core!"

    "Alex trained his body better than Salvatore trained his mind."

    "Look at that Garavani seed wasted on the floor! How much more worthless can this little prince get?"

    "Salvatore raised a natural-born whore."

    "How does it feel, Don Garavani? Your bloodline ends as a whore's punchline."

Ricardo's world dissolved into a blur of humiliation as his body betrayed him. His cock twitched weakly between his thighs, still pulsing with the aftershocks of the forced orgasm. The shame seared deeper than the wax, cut sharper than the whip. He'd come undone like some back-alley slut, wrung dry before a jeering audience. Each ragged breath whistled through the metal gag, the taste of Ramon's goo still thick on his tongue as his abused lips throbbed against the unforgiving steel.

Alex...this is what you wanted to see? The thought slithered through his fractured mind. My complete undoing?

Ramon's laughter snapped him back. "Double the fun for our little prince!" He gestured to another masked figure. "Take his mouth while Max finishes in his ass."

The new attacker moved promptly, stepping forward as the current assailant continued rutting into Ricardo from behind. He grabbed a fistful of sweat-damp hair, yanking Ricardo's head back, and shoved his cock between his parted lips, gagging him on the thick length. Ricardo's already abused throat was invaded again, the cock ramming deep as the man behind him never slowed his brutal pace. 

    "Double-stuffed Garavani heir — someone screenshot this for history."

    "Salvatore's watching his boy get used front AND back!" 

    "Pathetic. He's just a set of fuckholes now." 

    "SALVATORE'S LEGACY = A CUMDUMP"

    "Funny how Don Garavani's 'unstoppable' men haven't stormed in yet...almost like they know their prince prefers it this way"

Ricardo was split open on both ends — violated in a grotesque symmetry of cruelty. His body arched between them, throat convulsing around the brutal invasion as his ass was speared apart, stretched to the brink of tearing. Blood painted his back in slick ribbons where the whip and wax had bitten deep, now mingling with sweat as he was rocked like a broken puppet.

The man fucking Ricardo's mouth pistoned his hips relentlessly, treating his throat like nothing more than a warm, wet fleshlight. His grip tightened in Ricardo's hair, forcing his head back at an unnatural angle as he grunted, "Fuck, that's it — take it, princeling."

Behind him, the other man hammered into his ass with brutal efficiency, snarling, "Tighter than I expected for a spoiled brat. Bet you've been dreaming about this, huh?" He drilled deeper, as if trying to outpace the man in Ricardo's mouth, claiming his territory with every punishing thrust.

Tears carved glistening tracks through the sweat and spit streaking Ricardo's face, his choked gagging the only sound in the room besides the wet, rhythmic slaps of flesh. He was no longer a man, just a ruined vessel — his very anatomy rewritten by their hatred, his gagging breaths the hymn of his degradation.

Then, without warning, the man in his mouth yanked himself free, his cock glistening with spit as he stroked himself roughly. "Open wider, bitch." He grabbed Ricardo's jaw and aim his cockhead to the gaping hole. Thick ropes of cum splattered across Ricardo's face — over his cheeks, his eyelids, his parted lips. Some dripped onto his tongue, the bitter taste flooding his mouth as he choked.

The chat howled:

    "HA! Crown prince with a face full of cum. Perfect."

    "Salvatore's son, everyone. Look at that fucking disgrace."

    "Wish that was my load. Marking Garavani's bloodline myself."

The man in his ass wasn't to be outdone. With a final, brutal thrust, he pulled out at the last second to stripe Ricardo's ravaged flesh with hot stripes of cum across his battered hole, bruised hips, and bleeding welts. Thick spend painted across torn skin, mingling with blood to create bizarre watercolors down trembling thighs. A stinging slap landed across his asscheek, the sharp crack echoing as fresh redness bloomed on already abused tissue. "There," the man panted, smearing his release into the wounds with deliberate cruelty, "Now they'll smell me on you for days."

More taunts rolled in:

    "Filthy. He's ruined now."

    "Alex's toy got what he deserved."

    "Where's the famous Garavani wrath? Did age soften you or just expose you?"

    "Send this clip to him — perfect for lonely nights in his empty palace."

    "Salvatore the Cuckold! Do you polish your throne with tissues after watching this?"

    "New high score! 37k viewers for the mafia prince's live bukkake debut!"

The screen displayed a sick parody — A GIF of Salvatore's infamous "Iron Rule" speech played on loop, his face morphed into Ricardo's debauched image, cheeks streaked white. The caption taunted: LIKE FATHER, LIKE WHORE?

Ricardo's ragged breathing was drowned by the mob's rabid howls, but Ramon allowed no reprieve. A snap of his fingers. Another man stepped forward. Then another. 

They came in shifts, an endless parade of faceless tormentors. Some jeered as they took him, delighting in the choked sounds he couldn't suppress. Others worked in terrifying silence, their hands speaking a language more violent than desire. The anonymity made it worse — no names to curse, no faces to remember, just a relentless tide of grasping hands and animal grunts. This wasn't sex. This was unmaking.

Ricardo's world narrowed to the agony of being raped in both holes, the suffocating fullness, the way his traitorous body kept twitching toward pleasure even through the pain. When the tenth man came down his throat while the twelfth emptied into his ass simultaneously, something inside him snapped.

His spine bowed like a tense bowstring, muscles seizing as another brutal climax tore through him — a searing detonation that left him gasping like a gutted beast. It came with deeper shame: a scalding flood bursting from him in helpless waves, piss splattering down his trembling thighs in golden streams. It pooled between his legs, mixing with the slick mess of spent seed and sweat, the acrid stench of ammonia rising as droplets pattered against the cold stone like obscene rain. His body kept convulsing long after the pleasure-pain faded, every twitch smearing him further into the filth of his own violation.

The crowd erupted as the chat went wild.

    "HAHAHAHA! PISSING HIMSELF NOW!"  

    "New high score! 45k viewers for the mafia prince's golden shower!"

    "Look at that golden arc! Someone get Salvatore a mop!"  

    "The great Garavani legacy — a piss-soaked fucktoy, sobbing into the cum of his enemies."

    "This is the bloodline that ruled us? A trembling, leaking whore?"

    "He's not even human anymore. Just a fucktoy for Alex to break."

    "I bet he's thanking Alex for this. For showing him his true purpose."

    "Alex's creation. Alex's masterpiece. Alex's worthless little cumdump."

Alex… Alex… Alex…

Ricardo raised his throbbing head, vision swimming as the screen's cruel glow painted his broken face in flickering blue. The scrolling hatred blurred — not from tears, but from something far darker than rage.

They're right.

You didn't just break me. You gutted me like a fish and sewed your own creation into my skin — this trembling, cum-slick puppet that still bears the shape of Ricardo Garavani. But he's gone. What hangs here now is your masterpiece: a creature shaped by your hands, your teeth, the poison honey of your lies. You rebuilt me as this leaking, ruined vessel — all for your vengeance, your cold calculations, your fire of ambition that scorches every soft thing into ashes.

And the cruelest joke? You couldn't even watch. Sent your rabid pack to tear me open while you cowered in shadows like the rat you are. That's your truth, Alessandro. Not a conqueror. Just a spineless boy who only knows how to ruin what he's too afraid to love.

Chapter Text

Alex lay crumpled on the frozen floor, silent sobs shaking his frame. The light of the screen pulsed against the empty walls — he'd turned away from the images but couldn't escape the sounds: the crowd's frenzied cheers, the obscene wet percussion of violation, Ricardo's broken whimpers threading between brutal thrusts, his own men's crude remarks dripping like poison.

How had this become his reality?

The understanding came like ink in spinal fluid, spreading through him synapse by synapse, staining every memory of Ricardo until even their most innocent encounters curdled with new meaning. His body recognized it before his mind did — pulse thickening to tar, lungs forgetting their rhythm — as the full horror took root: he'd been hurting the one person who'd ever looked at him like salvation.

Had he known then what he knew now, he'd have put a bullet in his own skull before orchestrating this atrocity.

Why? Why was it so late?

That June night haunted him — the heavy moon, the petrichor scent, the smoky bar, the stranger's lips that had tasted like hope before vanishing into shadow. The stranger who'd been Ricardo all along.

Memories burned through his mind, relentless, unbidden.

Ricardo at the bargaining table, posture rigidly proper. Yet in the narrow hallways, their shoulders would brush. In quiet corners, they'd "accidentally" collide. And Ricardo's eyes — those damned blue eyes — lingering, fleeing, always fleeing when caught. Not fear. Not hatred.

Shyness.

Yearning.

How had he missed all these hints? How had he been so blind?

He had never cared to look deeper. Never thought to wonder why Garavani's son, the so-called weak and useless brat, would flush red beneath his gaze.

He had seen Ricardo as nothing but a pawn on the board — spoiled, spineless, not even worth his attention.

He hadn't seen the truth.

He hadn't seen HIM.

Even when their hands brushed once — just once — across the smooth lacquer of a negotiation table, reaching for the same pen. Alex had barely noticed the warmth of Ricardo's skin before he pulled away as if burned. Had barely registered the way Ricardo's breath hitched, his lashes lowering, refusing to meet his gaze again.

He had thought it was fear. Maybe even aversion.

But he had never noticed the way Ricardo's fingers trembled. Never caught the red creeping up his throat.

He had been so consumed by his hatred, so obsessed with vengeance, that he had never thought — never even considered — 

That it had been want.

Pure, hopeless want.

And now?

Now the boy who'd secretly loved him hung like butchered meat before a jeering crowd, being unmade by a hundred hands while Alex —

Alex finally saw him.

The knowledge tore through Alex like a detonation beneath his ribs — sharp, scorching, final. No vengeance could justify this. No victory was worth this price.

He would burn kingdoms to ash, grind his own bones to dust, drink fire until it swallowed his soul raw — if only he could undo what he'd done.

But some sins outlived forgiveness. Some wounds were carved too deep to ever heal.

The defiled altar offered no salvation — only an endless cycle of violation. By the twentieth assailant, Ricardo's body stopped being flesh and became simply a conduit for pain. Then came the rip — a wet, visceral tear — deeper than before, wrong in a way that sent electric agony up his ruined spine. His scream was smothered by the cock stuffing his throat, his gag reflex long since deadened to a numb, choking rhythm. But this pain — this was new. Fresh. Metallic.

Blood. Too much of it.

Hot crimson pulsed around the invading thickness in his ass, slicking the man's brutal thrusts with a terrifying, squelching glide. It dripped down his thighs in thick rivulets, mixing with sweat and spend, painting his skin in streaks of rust and shame.

Above him, the man grunted — not in pleasure, but in frustration, as if Ricardo's body had the audacity to bleed on him. A calloused hand slammed into the small of his back, pinning him harder against the stone floor. "Fucking ruined it." The man spat, yanking himself free with a wet, tearing pull.

Ricardo's vision flickered like a dying film reel, his body convulsing in silent tremors.

Ramon frowned, waving the mob to back down. The tone in the chat shifted like a blade turning in a wound.

    "HOLY FUCK HE'S BLEEDING"

    "Okay this is getting too far..."

    "Even for revenge this is fucked up"

    "Salvatore's REALLY just watching his son get torn apart?"

    "What kind of father allows this?"

    "A real father would have already put a bullet in his head."

    "Diavolo? More like coward."  

    "Pathetic. A real Diavolo would've leveled the city by now."

    "Your empire's built on sand, old man. Look how fast it crumbles!"

    "Your men are watching, Don. They see who really holds the leash."

    "We knew you were a monster, Salvatore, but even we didn't think you'd let your son suffer like this."

    "You're a disgrace, Salvatore, a father who abandons his son to the mercy of his enemies. Your legacy is one of shame and betrayal."

Ramon watched the tide turn with grim satisfaction. This was the moment — when cruelty crossed into butchery, when the underworld's bloodlust curdled into disgust. Not at the torturers, but at the father who let it happen.

The church blurred — edges collapsing into a shrinking circle of light. The last thing seared into Ricardo's failing sight was the frozen message glowing like a funeral epitaph at the top of the screen:

    [SalvatoreGaravani has left the room.]

Alex's boots pounded against the cracked stone floor as he barreled through the corridor, his voice raw as he roared into the intercom: "STOP EVERYTHING! UNTIE HIM NOW!" The command tore from his throat like a dying man's last prayer. He barely registered the crackle of acknowledgment before he was shouting into his phone, "Get Doctor Simone here in five minutes!"

The side doors of the nave exploded open under his shoulder, and the scene that greeted him would haunt him until his dying breath.

The air reeked of sweat, blood, and the metallic tang of spent desire. The monitor and the spotlight were turned off, pushed aside. The mob, moments ago a unified chorus of cruelty, now milled about like jackals unsure of their next meal. Some still laughed, their voices crackling through the roof. Others had already retreated to the shadows, their earlier bloodlust curdling into something like shame.

And in the center of it all —

Ricardo.

Discarded. Broken.

He knelt on the ground, head pressed against cold stone, face turning to one side. The marble beneath his cheek shone wet where his own spend had pooled. A human jizz rag left crumpled on the altar's base, his body was a perverse canvas of violation. 

Alex's knees nearly buckled.

Ricardo had been untied, but his arms lay limp at his sides, the unnatural angle of his shoulders telling the damage done. His legs were still spread wide, knees pressed into the marble, ass gaping obscenely — a viscous mixture of spend and blood leaking from his overfilled hole in slow, rhythmic pulses that ran down his inner thighs. The growing puddle beneath him caught the dim light in nauseating pink swirls, its surface rippling with each new drop of red falling along his flaccid cock.

His back was a nightmare of welts, some still oozing, others crusted over with dried blood, wax and semen. His chest barely rose, his breath so shallow it was almost imperceptible.

Though freed from the gag, his slack jaw couldn't close properly, allowing twin trails of filth to escape his parted lips — one white, one red — that dripped steadily onto the stone below. His eyes were closed, dark lashes stood in stark contrast to his deathly pale complexion.

And above him, the crucified Christ loomed, its arms outstretched as if in benediction. The shadow fell across Ricardo's broken form, framing him like a martyr.

Except he was no saint. He was the son of Satan.

Not here to erase their sins. But to drown them in his own.

Alex turned his face sharply away, his vision blurring as hot tears threatened to spill over. The sight before him was too much — too cruel, too broken. He couldn't bear to to look anymore.

This is what you've done, Alex.

Just at that moment, his phone vibrated. The message glowed urgently in the dim light: "S is mobilized. Attack orders issued against all our holdings tonight. Full target list incoming."

Alex's breath hitched once — a barely perceptible tremor — before his features hardened into an impenetrable mask. His jaw locked with such force his teeth groaned in protest, yet when he spoke, his voice was glacial steel.

"Salvatore has taken the bait. The war begins tonight."

Ramon's grin was all teeth, predatory and pleased. "Your plan worked!"

"Worked." Alex echoed tonelessly. His traitorous gaze flickered back to the ruined figure on the floor, and for one excruciating moment, his heart screamed in agony.

But at what price?

Ramon stepped forward, his gaze sharp, lingering on Alex's right hand — knuckles split, fingers covered in blood, trembling faintly at his side.

"You're bleeding." He murmured, voice dripping with false concern. The smirk playing at his lips betrayed his amusement.

Alex didn't glance down. He didn't need to. The pain was a distant thing, buried beneath the weight of something far worse.

"It's nothing." He ground out, the lie ash-bitter on his tongue.

Those knuckles had shattered against his desk edge the exact instant he'd seen Ramon cross the final line with Ricardo.

Ramon merely arched a brow, his dark eyes flickering over Alex's face — taking in the raw, swollen redness around his eyes, the faint salt-tracks dried on his cheeks, the way his lashes still clumped together in damp clusters.

Oh, this was rich.

Alex's mask was still there — the clenched jaw, the stiff posture — but the truth was written plain in the wreckage of his face. He'd been crying. Ugly, heaving sobs, if the burst blood vessels in his eyes were any indication.

Ramon didn't say a word. He didn't have to.

The silence between them was louder than any laugh.

The doctor arrived in a flurry of motion — Simone, crisp white sleeves already rolled to his elbows, accompanied by two men carrying a stretcher between them. His eyes swept the scene, lingering on Ricardo's broken form for only a second before his jaw tightened. A quiet, weary exhale escaped him — not shock, not pity, just the grim acceptance of a man who had seen too much.

Alex's breath caught when he saw him. For one unguarded moment, something fractured in his expression — raw, desperate hope. He crossed the distance in three strides, voice low but urgent.

"Simone." His hand clamped onto the doctor's arm, fingers digging in hard, "Fix him."

Not a request. A plea.

Simone met his gaze, nodding, "I'll do what I can." He knelt beside Ricardo, gloved hands moving with clinical precision as he checked pulse points, pupil dilation, the ruin of his body. Then, without looking up, he gestured to the stretcher. "Get him to the mobile unit. Now."

The men moved quickly, lifting Ricardo's limp form —

"Wait."

Alex's voice halted them. In one fluid motion, he took off his trench coat, the heavy fabric whispering as he draped it over Ricardo's ravaged back, shielding what was left of his dignity — if any at all — from prying eyes. His fingers moved lightly, fleetingly — lingering against the curve of Ricardo's neck, where his pulse fluttered weakly.

"Take him to Castello Island." He ordered, voice roughened. "The city isn't safe anymore."

He watched them carry Ricardo away, his expression hardening with every step they took. By the time the doors swung shut, the mask was back in place — cold, calculating, the ruthless strategist ready for war.

But his broken hand clenched at his side, fresh blood dripping between his fingers, betraying everything he couldn't afford to feel.

The city of Marigemelli erupted in flames that night.

Salvatore's bombers struck first, their payloads turning the moonlit sky into a hellscape of smoke and sirens. But Alex's intelligence network — honed over years of quiet infiltration — proved sharper.  

At Brezza Estiva, the Chiesa owned five-star restaurant where judges and politicians dined beneath crystal chandeliers, the explosion shattered marble floors but found no flesh. Alex had emptied the building hours before, relocating both staff and patrons to the secure underground levels of his Solstice Hotel Group properties. The only casualties were the restaurant's famed Murano glass fixtures, their shards glittering like fallen stars across the ruined dining room.  

Down at the docks, Garavani's men stormed Chiesa Logistics with crowbars and curses, only to pry open shipping containers filled with the stench of rotting citrus. The real shipments — weapons nestled between crates of Parma ham and Sardinian olive oil — had already been rerouted through the labyrinth of smuggling tunnels Alex maintained beneath the city.  

The Medici Art Gallery, its walls lined with "acquired" masterpieces, burned spectacularly. Fire licked at a convincing Caravaggio forgery while the real stolen treasures were already secured in the climate-controlled vaults beneath Castello Island, his private fortress disguised as a luxury resort.  

The only true casualties came from collateral damage — a stray rocket meant for the Opera Teatro di Luce, Chiesa's cultural front for elite dealings, instead found a tourist cafe. The blast reduced laughing visitors to charred silhouettes against the cobblestones. The city wept for these unintended victims, but their blood stained Salvatore's hands more than Alex's.  

Salvatore's hackers worked through the night, tracing the livestream's digital footprints to their source — the derelict San Lorenzo Church in Marigemelli's decaying Old Quarter. At 2:17 a.m., his men stormed the abandoned nave, their boots crunching on shattered stained glass, only to trigger the explosives Alex had wired to the confessionals. The blast sent six Garavani soldiers flying through what remained of the church's frescoed saints. By dawn, the morning light revealed the a fresh graffito in blood-red spray paint on the skeletal ruins: "Even the Devil prays here."

Lorenzo "Enzo" Moretti — the pyro-maniacal enforcer who'd gleefully typed "burning" into Ricardo's torture stream — never reached Alex's hillside villa. His arson squad had barely passed the sleek solar panels of Alex's Solar Energy Startups compound when silenced shots rang out. Snipers, positioned among the photovoltaic arrays Alex had installed with laundered government grants, picked off two of Enzo's men before they could even uncap their gasoline cans. The third died when his own spilled fuel ignited. Enzo escaped with three bullets lodged in his Kevlar, his reputation as scorched as the corpses he left behind.  

While Salvatore's forces scattered across the city, Alex struck at the heart of Garavani's power — the hidden armory beneath Porto Nero's reeking fish market. Ten guards fell to suppressed gunfire before they could raise an alarm. Inside, crates of AK-47s with bullets, stacks of euros, and enough explosives to level half a city sat untouched — Salvatore's treasure, now Alex's plunder.  

But Alex wasn't just after weapons.

Rumors had whispered of the Vault — Garavani's most guarded secret, hidden somewhere within his empire. Not just gold and cash, but something far more valuable: decades of meticulously gathered blackmail. Original documents, recordings, photographs — evidence that could bury rival bosses, corrupt politicians, and compromised CEO's alike. This was the true source of Salvatore's power, the reason men in expensive suits still flinched at his name.

Alex tore through the armory, overturning crates, scanning floor tiles for hidden compartments. Nothing. The Vault wasn't here.

Disappointment curled in his gut, but he didn't let it show. "Take everything." He ordered, his voice flat. His men loaded rifles, grenades, and stacks of cash into duffels, stripping the place bare.

Ramon doused the emptied warehouse in gasoline, pausing only to pin Salvatore's portrait to the wall with a throwing knife. "Burn it all." Alex said, watching the flames consume what remained.

The Vault was still out there. And Alex would find it. But for now, he'd settle for watching Salvatore's empire burn.

By sunrise, the city's skyline still breathed smoke into the pale morning light. Alex stood atop the skeletal steel beams of the unfinished Chiesa Construction Consortium tower — a monument to ambition stalled by Salvatore's meddling. Below, news helicopters buzzed like carrion birds, circling the smoldering wreckage. The television networks would already be spinning their narratives — the scrolling chyrons declaring "MAFIA WAR ERUPTS" while pundits debated which famiglia had really lit the fuse.

Alex flexed his bandaged hand, the gauze already blooming fresh red where his split knuckles had wept through. The pain was distant, unimportant. What lingered instead was the memory of touch — the ghost of Ricardo's pulse beneath his fingertips, the fragile warmth of skin that had once pressed against his own.

Ramon's boots scuffed against concrete as he joined Alex at the edge. "The old man overplayed his hand." He muttered, tilting his chin toward where emergency lights pulsed near the ruined cafe. "His bombs killed civilians. His men got blown up chasing ghosts. And now..." He handed Alex his phone showing a news page, its headline screaming MAFIA TERROR ATTACKS — MAYOR VOWS CRACKDOWN over a photo of bloodstained bombing scene. "...Marigemelli will demand the demon's head on a platter. The butcher of the city won't survive being called a terrorist. His judges will drop him like a burning coin."

Alex studied the page with cold detachment. The article carefully avoided naming Salvatore directly — just vague references to "organized crime elements" and "escalating violence." The subtext was clear: the Garavani name still carried enough weight to scare journalists into implication rather than accusation.

"You underestimate Il Diavolo." He said, pressing the phone back into Ramon's hands as if returning a burden. "The man still holds the strings of the press and the pulse of the courts. This isn't just a skirmish — it's a prolonged chess game soaked in blood. We need to be patient. This war has just begun."

He turned toward the harbor, where Castello Island lurked beyond the morning mist curling above the sea. Its white villas and palm-fringed beaches hid their secrets well: the underground labs where chemists perfected new synthetic drugs — a concealed initiative after Alex lost all smuggling routes for cocaine and heroin to Salvatore in those negotiations; the vaults filled with stolen art, transferred from the Medici Art Gallery; and in a secluded medical suite, a broken prince lay swathed in bandages, his body healing while his mind remained trapped in whatever hell Alex had delivered him to.

Alex pulled out his phone and clicked a link to the encrypted surveillance feed. The screen flickered to life, revealing a dimly lit room where Ricardo lay motionless on the sickbed, his battered body barely recognizable beneath the bandages and tubes. The heart monitor's steady beep was the only proof he was still alive — no defiance left in those bruised lips, no fire in those hollow eyes. Alex's thumb hovered over the screen, caught between the urge to crush the phone and the need to keep watching, as if his gaze alone could will Ricardo back to consciousness.  

Ramon's shadow fell across the screen, his scarred face twisting into a knowing smirk. "He's not just a toy or a pawn for you, is he?" The words dripped with mockery, sharp as the knife he kept strapped to his thigh.

Alex's finger twitched against the phone's edge. The screen darkened as his grip tightened. "He's my property." He snapped, shoving the phone back into his coat pocket like disposing of evidence, "I make him whatever I want him to be."

Ramon exhaled a slow stream of smoke, watching Alex's reflection in the tower's glass. "Funny." He chuckled, tapping ash over the ledge. "You keep calling him property." A beat. "Real owners don't need to claim it twice."

The unspoken you love him hung in the air like a noose.

Alex remained silent, a sharp tension carving through his jaw as his gaze swept back to the smoldering cityscape, but his mind remained trapped in that medical suite. The memory of Ricardo's body beneath his hands — warm and willing, before it became broken and still — haunted him more than any ghost. He'd sacrificed more than a pawn in this game; he'd destroyed the one thing that had ever made him hesitate, the only person who'd looked at him, even in chains, like he might still be worth saving. Every fragile, unspoken thing between them had died screaming in that church, and with it, the last remnants of the man he might have been.

There was no turning back now. Every lash mark on Ricardo's skin, every choked sob he'd forced past those bruised lips, every moment of tenderness twisted into torture — they were all debts now, written in blood. Salvatore would pay. The city would pay. And if the cost was his own soul? So be it.

The phone weighed heavy in his pocket. Through layers of concrete and encrypted signals, Ricardo's heart still beat — that stubborn, infuriating tempo that outlasted chains and torture and reason itself. Alex would make sure that pulse wasn't wasted. He would burn the world to ash before letting that sacrifice be in vain.

The war wasn't just vengeance now. Wasn't just about Salvatore.

When Ricardo finally opened those wounded eyes, he'd see the world remade in fire and know — 

This was all for him.

Chapter Text

The Garavani estate was an imposing marble monolith that stood like a tombstone on the highest cliff south of the city. In the heart of that mansion sat Salvatore Garavani — Il Diavolo himself.

His office — more like a war chamber — reeked of cigar smoke and old leather, drowned in shadows cast by towering bookshelves and oil paintings of dead saints. The blood-red Persian carpet bore silent witness to decades of brutality its owner had wielded clawing his way to the top. Heavy velvet curtains blocked out the morning sun, leaving the room bathed in the pallid glow of a single brass desk lamp. A fireplace growled with low, licking flames, but no warmth touched the man in the center.

Salvatore was a man in his early sixties, but time had not softened him. If anything, it had carved him sharper. His suit was a deep charcoal silk, impeccably tailored to his still-broad shoulders. A pin glinted on his lapel — an elegant serpent coiled into the shape of an "S," the emblem of the Southside Serpents and a reflection of his own name. Forged from tungsten carbide, it was as unyielding as the man who wore it. His hair, once thick and black, was now streaked with dignified silver, combed back in sharp waves. His jaw was sculpted, clean-shaven, lined by age but carved by discipline. Every crease on his face was earned — etched from the weight of war, betrayal, and strategy. But it was his eyes that truly commanded attention: piercing gray, nearly colorless, like the skies before a snowfall. They were the eyes of a man who had stared into the abyss so long that the abyss had blinked first.

But today, something in his eyes had shifted. Not softened. Not mournful. Just… darker.

It was fury — cold and coiled, simmering beneath the surface.

The sting of last night's failure clung to his mouth like the bitter taste of ash, acrid and unshakable. 

He reclined in a high-backed chair of carved walnut, its intricate scrollwork and claw-footed legs giving it the majesty of a monarch's throne. His elbows were propped rigidly on the armrests, calloused fingers pressed together in a steeple beneath his chin. The desk before him, a slab of black oak polished to a dull sheen, was chaos barely contained. Half-smoked Cuban cigars nestled in their cedar sleeves, a crystal tumbler sat half-filled with untouched whiskey, its golden glow catching the dim light like liquid fire. Papers were strewn across the surface — lists, charts, dossiers — all scrawled over, circled, or violently slashed through. 

He had given an order before starting the war. The order was simple: bring him names. Blood to spill, flesh to carve, loved ones to drag screaming into the light — people Alex Chiesa cared about. Salvatore wanted to peel him apart layer by layer — not through his own suffering, but by destroying everyone who'd ever mattered to him, until he came crawling on his knees to beg for death. Yet as the reports filtered in through the long, smoke-filled night, again and again, the same bleak truth emerged: there were no names to list. 

Dante Chiesa was already dead — killed by Salvatore's own hand in the last war. Alex's mother had disappeared long before, rumored to be perishing on the seabed or buried in the ruins of the Chiesa estate. Even the extended family — cousins, uncles, the usual shields of kinship — had been erased in the last great purge or had fled into the shadows like ghosts.

Alex Chiesa had no one left to lose.

The realization settled over the room like a shroud. That young man stood alone in this world, unburdened by love, unshackled by loyalty. A man with nothing left to lose was not a man at all. He was a specter, a blade without hilt, a living embodiment of vengeance given flesh. Salvatore had made a fatal miscalculation — he should have destroyed the Chiesa line root and branch, yet he'd spared one seed. One overlooked boy with clever eyes and soft-spoken arguments. And now, that boy had turned into a storm, hitting back when Salvatore thought the war was already won.

He slammed his fist against the desk, rattling the half-empty tumbler of scotch. No, he didn't spare him. He HAD tried to kill him. Hadn't he sent a hit squad led by Vito De Sanctis? But when that failed, why hadn't he followed up? Why hadn't he sent five more, ten more, until the job was done?

His fingers tightened.

Ricardo.

His son — soft-hearted, hopelessly naive Ricardo — had once knelt right here, on this very floor, pleading for Alex's life. Salvatore could still hear the tremor in his voice, the desperation threading through every word. Ricardo's knees had hit the carpet with a thud, his spine stiff with defiance as his voice cracked under the weight of emotion. Those blue eyes — so much like his mother's — had blazed with something Salvatore hadn't wanted to name.

"He's just lost his father. He's yielded. Let him live."

And Salvatore, against every instinct, had hesitated.

Now, the irony was a knife twisting in his gut. Ricardo had tried to save the very man who would become his ruin, their ruin. And he had let it happen.

"Tch." He spat, "That boy's weakness infected me."

He stood, the chair scraping across the floor like a threat. "Weakness is contagious." He snarled, "And I was foolish enough to let it spread."

The heavy oak door opened without a knock. Only one person dared.

With a scent of jasmine wafting in, Salvatore's wife Isabella stood in the threshold. She was beautiful in a way that age couldn't erode — regal posture, sharp cheekbones, and those haunting blue eyes that Ricardo had inherited. But now they were red-rimmed, swollen with grief, raw from weeping. She didn't speak. She didn't need to. Her presence was an accusation.

Salvatore exhaled through his nose. "I'm handling it."

"By burning down the city while Ricco rots in Chiesa's hands?" Her silk robe whispered as she moved across the floor, her voice low, trembling with suppressed rage. "You've done nothing for our son."

"I'll put a bounty on his retrieval. Alive."

Isabella's laugh was broken and silent. "A bounty? You think money will bring him back?" She stepped forward, her heels sinking into the rug. "Negotiate with Chiesa. Now. Before it's too late."

Salvatore's fingers curled into a fist. "Then consider our son dead."

The words landed like a death sentence. 

Isabella stared at him, stunned. Her gasp was immediate, sharp. "What? How can you— He's our only son left. You're ready to sacrifice him over pride?"

"Not pride." His voice was ice. "I'm ready to sacrifice him over betrayal."

She blinked. "Betrayal?"

"He had an affection for Chiesa. One that was… not ordinary." Salvatore turned, his eyes narrowing. "He begged me not to kill him. Because of that hesitation — my hesitation installed by him — we let this viper grow strong."

Isabella's lips trembled. "You think he... loved him?"

Salvatore's reply came cold and unflinching. "I think it doesn't matter anymore. Ricardo made his choice. He threw himself into the arms of the enemy. Now he must face the consequences." His tone dropped, hard as iron. "Everything he's suffered was caused by his own foolishness. Maybe meeting his end at Chiesa's hands is what he deserves."

The silence that followed was suffocating — thick, venomous, like a cloud of smoke curling through a room already set to burn. Isabella stared at him, hollow-eyed, as if the man before her was no longer the one she had married for almost thirty years, but a ghost forged from war and bitterness. Then she turned, slow and deliberate, her elegant composure cracked just enough to reveal the pallor beneath.

Salvatore didn't see the hatred brewing behind her teary eyes — not aimed at Alex Chiesa, but at him.

Somewhere deep inside the walls of his citadel, the cracks were beginning to show.

The oak door clicked shut behind Isabella, the scent of jasmine still lingering like a ghostly accusation hanging in the cigar-stale air. Salvatore stood motionless for a moment. The quiet crept in — not peace, but a heavy, brooding hush, like the pause before thunder. The fireplace crackled weakly behind him, casting dancing shadows on the walls that seemed to lean closer, listening.

He turned back toward his desk with the weight of a man burdened not by age, but by vendetta. The glow of the brass desk lamp pooled in circles across the scattered papers, catching the edge of his serpent pin as he reached for his phone.

With a slow breath, he unlocked the device, fingers steady, precise. He wasn't just issuing orders — he was commanding a war.

The first call went to his head of operations. "Put out the bounties." He said, voice low, brutal. "Eight million for Ramon Luciano's head. Twelve for Alex Chiesa's. Three million bonus if Chiesa is delivered breathing." A pause, deliberate, as his gaze flicked to the portrait of Luigi hanging on the far wall — his true heir, his pride, lost to a bullet meant for him. Then came the last command, delivered with no shift in tone, as if the name itself was another casualty to be processed. "And ten million for Ricardo's retrieval. Alive."

The unspoken caveat slithered between the words like a venomous serpent, its fangs bared in a silent hiss: if he's still worth retrieving.

The second order was a guillotine's drop. "Call the Commission. Gather all the bosses at Stella Bianca tonight." He summoned the heads of the other families to his casino — Stella Bianca, its white marble halls as impenetrable as his will. By nightfall, beneath crystal chandeliers and the watchful eyes of armed men, he would demand allegiance. No more neutrality. No more waiting in the shadows. Every smuggler, every dealer, every back-alley contact who had ever whispered Chiesa's name would be bought or buried. Let Alex choke on the dust of his crumbling kingdom. Let him watch as his money dried up, his shipments stopped, alliances cracked, territory began to rot, his power bled out drop by drop. 

This wasn't just one attack. This was a siege.

Salvatore's lips curled as he dialed again. This time, the weapon was not steel, but ink.  

"Flood the media. Make it theater." He instructed, his voice a velvet-wrapped threat. "Alex Chiesa kidnapped and tortured my son. Spread it. Say he's a rabid dog, a fucking lunatic. Paint him as a sadist — no, better — make them understand he's the worst kind of coward. A man who preaches vengeance while violating an unarmed boy. A deranged leader who butchers the innocent because he's too weak to face real power." 

It's time to bleed him dry in public.

The words came faster now, molten and vicious. "And the courts — drown him in charges. Kidnapping. Torture. Even murder. Say I fear my son is already dead. Tell them I pray each night to find my son's body intact enough to bury." His voice dropped to a whisper that carried more threat than grief. "A dead martyr son makes better propaganda than a disgraced heir. Let the world weep for my loss while they help me peel Chiesa's skin inch by inch."

Within hours, the headlines would scream of Alex's atrocities, his face plastered across newspapers as a kidnapper, a murderer, a madman. Judges, their palms already greased with Garavani gold, would sign warrants freezing his assets, raiding his businesses, turning him and his allies into hunted men.

But Salvatore wasn't done. 

Another call. Another command. This time, the line hissed with static for a moment before a calm female voice answered, cool and detached, the same tone she'd used when she'd first handed him the keys to Alex's encrypted world two years prior. "Clara Ventresca."

"Clara," Salvatore said, settling into his chair once more. "It's time."

She didn't ask for clarification. "Targets?"

"Everything digital. Take down Chiesa's cybercrime empire. His ransomware network, his encrypted systems, his property surveillance, communication lines. I want his operations blind and mute by tomorrow morning. Hack it. Break it. Bury it."

There was a beat of silence. Then: "Understood."

Clara was not the kind of person Salvatore typically trusted. A brilliant hacker with a cruel intellect and sharper instincts, young, dangerous, but inconveniently indispensable. Recruited only two years ago, she had carved a place for herself in his inner circle faster than any man before her — not through charm, but through cold, merciless results.

It was Clara who cracked the impossible: Alex Chiesa's encrypted ransomware system, the digital fortress no one had even dared to touch. She breached it like it was child's play, pulling from the shadows every secret Alex thought he had buried. With that data, Salvatore hadn't just gained leverage — he'd gutted Chiesa's empire. A single "negotiation" later, and the lucrative drug smuggling routes that once lined the Chiesa coffers fell straight into Garavani hands, cutting off Alex's biggest profit margin.

Clara had done what no seasoned capo could: taken Alex's greatest weapon and twisted it into a chokehold. And now, as the lead of Salvatore's cyber squad, she was about to tighten that grip on a scale far more devastating.

When the line went dead, Salvatore made the final call — his voice stripped to a single, lethal command:

"Send me everything the Vault has on Alex Chiesa."

He set the phone down with deliberate calm, then moved toward the mirror hanging above the crackling fireplace. He didn't look to fix his tie or smooth his silver-streaked hair. He looked to remember.

To stare down the man staring back — and make sure the devil hadn't dulled.

"You chose war, boy." He murmured to his reflection, voice low as the embers beneath him. "Now I'll show you what war truly is."

Beyond the walls of the estate, storm clouds were coiling over the sea like bruises forming on the sky. Waves below hurled themselves against the cliff face, savage and unrelenting. Somewhere in the distance, a gull cried into the wind — sharp and lonely, like an alarm.

War had already begun. And now, it would escalate beyond anything they'd ever seen.

Let Alex come. Let this naive, reckless young man stumble forward, thinking he still had a chance.

Let him claw at the edges of the abyss he'd thrown himself into — scrambling, scheming, bleeding for breath.

It wouldn't save him.

Because Il Diavolo had already decided how this war would end.

The storm rolled in like a siege engine, slamming wind and rain against the glass walls of the villa. Lightning splintered the sky above the hills, illuminating the sleek silhouette of Alex's home — a quiet stronghold of glass and steel tucked into the hill's green crown. It wasn't the kind of place one would expect from a man at the center of a mafia war — no marble pillars, no golden chandeliers, no guards pacing the balconies with rifles. Just clean lines, open spaces, functional minimalism. A fortress not built for opulence, but for clarity. The kind of simplicity you could think in. Or plot.

Trees circled the estate like sentinels, their leaves thrashing in the storm winds. Down on the flattened shoulder of the hill below, the silver gleam of solar panels shimmered beneath the rain — the pride of Alex's new startup, a clean energy venture meant to outlast all this blood and smoke. Power born from light, even while the world choked on darkness.

Inside, the villa was calm, like the eye of a hurricane. The living room was wide and spare, the furniture low and dark, arranged for function over comfort. A black leather couch faced a wall of glass that looked out over the wild, rolling landscape. A single floor lamp glowed with soft gold beside it, the only warm thing in the room.

Alex sat on the couch, legs crossed, a tumbler of whiskey in left hand, the storm mirrored in the stillness of his face. His right hand rested on his knee, with fresh bandages wrapping around the split knuckles, stark against his skin. His hair, damp from a recent shower, curled slightly at the ends. He was barefoot, dressed in a chestnut sweater and dark slacks — not like a king in his castle, but a man at war in his solitude.

Ramon stood a few steps behind, half-leaning against the kitchen counter, the tip of his cigarette flaring red as he took another drag. Smoke curled around his head like a crown of ash. He glanced down at his phone. The glow of the screen lit up his scarred face, then he let out a dry, sardonic breath.

"Well," he said, flicking ash into a ceramic tray. "Eight million for my head. Twelve for yours. Three extra if they deliver you breathing." A beat. Then a laugh like shattering ice. "And Ricardo? Ten million alive. You're officially worth more than Salvatore's own fucking blood."

Alex didn't turn from the window. His gaze remained locked on the storm as it mirrored in his dark eyes, lightning fracturing across his pupils. "Son of a bitch." He muttered, lifting the tumbler to his lips. The whiskey went down like gravel — bitter, punishing — but his voice held no heat, no rage. Just a cold, hollow disgust — the kind reserved for something lower than an enemy. A man who could forsake his own blood without blinking. Who could weigh his son's life against power and still find it lacking. 

Alex swallowed hard, more sadness than hatred in his silence.

His phone buzzed — once, twice, a relentless staccato rhythm against the glass coffee table. A chorus of incoming messages stacked in the corner of the screen. He glanced at it once, casually, and placed it facedown on the couch.

Ramon tilted his head, a little uneasy, "You're not gonna check that?"

"They're from the rats I planted in his walls." Alex replied, voice low, almost careless. "They're telling me how deep the blade's cutting."

He took another sip of whiskey, the ice inside clicking softly. Outside, the lightning arced across the sky like the scar of some god's wrath. There was something unreadable in his expression — not satisfaction, not fear, but a calm so still it bordered on eerie.

Ramon swiped through the news on his own device, the headlines a mosaic of sensationalism and smears: "Sadistic Mafia Boss Tortures Innocent Boy in Sick Livestream" … "Madman with a Grudge: Who is Alex Chiesa?" … "Cries for Justice as Southside Patriarch Speaks Out"

"The world's finally caught up." He uttered, tapping the screen, a sarcastic smirk crossing his face. "They're calling you a monster now."

Alex didn't answer immediately. Outside, the storm lashed against the windows, each raindrop like a nail hammered into a coffin. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, almost wondering. 

"Aren't I?"

A faint, bitter smile tugged at the corner of his mouth — not smug, not proud. Just... tired.

The admission settled over them like ash after a fire. There was no triumph in his eyes — only the hollow look of a man who'd stared too long at his own reflection and found something unrecognizable staring back. The things he'd done to Ricardo weren't strategy anymore. They were scars carved deep into his soul.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the whiskey in his glass. He drained it in one burning swallow, but no amount of liquor could scorch away the truth:

Monsters didn't mourn their victims.

And that, perhaps, was the real damnation.

A long moment passed between them, filled with nothing but the storm.

When Ramon finally broke the silence, smirk had disappeared from his face.

"Alex, this is getting serious. The court's moved on it. Kidnapping, torture, suspected murder. They've charged both of us. We don't need to do something?"

Alex turned at last, his gaze sharp as a blade in the dim light. "We wait." He said, setting the empty glass on the table with a quiet clink. He rose to his feet, every movement unhurried. "And watch Salvatore's empire burn from the inside." 

Ramon raised an eyebrow. "That's your move?"

Alex picked up the tumbler and drifted toward the kitchen. "No, that's his move." He paused, looked up, and offered a faint smile, brief as a struck match. "Mine is to vanish. Just for a little while."

"Where?" Ramon crushed his cigarette into the ashtray.

"Castello Island." Alex said, pouring himself another drink. He downed it in one swift, practiced motion, as if trying to kill the taste of everything unspoken. "Time for a retreat."

Ramon watched him with knowing eyes as his fingers tightened around the empty glass.

It wasn't just that. Not really.

Beyond the storm, past the screaming headlines, courtroom whispers, and the blood-soaked arithmetic of vengeance, the island waited — sterile, still, and humming with antiseptic dread. Somewhere within its pristine walls, his broken angel lay, held together by wires, tubes, sutures, and whatever will hadn't yet slipped away.

Castello wasn't a retreat. It was brewing another tempest — calm on the surface, but far more dangerous beneath.

Retrieving his phone, Alex typed a series of rapid messages — brief, precise, the kind that triggered quiet avalanches in the dark. Then he looked to Ramon. "We move now. The storm's the best cloak we'll get."

Ramon let out a low chuckle, relaxing just slightly. "Knew you had something lined up. I never worry when it's you pulling the strings. If your father had half your brain, he'd still be alive. You must've gotten that from your mo—"

The words stopped dead in his throat.

Alex's gaze darkened. A silence fell heavier than thunder.

Ramon cleared his throat and looked away, chastened. He'd broken the unspoken rule — never mention her.

Without a word, Alex stepped into the shadow as lightning forked across the sky and thunder cracked like the heavens tearing open. Outside, the storm howled over the hills, as if the earth could feel the shift on the horizon.

Spring was dying. And everything was about to change.

Chapter Text

Later that afternoon, the storm showed no signs of relenting. The rain lashed against the grand windows of the Garavani estate like nature itself was roaring in judgment. Salvatore stood still by the rain-streaked windows, a cigar smoldering between his fingers, his silhouette carved in shadow like a stone statue. Beyond the glass, the Mediterranean Sea raged — waves like battering rams hurling themselves against the cliffs below, their white froth glowing briefly in the sporadic lightning flashes before being swallowed by the gloom. The glass vibrated faintly with each thunderclap, the storm's pulse matching the dangerous rhythm of his thoughts.

A knock at the door — three precise raps — barely registered above the tempest's roar.

"Enter." He commanded, not turning from the window.

The door swung open to reveal two of his enforcers, their black suits soaked at the shoulders from the short dash in and out of the rain. Between them, held upright by their grip on his elbows, swayed Enzo Moretti. The pyromaniac's usual swagger had been reduced to trembling limbs, his hands bound tightly behind his back, his flame-patterned shirt — once a proud declaration of his specialty — now clung to him like a second skin, damp with sweat and rainwater.

They forced him forward until his knees struck the Persian rug before Salvatore's desk. The guards stepped back in unison, leaving Enzo on his knees, shaking, like a gutted torch — still burning, but barely.

Only then did Salvatore turn.

Lightning flared, bleaching the room white for an instant, etching the scene in stark relief: the Don's silver-streaked hair, the serpent pin winking at his lapel, the way Enzo's pale face tilted up in terrified supplication. When the thunder followed, it seemed to shake the whiskey in its crystal decanter on the sideboard.

Salvatore did not sit. He loomed over the scene, his shadow swallowing Enzo whole.

"You failed." He said, his voice low and even, almost soft. He rolled the cigar between his fingers, ash tumbling to the floor like falling snow. "You were sent to burn Chiesa's home to the ground. Instead, you return alone, your men dead, your mission unfulfilled."

The fire in the hearth popped, sending up a shower of sparks that died before they could reach the rug. Somewhere in the mansion, a grandfather clock ticked toward an execution.

Enzo's mouth opened, but only a stutter of breath came out. He swallowed hard, his throat worked soundlessly before he found his voice. "Don, there was an ambush. Snipers — waiting for us in the trees. They picked us off before we could even—"

Salvatore cut him off with a short breath through his nose, then another drag from his cigar. The smoke spilled from his mouth in a slow wave that drifted toward Enzo like a curse.

"Then why are you still alive," he asked, voice narrowing, "while every other man under your command is dead?"

"I… I wore the bulletproof vest." Enzo stammered, "I got lucky. I escaped fast."

A twisted smile curled Salvatore's lips. "Fast. Like a spineless rat, scurrying for the shadows." He stepped closer, slowly circling Enzo like a wolf around a broken prey. "Or... maybe you already knew there'd be an ambush. Is that it, Enzo?"

Enzo's eyes widened. "No! No, Don, I swear it on my life — I could never betray you!"

"Liar." Salvatore's gaze darkened. He pulled a chair and sat across from Enzo, mere feet away. "Your loyalty is already in question, Moretti. Those little taunts you tossed in the chat during Ricardo's torture stream — do you remember that?" He spat the words with disdain.

"I… I was just going with the flow." Enzo said, voice cracking. "Everyone was saying things. I didn't mean—"

"Everyone? Or just the traitors?" Salvatore leaned forward, his voice dropped to a serpent's hiss. "You enjoyed it. You always did. Fire turns you on, doesn't it, Blaze Reaper?" He sneered the nickname. "Tell me — did you cheer when you watched my son bleed? Did you get hard when they split him open?"

Enzo's breath hitched. "No! I swear—"

"You swear?" Salvatore's laugh rasped through the air like sandpaper. "Your word is worth less than the dust clinging to my shoes."

His fingers, still steady, brought the cigar to his mouth for one deep draw. He held the smoke in, watching Enzo with a stillness that felt like the calm before a thunderclap. Then, without breaking eye contact, he stood up.

"You liked fire." He murmured. "So let me give you something to enjoy."

Enzo jerked, instinctively trying to crawl backward, but the guards came up to grab his shoulders, holding him tight in place. Salvatore crouched slowly, his knees cracking faintly. He tilted Enzo's chin up with the vise of his fingers, then pressed the glowing tip of the cigar against his cheek.

The hiss of searing flesh was almost lost under the storm's fury outside.

Enzo howled — a raw, animalistic sound, echoing against the stone walls. The smell of scorched skin filled the air, sharp and sickening.

"Tell me. What have you given to Alex Chiesa? How much did he pay you to betray me?"

"No! Don, believe me—"

Salvatore pressed the cigar deeper on his face for a second time.

"Tell me what you know. Names. Plans. Who gave away Ricardo? Who led him into Chiesa's hands?"

"I don't know. Wasn't me." Enzo sobbed, his body spasming. "I've bled for you..."

Salvatore's jaw tightened. It was never about Ricardo. It was about what his son represented. No matter how weak he was, Ricardo was his heir, a reflection of his power. To betray Ricardo was to spit in the face of Salvatore himself. That was unforgivable.

"Enough!" He spat, gesturing with a flick of his hand. "Take him away. Burn him alive in his favorite fire."

The guards hauled Enzo up.

Panic seized Enzo like a seizure. He thrashed against his bonds, screaming hoarsely through the rising hysteria. Then, like a drowning man grasping at strategies, he gasped: "Matteo Bianco! It had to be him! He mocked the boy before any of us! He laughed the loudest! He's in it, I swear to God!"

Salvatore paused, considering. He let the silence stretch, raised the cigar to his lips and took another slow drag, letting the smoke linger between them like a veil.

"Strangle him first." He said flatly. "Then burn what's left."

A devil's mercy. 

Enzo howled, pleaded, sobbed, but the storm outside swallowed his cries as rough hands grabbed him, dragging him towards his fate. 

Salvatore turned back to the rain-lashed window, the light from the lightning casting flickers across his stony face. He drew from his cigar one final time, the ember glowing like an eye that never blinked.

"Bring Matteo Bianco to me, wherever he is now." He ordered the guards at the door.

The thunder roared again.

The purge had only just begun.

The docks groaned under the weight of the storm's aftermath as Alex and Ramon waited in the damp twilight. The rain softened to a drizzle, and the thunder faded to a distant rumble like a god falling asleep. The sea still churned like a restless beast, its waves licking at the pilings with foamed teeth, but the worst of the tempest had spent its fury. Alex stood on the slick concrete of the dock, coat drawn tight around him, the collar turned up against the wet wind.

His phone buzzed against his thigh. The screen illuminated his sharp features in a pale blue glow as he read the message. He didn't smile, just a slow breath through his nose, subtle but telling. 

"The first target down. Enzo Moretti is executed." His voice was flat, almost distant, like a verdict read in an empty courtroom.

Ramon, leaning lazily against a crate with a cigarette half-lit between his fingers, let out a low, appreciative whistle that dissolved into the wind. "Salvatore's cleaning house." He flicked his cigarette into the harbor, the ember hissing as it drowned. "Oh, not cleaning," he corrected himself, "burning."

Alex didn't respond. His gaze was fixed on the horizon where the last bruise-colored clouds clung to the dying light. The yacht arrived then — a sleek, unmarked vessel with tinted windows, its engine a muted growl beneath the slap of waves against the hull. They boarded in silence, the deck swaying beneath their feet as the boat carved through the black water.

By midnight, the storm had retreated entirely. Castello Island emerged from the darkness like a phantom — first as a smudge of deeper black against the star-flecked sky, then as a jagged silhouette crowned with the faint lights of the villa.

The dock here was smaller, overgrown at its edges, hidden by design. Salt-crusted lanterns cast wavering circles of light on the water as the yacht eased alongside it. Alex stepped onto the planks first, his leather shoes soundless against the weathered wood. The air here was different — cleaner, sharper, the scent of oleander and sage cutting through the brine.

The Island was a ghost property — a long-forgotten gem found by Dante Chiesa in a remote corner of the Mediterranean, registered under a fabricated identity, buried beneath layers of shell companies and a labyrinth of paperwork. Even Salvatore's Vault — the web of secrets and intelligence he guarded like a dragon — hadn't unearthed it.

Ramon drew in a deep breath, the sea-salted air filling his lungs as he followed behind. He rolled his shoulders with a lazy ease, eyes scanning the worn stone path leading deeper into the island's heart.

"Still gives me a thrill," he murmured, voice edged with amusement, "Knowing we're standing on ground that doesn't exist."

Alex was already moving, his steps steady. "It exists." He said quietly. "Just not for them."

Above them, the villa's windows glowed like watchful eyes. Somewhere inside, beneath dim lights and the hum of medical equipment, the broken prince waited.

And the war, suspended for this fleeting moment, held its breath.

Alex stood outside the open door of the medical room, his frame still and silent, outlined by the dim overhead light like a shadow reluctant to pass the threshold. The rhythmic beep of monitors, the antiseptic tang of alcohol and saline, and the soft rustle of sea breeze slipping through the hallway window — all of it felt unreal, as though the world inside this room ran on a different current than the one outside. He had crossed the sea, passed through the storm, started a war with a deadly enemy — but now, here, he hesitated like a child.

Ricardo lay on his stomach, unmoving beneath a thin, white blanket. His body was draped in quiet fragility, tubes trailing down the sheets, a shallow rise and fall of his breath that proved he was still tethered to this life, however faintly.

No HIV. No HPV. No syphilis. — Simone's clinical reassurances echoed in his head, but they did nothing to soothe the acid churning in his gut. 

Just wounds. Just damage. Just pain I carved into him.

His boots felt nailed to the stone floor. The room seemed to expand in silence, pushing him further away from the only person that  mattered in this moment. The one he'd failed. The one he'd betrayed. He watched Ricardo, just breathing, just existing, and wondered if he had any right to even look.

He should leave. He would leave.

Then Ricardo stirred.

His body convulsed with a sudden retch as his fingers clenched weakly at the sheets, and a sharp, painful sound cracked through the air — vomiting — Just bile and acid. Just pain. He couldn't remember the last time he'd held down food — only the phantom burn of wax and blood, the echo of laughter in his ears.

A nurse was already at his side, murmuring soothing words, pressing a damp cloth to his lips, catching the bitter remnants of his empty stomach.

Alex moved without thinking, his voice cutting through the room before he could stop himself.

"Let me." His hand reached past the nurse, taking the cloth from her grip. "Leave us."

Alex's voice was low, rough at the edges. The nurse hesitated, then obeyed, her shoes whispering against the tile as she slipped out.

The door clicked shut behind the her, leaving the room in suffocating silence. The only sounds were the hum of medical equipment and Ricardo's ragged breaths. His face was pressed on the edge of the pillow, his skin ghost-pale against the rumpled sheets, his body trembling as he fought the nausea clawing up his throat.

Alex knelt beside the bed. His right hand, no longer wrapped, revealed raw gashes across his knuckles — remnants of a violence he didn't bother to explain. He took the cloth and began to dab Ricardo's mouth with the barest pressure, his motions slow, careful. Reverent.

Ricardo leaned into the touch. The pad pressed gently against his lips, wiping away the traces of sickness with a tenderness that twisted something deep inside him.

The damp warmth felt familiar — too familiar. For a second, his body relaxed. He remembered this care. The way it felt to be handled like something precious, not broken.

Then he turned his head slightly, just enough to see the man besides him.

Their eyes met.

Recognition came like a jolt of lightning. Sharp. Raw. Ricardo flinched violently, his body jerking as if struck. A choked sound escaped him, half-gasp, half-sob, his fingers twisting into the sheets. His pupils dilated, black swallowing blue, and for a terrible moment, Alex saw pure, animal terror in his gaze.

"Don't..." The word was a broken whisper, his throat too ruined to give it volume. But the meaning was clear. — Don't touch me. Don't pretend.

The pad crumpled in Alex's grip.

Ricardo's chest heaved, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts. He tried to push himself up, away, but his arms gave out instantly, his muscles too ravaged to obey. He collapsed back onto the bed with a whimper, his face contorted in pain.

Alex's throat tightened. He should say something — apologize, explain, lie. But the words turned to ash in his mouth. What could he possibly offer? That he hadn't meant for it to go that far? That he hadn't known, hadn't understood, until it was too late?

Pathetic.

When he finally found his voice, he just said: "I'm not here to hurt you." The words sounded useless even to his own ears.

Ricardo let out a wheezing, shuddering laugh — a sound so devoid of humor it made Alex's chest ache.

"You already did."

Silence. The heart monitor beeped, much faster than before.

"I... I just want to help you clean up." Alex murmured, glancing away for a moment. It was the only thing he could say — the only action he could justify. But the words sounded wrong. As if wiping the acid from Ricardo's lips could erase what had been done to him.

Clean up. That's what he wanted?

Ricardo let out a hollow breath that might've once been a laugh. His body ached too much to respond, but the irony cut deeper than anything else.

Clean up? Right, I'm already stained. Too dirty. Too filthy. — And who did it?

He turned his head and glared, his vision swimming. Alex's face was shadowed, his jaw tight, those amber eyes burning with something Ricardo refused to name. Concern? Guilt?

Liar.

Alex's fingers twitched. For a heartbeat, he looked like he might withdraw. Then, instead, he set the cloth aside and reached for the glass of water on the nightstand.

Ricardo recoiled. "I said DON'T."

Alex ignored him. He sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle the mattress. Then he slid a hand beneath Ricardo's shoulder, lifting him just enough to sip. The touch was careful — meticulous, even — avoiding the worst of the wounds. But Ricardo still gasped at the contact, his skin crawling with the memory of those same hands caressing his chest, gripping his hips, holding him so tightly until —  

The water hit his tongue. He choked, coughing, liquid spilling down his chin. Alex muttered a curse under his breath, quickly reaching out to catch the droplets with his thumb, brushing gently along Ricardo's jaw.

Then — sharp pain. Ricardo had snapped down at his hand — not with strength, but with desperation. His mouth closed around Alex's thumb and part of his index finger, his teeth clamping down hard on Alex's already torn knuckle, biting deep into the raw flesh.

Alex winced, but didn't pull away. He let it happen.

The pain was real. And he deserved it. Maybe that tiny, pitiful act of retaliation was all Ricardo had left — he wasn't going to take even that from him.

For a long moment, neither moved. Ricardo breathed sharply through his nose, his jaw aching with the force of his bite. Alex just watched him, unflinching, his gaze dark.

Then Ricardo saw it — the blood on Alex's hand. A slow, fresh bead trickling from an old wound reopened. It caught the light like a crimson apology. His teeth loosened. He released Alex's fingers with a soft sigh and turned his face away, eyes unfocused.

"Feeling better now?" Alex exhaled, his voice barely audible.

Ricardo didn't answer. His eyelids grew heavy, his breathing evening out — whether from exhaustion or the deliberate retreat into unconsciousness, Alex couldn't tell.

"You don't have much strength." Alex said quietly. "You need to rest."

Next time, bite harder if that helps.

He stayed a moment longer, watching Ricardo's lashes flutter, the shallow breaths return. His left hand hovering near his face, as if to brush back his hair and stroke his cheek — before curling into a fist and pulling away. Then, finally, he stood and walked out, shutting the door softly behind him.

He would leave him alone.

For now.

But the war was far from finished — just as the storm between them had yet to pass.

Chapter Text

The clouds hung low over Marigemelli, bloated and heavy, the sea dull as pewter beyond the mansion's wrought-iron balconies. Inside, the air in Salvatore's office was thick with cigar smoke and suspicion.

Matteo Bianco stood in the center of the room like a man dragged straight from the sea — his salt-stiffened jacket reeking of diesel, his knuckles split from securing cargo in rough waters. A fresh cut marked his jaw, and oily hair clung to his forehead in tangled strands. Dark circles shadowed his bloodshot eyes, but his gaze remained sharp as steel. He swayed faintly, still feeling the phantom roll of the waves beneath him, but held his ground without apology. The storm hadn't broken him. Neither would this.

Salvatore sat behind his massive black oak desk, elbows resting on a closed dossier. A lit cigar nestled in his fingers, smoke curling upward like a devil's whisper.

"Tell me again." Salvatore said, his voice low and dangerously calm. "Why would the first man to mock Ricardo — my son — in front of thousands be the same man I entrusted with my western routes?"

Matteo kept his tone neutral. "It wasn't me."

Salvatore narrowed his eyes.

"I wasn't even on land, Don. I was on the Aquila Nera, halfway through a pickup off the Venezuelan coast. The footage of the live stream… I never saw it live. That account was hacked."

Salvatore leaned back in his chair. "How convenient. A phantom insult, a hacked account. An alibi that floats on water."

"I can show you the ship logs. My crew can confirm."

Salvatore stood slowly. "So what? You don't have satellite connection?"

Matteo's jaw tightened. "Bandwidth was barely enough for text updates. A live stream was impossible."

A phone rang once. Salvatore listened, then smiled without warmth. "Your insults came through a VPN. Untraceable." He circled Matteo like a shark. "Did you think I'd believe some phantom hacker targeted you?"

"I'd never turn on Ricardo!" Matteo's voice rose to a snarl.

The backhand split his lip before the words finished echoing.

"Liar." Salvatore flicked blood from his signet ring. "You're just smart enough to cover your tracks."

The door swung open. Isabella stood there, her black silk dress rippling like dark water, her face pale but composed.

"Enough."

Both men turned.

She entered with the precision of a blade being drawn — black heels sinking into the rug, coat flaring behind her. Her gaze locked onto Salvatore first with unflinching fury. Then she turned to Matteo, who hadn't made a sound even as blood welling at his split lip.

"Let him go." she said.

Salvatore's smile was a razor. "This is men's business."

"My son's life is my business." She stepped between them, close enough to smell the salt and iron on Matteo. "You trust no one, but your paranoia is rotting this house. Matteo was like an uncle to Ricco. He taught him to sail, to shoot. Or have you burned those memories too?"

A beat. The clock ticked.  

Salvatore studied his wife for a long moment, then flicked his wrist. "Get out. Both of you."

Matteo exhaled, looking at Isabella with gratitude. She didn't wait for thanks. She turned on her heel and left, her mind already racing toward the next move.

An hour later, in a forgotten room along the north corridor, Isabella waited.  

Once a nursery, the space had withered into a dim retreat of faded tapestries and dust-heavy books. When Matteo entered, she locked the door behind him.

He dipped his head. "Signora."

Isabella didn't meet his eyes. "You owe me nothing. But I need a favor."

He glanced up, cautious. "Anything."

"I need you to find Alex Chiesa."

Matteo stiffened. "You mean... to kill him?"

"No." Her voice was steady, but thin. "Find him. Speak to him. Negotiate."

Confusion flashed across Matteo's face. "Negotiate? After what he did to Ricardo? After—"

"I know." She cut him off, her voice cracking. "I know what he did. I've watched the footage. I've heard Ricco scream in my dreams every night."

Her hands shook, and she clenched them into fists.

"But Chiesa didn't kill him. Ricco's alive. Somewhere out there — broken, furious, maybe still trapped in more suffering. But he's mine. I will not bury my son before I see him again."

Matteo hesitated, visibly torn. "…And you think Chiesa will listen to me?"

"You're more than a Garavani lieutenant." She said. "You were Ricco's friend. You were his anchor when things got too dark in this family. You are the only one I can trust with him now."

She pulled out a slip of paper and pressed it into his hand. "There's a contact. Someone with ties to Chiesa's people. With enough persuasion — money, loyalty — they can get you through."

Matteo looked down at the number, then back at her. "The don will call it treason."

"I know." Her fingers brushed his hand, steadying it. "And it's dangerous for you. I won't pretend otherwise."

"I'm not worried about me." Matteo's voice was low. "I would die for Ricardo. But you—"

"No matter the price," she said. "I'll pay it."

He took a breath, folding the paper into his jacket. "And what do you want me to offer him, if I find him?"

Her answer came in a whisper: "Anything. Money. Protection. Land… whatever he demands." She hesitated, her throat tight. "As long as it's not another life."

Matteo's eyes widened. "You wouldn't — you couldn't be offering —"

"I said whatever it takes." Her voice trembled. "Because if I have to choose between a kingdom and my son…"

She turned toward the narrow window, gazing out at the churning sea.

"I choose my son. Always."

Alex had come every day.

He would sit in the farthest corner of the room, silent as a shadow, barely daring to breathe. Sometimes he would glance at Ricardo's fragile form — swallowed by hospital sheets, shackled to tubes and monitors — and sometimes, when he thought Ricardo was asleep, he would ask the nurses soft, almost pleading questions: "Has he eaten?" "Did the wound dressings hold?" But never, not once, had he spoken to Ricardo directly.

And Ricardo, for his part, treated him like air — cold, invisible, unwelcome. He kept his face turned to the window, watching the sea churn beyond the glass. He counted waves instead of Alex's breaths.

A week passed in this agony.

Ricardo was still trapped in a prone position, his body too damaged to move freely. An IV fed him the bare minimum to keep him alive. His shoulders, once strong enough to knock a man off his feet, could barely twitch without pain. The nurses cleaned him, fed him, moved him like a porcelain doll. He refused food, rejected even the liquid meals with silent, stubborn disgust.

Then one morning, Ricardo woke to the muted sound of waves crashing distantly beyond the walls. The sunlight was harsh today. It spilled across the bed, gilding the IV lines snaking into his arms, turning the bruises on his wrists into lurid violets and yellows. His entire body throbbed in a thousand different rhythms, but at last — the fog of sedatives had begun to fade. His mind, cruelly clear, returned to him.

The door creaked. Ricardo didn't turn his head. He already knew who it was.

Alex stood there, awkward, as if the room itself wanted to spit him out. In his trembling hands, he held a tray: a small bowl of broth, a few pills lined neatly on a saucer, and, absurdly, a single white orchid in a slim glass.

He moved toward the bed, every step measured, and set the tray gently on the bedside table with exaggerated care, as if afraid the slightest noise would snap what little connection remained between them.

Ricardo didn't wait. "Get out." His voice was a ruin.  

"You need to eat." Alex said, carefully — his voice low, almost too soft to hear. Like he thought if he spoke louder, Ricardo might shatter.

Ricardo gave a hoarse, broken laugh, full of venom. "Eat? Why? So I'm strong enough for round two?" He coughed, bitterly. "Is this the same breakfast you brought me before you paraded me like an animal in front of the world?"

Alex's mouth opened, searching for words — but nothing came.

Ricardo turned his head, pushed on savagely. "Or maybe it's another little game. Play nurse. Play hero. Wait until I forget what you are, then hand me back to your men for another show." His voice cracked, but he forced it louder, harsher. "Maybe next time you'll stay on site and watch properly. Hell, bet you'll even enjoy it."

Alex flinched as if struck, the blood draining from his face.

"No one will touch you again." He said hoarsely, the words cutting from somewhere raw and bleeding inside him. "I promise. I'll never let it happen again."

Ricardo barked a laugh so hollow it made the walls seem to shrink.

"You promise?" His lip curled. "You promise? Now? After you've already torn me into pieces?"

He thrashed weakly against the bed, the IV tugging, monitors beeping in protest. His voice rose into a broken scream.

"You should've killed me! You should've finished it instead of pretending to fix what you destroyed! I'm not your redemption project, Alex!" He gasped, shuddering. "I'd rather rot in this bed than be another chance for you to clean your filthy conscience!"

Alex stood frozen, his heart hammering so loud he could barely hear Ricardo's next words.

"Go to hell." Ricardo whispered, his voice a thread of hate, trembling but lethal. "And take your pity with you."

At that moment, Simone entered swiftly, his face set in a mask of professional concern.

"Signore," he said, addressing Alex gently but firmly, "I'm afraid I must ask you to leave. Your presence… is detrimental to the patient's recovery."

Alex didn't argue. His throat locked around the words he wanted to say. Instead, he bowed his head and backed away, step by tortured step.

"I'll go." He murmured.

Ricardo didn't even look at him. He simply rasped, loud enough to be heard: "Don't come back. Don't you dare let me see your face again."

The door closed behind Alex with a soft, final click. The orchid trembled in the sudden silence.

Ricardo turned his face back toward the window, toward the endless crashing sea — and wept without a sound.

Outside, Alex pressed his forehead against the wall, shattered in pain.

For two more weeks, Alex haunted the hallway outside Ricardo's room like a specter. He never crossed the threshold — just leaned against the doorframe, forehead resting against the cool wood, straining to catch the faint sounds within: the beep of the monitors, the clink of IV poles, the soft murmur of nurses tending to their patient. He smiled quietly when he glimpsed the empty bowls being carried out. Sometimes, if he stayed long enough, he could hear the harsh, uneven rhythm of Ricardo's breathing — the fragile proof that he was still there. It was the closest he allowed himself to get.

Ricardo never asked for him. Never even knew he was there.

One night, restless and hollow, Alex wandered alone to the cliffside of Castello Island.

The wind howled around him, cold and sharp, ripping at his coat as he sat near the edge, staring out over the ink-black sea. Overhead, the full moon sagged low, casting a pale, cold light across the choppy waters. Far below, waves smashed against the rocks, furious and eternal.

The war, at least, unfolded as he'd orchestrated.

His cyber infrastructure, switched to a backup system just before Salvatore's cyberattack hit, was battered but operational. The traffic was slower, patchier — but not broken.

All his regular bank accounts were frozen as expected, assets seized, investigators drooling over them. But it barely mattered: Alex's true fortune flowed elsewhere — through Aurum Bank & Trust, the fortress-like Swiss institution that owed no loyalty to any government. The bulk of his assets were also secured in cryptocurrencies, far beyond the grasp of any police force.

The supply lines that had once fed his realm were severed by Salvatore's purge — but again, only the visible ones. The real arteries, the ones Alex had spent years constructing through international mercenaries and deepnet operatives, continued flowing in the shadows. Ghost tankers moved under false flags. Synthetic IDs slipped shipments across borders. Shell companies rose and crumbled on command.

Salvatore thought he was cutting off Alex's air. In reality, he was swinging at smoke.

And Salvatore himself? The old devil was eating his own.  

Silvio Bernardi, once one of Salvatore's most trusted loyalist, was dead — executed by his own Don. It happened after Salvatore discovered that Alex had transferred fifty thousand euros to the account of one of Ricardo's bodyguards shortly after the boy's capture. That guard, as it turned out, was Silvio's nephew. Under brutal interrogation, the young man confessed: he had leaked Ricardo's location that night, but swore he knew nothing more.

Salvatore, filled with rage and distrust, dragged Silvio into the interrogation room.

Silvio denied everything. But Salvatore remembered his vicious taunts in the live stream, the harsh words he had thrown at Ricardo over the years. And so, in the end, Silvio Bernardi died screaming — killed not by evidence, but by suspicion.

Meanwhile, Salvatore's move to destroy Alex with human trafficking charges backfired catastrophically.

Acting on information pulled from the Vault — planted evidence Alex had cleverly slipped inside — Salvatore's men tipped off the police about a supposed child trafficking ring. The resulting raid struck a prestigious kindergarten attended by the children of powerful politicians and judges.

The outrage was immediate. The scandal had cost Salvatore political capital, and forced the prosecutors to drop multiple charges against Alex due to "lack of credible evidence", including the trafficking allegations.

The war raged on. The balance shifted.

But none of it mattered to Alex right now.

His mind, his soul, were trapped elsewhere — in the sterile white room behind that door, in the broken boy he no longer dared to face.

He buried his head in his hands, gripping his hair, wishing the cold wind would rip him off the cliff and end the ache twisting inside him.

Footsteps crunched over the gravel behind him.

Alex didn't move until he heard Ramon's voice, low and cautious. "There's a message." Ramon said. "Someone from the Serpents wants a meeting."

Alex slowly lifted his head, squinting into the dark. "Who?"

"Matteo Bianco. Looks like he survived Salvatore's purge after all. He wants to negotiate." Ramon paused. "About Ricardo."

Alex gave a bitter, humorless smile. "Negotiate. Now they think of it? Too late!"

"Maybe not." Ramon stepped closer, clearly not fully grasping the weight behind Alex's words. "If they want Ricardo that badly, we could twist it to our advantage. Make them pay. Force concessions. Use that boy as leverage—"

"No." Alex cut him off sharply. He rose to his feet, the wind slamming against him, his coat whipping around him like broken wings. His eyes, when he turned to Ramon, were dark and absolute.

"He's not a bargaining chip."

Ramon arched a brow. "Then what is he?"

For a moment, Alex said nothing.

What is he?

The question scraped against something raw inside him.

But he wouldn't give Ramon that.

"It could be a trap." Alex dodged the question. "Salvatore's not the type to beg. He's just fishing. Trying to pull me into the open."

Ramon nodded slowly, though his gaze stayed sharp, measuring. "Could be. You're right to be cautious."

But doubt still simmered in him — Alex could feel it, like heat in the air between them.

"You still haven't answered my question." Ramon pressed, his tone sharpening. "You're not seriously planning to keep Ricardo, are you? Alex—" his voice dropped, urgent, "you're slipping. If he's just a toy, fine. But you're treating him like... like he matters. You've fallen for him! Have you forgotten whose blood he carries? The son of the man who murdered your father! We're at war with his family, Alex. War! We already shattered him — we ruined him. And now you're hesitating?"

Alex stayed silent, offering no denial. His face was cold as the sea crashing below.

Ramon's voice hardened, driving forward. "He's a threat. He'll always be a threat. Our plan was to break him, use him, then put a bullet in his skull when he stopped being useful. If you forget that — if you let him stay — you'll undo everything. Everything we bled for. Everything we sacrificed."

The silence that followed stretched tight and bitter.

Finally, Alex spoke, voice low and steady, almost bored.

"Have you finished?"

Ramon stiffened, caught off guard by the calmness. His mouth opened, then shut again.

Alex stepped closer, his presence colder, heavier. "Good. Because I haven't forgotten anything, I know exactly what I'm doing. Reply to them —" He shifted aside, his voice like iron. "Tell them Ricardo stays with me. If they want to talk, they can start by pulling the bounties. Make it clear: if I die, Ricardo dies with me."

His gaze pinned Ramon in place — sharp, commanding — the cold, final stare of a boss issuing an order.

For a long moment, Ramon just watched him. Then a small, almost reluctant smile ghosted over his face.

"That," Ramon said quietly, "is a move I can respect."

With a slight nod, he turned and walked away, boots scraping the stone.

Alex watched him go, the mask of ruthless calculation glued firmly in place. Only when Ramon's figure disappeared down the path did Alex's shoulders sag.

The weight he had been carrying pressed down like a mountain.

He turned back toward the sea.

The wind battered him, tugged at his coat and hair like invisible hands trying to drag him off the edge, but he stood firm, staring into the endless black churn of water below.

You know exactly what you're doing.

The words he had thrown at Ramon echoed back at him, hollow.

Did he?

Did he really?

Ricardo's face surfaced in his mind — pale against the hospital pillows, eyes that had once burned with pride now dulled by betrayal and pain. Every time he closed his own eyes, he saw the moment Ricardo had turned his face away from him, refusing even to look at the man who had broken him.

Alex exhaled slowly, a breath that seemed to come from the bottom of his soul.

He had no illusions. He knew what he had done.

He had torn Ricardo apart — not just his body, but the part of him that still believed in trust, in kindness, in love.

Ricardo wasn't just Salvatore's blood. He wasn't just a tool or a hostage or a sacrifice waiting to happen.

He was real — painfully, terrifyingly real. Every small breath he took. Every broken word he spat in defiance. Every hateful look.

Alex felt it.

Felt it like a blade slipping between his ribs.

A part of him — the part that still remembered what it was like to be human — ached to go to Ricardo, to beg for forgiveness he didn't deserve.

Another part — the part hardened by years of blood and fire and vendettas — whispered that Ramon was right.

Ricardo is dangerous. Ricardo is a threat. Ricardo must be destroyed.

He closed his eyes against the fury of the wind.

No.

Not yet.

Not ever.

Somewhere in the wasteland that Alex had made of his soul, Ricardo had found a place to root himself — fragile yet incredibly stubborn.

And Alex, for all his cold strategy, for all his hunger for vengeance, could not tear it out.

The war wasn't over. The blood price hadn't been fully paid.

But when the moment came — when the knife had to fall again —  would he have the strength to finish what he started?

He didn't know.

And for the first time in years, that uncertainty scared him.

Alex stayed on the cliff a little longer, letting the sea batter the rocks below, the wind tear at the sky above — a man standing between two abysses, belonging to neither.

Then he turned back toward the villa, toward the boy he couldn't let go.

Toward the war he could no longer fight cleanly.

Chapter Text

Three weeks into healing, Ricardo finally won a hard-earned concession from the doctor: he was allowed to lay on his side now. It wasn't much — just a small shift from the rigid, corpse-like stillness he had been confined to — but it felt monumental. With a fortress of pillows braced against him, he eased into the new position, wincing as a dull ache stirred faintly in his shoulders, no longer sharp, but not ready to go away.

The burns across his back had begun the long, ugly process of scarring. Shiny patches of skin stretched tight like warped leather, alien and hard to the touch. But those were just the visible wounds. The deeper injuries, hidden where no one could see, sometimes still bled silently through the nights — a slow, humiliating ache that left a damp, shaming warmth beneath him. It was a wound that refused to close, a private agony that bled not just from flesh, but from everything that had been taken — his dignity, his sense of safety, his control. A wound that whispered, over and over, how thoroughly he'd been broken.

Sleep had become a stranger.

Not because of the lingering pain, but because of the nightmares.

They came with brutal consistency, dragging him under into the same scenes again and again. He would wake up gasping from memories of that day — the live stream, the endless violation, the laughter, the restraints biting into his wrists, the unbearable agony painted across his body for the world to see.

But those, at least, made sense.

Then there were others —

Alex's mouth on his neck, warm and desperate. Alex's hands cradling his face like something precious. Alex's fingertips brushing over his skin with reverence. Alex whispering his name like a prayer, like a secret, like the only word that mattered. The weight of him, the heat, the way their bodies had fit together as if they'd been carved from the same ruin.

Dreams of that night returned often — the night they made love, the night before everything shattered, raw and terrifying in its sweetness, so vivid it still clung to him like a scent on skin. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't scrub it away. He couldn't forget the way it had felt so real.

Then the dreams would twist. The bed would dissolve beneath them. The warmth would leach away. And they'd fall, tangled together, into a darkness so vast and hungry it swallowed them whole.

Ricardo would wake, heart hammering, lost between grief and fury, shame and longing.

He hated those dreams most of all.

And when he was awake, the memories still came — unbidden, relentless. Every time he shut his eyes, Alex's face flickered in the darkness behind his lids. Not the cold strategist from the torture chamber. Not the monster who had orchestrated his ruin.

But the other one.

The broken one. The one that knelt at his bedside, dabbing bile from his lips with a tenderness that made his chest ache. The one that winced when bitten, yet taking the pain as if he wanted it. The one that sat cautiously in the corner, daring not to make any noise.

Ricardo's teeth ached with the memory.

And worse — 

Worse was the way his traitorous body still yearned. Every creak of the door, every footstep in the hall, his pulse would kick like a spooked animal. Is it him?

It never was.

Alex hadn't come back. Not since Ricardo had screamed at him to leave. Not since he'd sworn he never wanted to see him again.

And Ricardo hated — despised — how much he still missed him.

He rolled onto his back, hissing as the movement tugged at his wounds. The ceiling stared back at him, blank and unfeeling. Outside, the waves crashed against the cliffs, over and over, like the world itself was trying to erase something.

It wouldn't work.

Nothing could erase what had been done.

Nothing could erase what he still, stupidly, hopelessly, wanted.

The villa was deathly quiet when Alex returned, the kind of silence that made footsteps sound like gunshots. The cliffs behind him still echoed with the wind — wind that had carried away his words, his guilt, his useless apologies whispered into the sea. But none of it left him lighter. None of it fixed what was broken.

Midnight had already passed.

He didn't remember walking to the east wing, didn't remember choosing that corridor, only that he ended up standing outside Ricardo's medical room. The dim light from under the door threw a thin line across the stone floor, slicing through the darkness. He stood there like a ghost, silent, unmoving.

Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. Time was syrup-thick here.

Then — a noise inside. Quick breaths. The thump of shifting pillows. A voice, muffled and urgent, barely more than a breathless gasp:

"Alex!"

The sound of his name cracked through Alex like lightning.

He didn't think. He moved.

The door slammed open and Alex rushed inside, all the dread in his chest igniting into panic. "Ricardo!"

The room was dim, one small lamp casting a yellow pool of light over the bed. Ricardo lay on his side across the mattress, half-curled in pain or fear — it was impossible to tell which. The pillows had fallen, his blanket tangled around his legs, and his chest was rising and falling in frantic gasps.

Alex was at his side in a heartbeat. "I'm here. I'm here." His hands hovered, unsure where to land, where he was allowed to touch.

Then Ricardo's hands shot out, fingers latched onto his forearm, nails biting into skin. His eyes — wild, wide, rimmed red — locked onto Alex like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline.

But something changed. His breath slowed. Recognition dawned — and with it, distance.

His fingers uncurled, one by one. Slowly, he let go.

"Why are you here?" He asked. Cold. Detached.

Alex straightened, suddenly aware of the chill between them, the raw tension pulling tight in the air. He took a step back, shame flushing across his face. "I was outside the door." He admitted quietly. "I heard you call my name, I thought…"

"Why were you outside the door?" Ricardo interrupted, his voice sharper now.

Alex faltered. "I— I don't know. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to… I was just— I'll leave now."

He turned, already halfway to the door, when Ricardo's voice cut through again, low and shaking:

"Why?"

Alex stopped mid-step.

Why?

The answer formed instinctively in his head: Because you don't want me here. Because I hurt you. Because I don't deserve to be anywhere near you.

But before he could say anything, Ricardo's voice broke again — not a shout this time, but something raw, something pulled from the pit of his stomach:

"Why can't you just leave me alone? Why do you come to my dreams every goddamn night? Why can't I get rid of you from my head?"

Alex's breath hitched. His chest tightened painfully.

He turned, slowly, heart pounding. Ricardo wasn't looking at him anymore — his gaze was unfocused, somewhere past the ceiling, fists clenched in the sheets, voice cracking under the strain.

"What did you… dream about?" Alex asked, carefully. "That I'm a monster chasing you?"

Ricardo's laugh was bitter, hollow. He met Alex's eyes then, gaze sharp enough to cut.

"I wish you were." He hissed. "I wish you were the monster you are in my dreams. Because then I could stab a knife into your chest without feeling anything."

Alex reeled, lips parting in a silent gasp. The air between them turned to shattered glass, each shard pressing deeper with every breath he took.

"But you're not." Ricardo whispered, voice trembling now. "Not in my head. You're... you're the person I keep reaching for even when I wake up screaming."

Alex's breath caught. His face crumpled, emotion crashing into him too fast to mask. He stepped forward again, instinct pulling him closer — but he stopped himself this time, held the distance like a wound between them.

"I never meant to haunt you." He said, voice barely above a whisper. "But I want you to know... that you haunt me too. Every time I close my eyes, I see your face."

Ricardo looked away sharply, blinking hard. "Don't say that."

"It's true."

"I don't want to know." 

Alex's hands curled into fists at his sides. His teeth ground together, holding back a thousand things he wanted to say but knew would only make it worse.

The silence grew teeth.

With a shuddering exhale, Ricardo sank back into the pillows, his strength leaking out of him like water. His voice, when it came again, was low, tired. "Just go, Alex."

Alex didn't argue this time.

He turned toward the door, each step heavy, like wading through a current. Halfway through, he hesitated, casting another look over his shoulder.

Mustering what little courage he had left, he spoke, voice low and uncertain. "Can I come see you tomorrow?"

No reply. Ricardo lay still, eyes closed now, his face turned deliberately toward the window.

Alex's throat tightened. "I'll… take that as a yes."

Still silence.

He bent down, slowly, carefully gathering the pillows from the floor. One by one, he placed them back behind Ricardo, adjusting them just so — touches so gentle they almost didn't count as touch at all.

He lingered a moment longer, his gaze tracing the shape of Ricardo's shoulder, the rise and fall of his breath.

"Goodnight." He said softly.

Then he slipped out, the door clicking shut with the quiet finality of something unfinished.

And that night, for the first time in weeks, Ricardo slept without dreams.

Morning sun filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a muted golden light across the tiled floor. The sea breeze drifted lazily through the half-open window, bringing with it the scent of salt and rosemary from the wild bushes outside. 

Ricardo sat propped up on a donut cushion near the window, his back still too tender to touch the chair behind him. He wore a soft linen robe, loose over his healing frame. The blanket pooled around his waist in quiet folds. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, distant and unfocused, as if trying to anchor himself to something far beyond the sea.

He didn't turn when the door opened with a quiet click.

Alex stepped inside, dressed simply but carefully — a soft, cream-colored shirt tucked neatly into dark trousers, sleeves rolled up to the forearm. There was something almost boyish about him like this, as if he'd peeled off the armor of a mafia boss for a moment, revealing a quieter self beneath. In his hands, he carried a small wooden box no bigger than a book.

"Morning." He said gently.

Ricardo didn't respond. His shoulders were still, the line of his jaw set like carved stone. But he didn't tell Alex to leave.

Taking it as permission, Alex stepped forward slowly, placing the object gently on the bedside table — a music box, carved from aged olivewood. Its surface was smooth from years of handling, the grain darkened with time. A delicate inlay of mother-of-pearl traced a faded floral pattern across the lid, chipped slightly at the corner as if bearing the memory of some long-forgotten fall.

Then he looked to Ricardo — and for a moment, the world went still.

It was the first time Alex had seen him upright since that day in the church. He was no longer sprawled helplessly beneath the weight of pain — he was sitting, awake, present. Still fragile, yes, but unmistakably alive.

Morning sunlight spilled on his face, casting a halo of gold around his curly hair and brushing soft light across his cheekbones. His skin was pale, carrying the color of healing, but it only served to heighten the bone-deep elegance of him — lashes long and dark, brows like strokes of ink, lips too finely drawn — the kind of face that looked like it had been carved from some ancient Greek tragedy. 

Even now, marked by lagging wounds and shadows of faint agony, he was still heartbreakingly beautiful.

Alex felt it like a punch to the chest.

"This was mine when I was little." He said softly, unable to look away. "I found it upstairs."

Ricardo cast a sideways glance, eyes skimming over the box without meeting Alex's. A faint sneer tugged at his mouth. "You brought me a kid's toy? How thoughtful."

"Not a toy." Alex said, a flicker of relief stirring in his chest — for once, Ricardo was speaking to him like it was just a light conversation.

He opened the lid with care. The hinges creaked faintly, revealing a tiny scene inside — a boy and a dog beneath a tree, hand-carved and lovingly worn by time. He had cleaned it carefully, polished the wood, and replaced the rusted key with a clock gear he'd scavenged and fitted himself the night before. He turned the little brass key at the base, and as he stepped back, a delicate melody drifted into the air — soft, fragile, and trembling, like a half-remembered lullaby breathed from a nursery door.

"It was from my father." He said after a moment. "He made it when I was a boy." A beat of silence. "I used to wind it when I couldn't sleep. When I had nightmares."

For a moment, Ricardo's gaze softened. His fingers curled faintly into the blanket — a sign that something inside him had shifted.

"I know this song." He muttered, voice almost lost beneath the music. "It's a Sicilian lullaby. My mother used to hum it to me before I fell asleep."

Alex smiled with out saying anything. He simply lowered himself — not into the chair, but onto the floor, settling against the wall near the window. He kept his distance, careful not to intrude. He remained still, breath shallow, shoulders drawn inward as if to make himself smaller. The lullaby murmured softly between them, and Alex listened without moving, afraid that even the sound of a sigh might shatter what little peace they'd found.

Ricardo stared ahead again, brows faintly knit, and remained silent for a long while.

Then, finally — softly, like a question that had slipped from somewhere deeper than thought — he asked, "Any news?"

Alex blinked. The words caught him off guard. His gaze had been fixed on the box, which was still gently spinning its little figurine under the lid. He looked up, unsure he'd heard it correctly. "News?"

Ricardo turned his head slightly now, looking at him for real. His eyes were dark, unreadable. "You're at war with my father now, aren't you?" His voice was cool and flat, but something beneath it trembled. "Any news about my family?"

Alex leaned forward a little, the lullaby humming its final notes into the room. He paused, reading the tension in Ricardo's posture — the way his mouth had gone tight, his fingers gone taut on the blanket.

"…I didn't come here to talk about that." Alex said carefully. "But yes. Things have... shifted." 

Ricardo's eyes kept locking onto his face, gaze compelling.

"Well," Alex added quickly, "Nothing that should concern you."

"What's shifted?" Ricardo pressed on, his voice still quiet, but edged with something that could easily turn into a storm.

Alex hesitated. He hated the look in Ricardo's eyes. "Your father's purging people. Enzo Moretti. Silvio Bernardi. Gone."

Ricardo tensed, shoulders stiffening, back straightening despite the pain it caused. "Why?"

"Because of the… chat," Alex lowered his voice, "And other things."

The words landed like stones between them.

"The chat..." Ricardo whispered, his eyes glazing a little, as if the memory pulled him under. His throat bobbed with a swallow. After a pause, he asked, "And Matteo Bianco? Was he also...?"

"No. He's fine. So far." Alex's eyes searched his face. "Why do you ask about him specifically?"

Ricardo didn't answer right away. His gaze drifted toward the window, the sunlight cutting faint bars across his face. "Because I don't understand." He said at last. "I hope I still have the chance to ask him why he threw those words at me. Why he betrayed me."

Alex's brow tensed, a subtle crease forming. "He's close to you?" 

Ricardo gave a small, bitter laugh. "He was. He taught me to shoot, taught me to sail. He never said I was weak. Not even when others whispered it behind my back. He always told me to rise above it. He was one of the few who cared about me for real." He looked down at his hands. "At least… that's what I believed. Until that day."

Alex bit his lip, voice low. "You don't need to ask him."

Ricardo glanced back, puzzled. "Why?"

"It wasn't him." Alex inhaled, bracing himself. "We hacked his account."

There was a long silence.

Ricardo stared. The words didn't land all at once — they scattered, then slowly settled into meaning. His eyes widened, breath catching. "You... what?"

"We only used his identity. To seed certain reactions. To make some things... believable."

"And the others?" Ricardo's voice was tight. "The rest of the comments? The others from my clan?"

"Some were real. Bernardi, Moretti... most of them." Alex couldn't quite hold his gaze now. "But not Bianco."

Ricardo's fingers clawed into the blanket, gripping it so tightly his knuckles turned white, the slight tremble betraying the storm brewing inside. Then, like thunder cracking through calm skies, the flicker of horror in his eyes sharpened into a raw, seething anger that contorted his face.

"So this... this was your scheme. You planted a few well-placed knives, made me bleed publicly, and waited for the wolves to finish the job. You set me up. You wanted to destroy my standing, make me an outcast."

Alex tried to stand up, but only went from sitting to kneeling. "Ricardo, I—"

"You planned this." Ricardo said, voice rising now. "All of it. Not just the destruction of my body — you came for my name, my mind, my soul, until there was nothing left of me!"

Alex flinched as if slapped. "It wasn't supposed to go that far—"

"But it did!" Ricardo snapped, his face pale with fury, with disbelief. "It went exactly that far, and you let it. You designed it. You didn't need to raise a hand — you just lit the match and watched me burn."

Alex's jaw clenched. He couldn't deny it. He wouldn't insult Ricardo by trying.

Ricardo's voice dropped, cold as winter steel. "You're more terrifying than I knew, Alex. Every time I think I've reached the bottom of what you're capable of... you surprise me with a new low."

Alex looked at him for a long, loaded moment. The silence stretched between them, dense and unmoving — heavy with things neither could take back.

"I never meant to destroy you." Alex's voice was trembling. "You were never the target..."

"That's even worse!" Ricardo snarled, his voice breaking with fury. "You didn't even hate me. You just used me. Like a thing, a weapon, a convenient tool to twist and discard."

His voice cracked like dry glass under strain. "Even after that night… after everything we'd shared…" His breath hitched, rage and heartbreak making it hard for any words to form. "You still went through with it. And now you come back to sit there with your goddamn music box like — like none of it mattered? Like it's something I can forgive, or forget?" His lips curled, voice raw. "Are you even human, Alex? Do you feel anything at all?"

Alex didn't answer. His throat locked around every word. He sank to his knees, slowly, as if the weight of guilt had finally dragged him down. He folded himself into the floor, resting on his calves, hands hiding his face, his whole frame shaking — but not a sound escaped him.

Ricardo let out a sharp, broken laugh that morphed into something uglier — half-sob, half-mockery. His eyes shimmered, and the tears that clung to his lashes finally spilled. "God," he rasped, voice splintering, "I was such a fucking fool. Pathetic, slutty little idiot. I fell in love with you — you — a monster wearing the face of the man I craved." He shoved his trembling fist against his mouth, as if trying to dam the scream rising in his throat. "It turns out, when I was aching for you, you were just planning these cruel, filthy schemes behind my back, counting all the ways to break me. I'm simply the world's sickest joke!"

The words hung between them, quivering with the weight of three years of stolen glances and hidden heartbeats that now tasted like poison.

Alex's hands fell from his face. Tears streamed down his cheeks now, unrestrained and silent at first, then sobs tore from his chest. "No." The word came out mangled, gutted. He crawled forward on his knees, the fabric of his trousers scraping against tile, until he was close enough to touch. "Ricardo, no. I — I was the fool." He choked. "It was me who didn't see — didn't understand anything. I thought I knew you. I thought I had it all figured out. But I was wrong. I was blind. I didn't know who you really were… what you meant to me… not until it was too late."

Ricardo shot to his feet and stumbled back, as if the nearness of Alex burned him.

"You betrayed me. You destroyed me." He was almost screaming. "And now you crawl in here, weeping, begging — for what? My forgiveness? My pity? What do you want from me?" He gestured violently, his voice breaking again. "Do you want me to fall for you all over again? To open my legs and my heart like some lovesick idiot who still dreams of you, so that you can continue to toy with me for your own twisted pleasure?"

Alex's eyes drifted shut, the words carving through something deep and raw. "Is that really how you see me?" He asked, his voice thin and shattered, barely above a breath. "That… despicable?"

Ricardo's stare was ice. "What else am I supposed to see in you?" His voice dropped to a cold, cutting whisper. "It's over, Alex. All of it. The naive boy who kissed you under the bar lights, the idiot who wasted three years nursing a pathetic crush — he is dead. YOU killed him."

Silence.

Then, without another word, Alex pushed to his feet — staggering, hollow — as if having received a death sentence. His shadow swept over Ricardo like a tide pulling back for the last time. One step. Then another. Each footfall a quiet surrender. He passed through the door without looking back, and the hallway consumed him, his fading steps the dying heartbeat of a man already buried by regret.

Ricardo stood alone in the silence. The room felt colder, emptier.

He turned to the bedside table, hands shaking as they closed around the music box. For a split second, fury surged — his arms lifted, ready to smash it. But they stalled mid-air. The rage fractured, giving way not to fear, not to shame, but to something deeper, heavier. Grief — pure, thick, unrelenting sorrow. With a slow breath, he lowered his hands and rewound the box instead, the quiet click of the mechanism painfully gentle.

The lullaby drifted out — soft, delicate, haunting. He collapsed onto the bed like a marionette with its strings cut, shoulders caving in. Silent tears soaked into the pillow beneath him. The tune played on, unbearably sweet, like a mother's voice echoing through a nightmare, tender, nostalgic, yet cruel in a way that words could never touch.

Chapter Text

The heavy door to Salvatore's office creaked open, and Matteo Bianco stepped in, his frame tense beneath his tailored coat. The room looked unchanged — dimly lit by golden lamps, filled with the ever-present scent of cigar smoke and aged leather — but the air between them was thicker than usual, poisoned by the residue of their last encounter.

Salvatore sat behind his grand desk like a king on a throne, swirling a glass of brandy. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes — cold and sharp — never left Matteo as he entered.

"So," Salvatore said finally, setting the glass down with a soft clink, "You've returned."

"I didn't know I wasn't welcome." Matteo replied evenly, standing tall despite the weight behind the words.

Salvatore let out a short, bitter chuckle. "Last time you stood in this room, you were one breath away from a bullet. You should thank Isabella for having more grace than I did."

Matteo held his gaze. "I do. Every day." There was a pause, taut and simmering. "I've given you my loyalty, Don." Matteo added carefully, "Even when you didn't trust it."

Salvatore leaned forward, fingers steepling beneath his jaw. "Loyalty is proven in blood, not words. You know that. But you're here now… so speak."

Matteo drew a breath. "I came to speak about the bounties. On Chiesa and Luciano."

Salvatore's eyes narrowed instantly. "You've picked a strange hill to die on."

"I'm not here to protect them." Matteo said quickly, voice measured. "I'm here to offer a strategy. One that might actually get us what we want."

Salvatore leaned back, interest flickering through his expression, though his guard stayed up.

Matteo continued, choosing his words like walking a minefield. "If we keep hunting Chiesa this way — loud, desperate — we'll never find him. He's gone underground. But if we pull the bounties, give him the illusion that the heat's off... he might resurface."

"And why would he be so careless?" Salvatore asked.

"Because of Ricardo." Matteo replied. "Now he's holding onto him as a leverage. If we push too hard, Chiesa might turn Ricardo into a shield, or something worse." The words "or kill him" hovered unsaid, too grim to voice aloud. "But if we ease off, make it look like we're backing away for Ricardo's sake, he'll start to believe he's safe. That he's already won. He might let his guard down — move more freely. And that's when we find him, capture him. And through him, we can get Ricardo back."

Salvatore said nothing at first, only lifted the brandy to his lips and took a slow sip. He studied Matteo through the rim of the glass, searching for cracks.

"Convincing argument." He said finally. "But you're a little too familiar with Chiesa's thinking. Makes me wonder how familiar you've really been."

Matteo stiffened slightly, but didn't blink. "You asked for results. I'm giving you a way to get them."

The silence dragged. Then Salvatore gave a slow, deliberate nod.

"Very well. I'll rescind the bounties. Let the bastard crawl out of whatever hole he's hiding in. But the second Ricardo is back in my hands…" His voice dropped, cold and lethal. "Chiesa dies."

He slowly rose from his chair, eyes locked on Matteo. "And if this doesn't work — if anything goes wrong — I'll be holding you accountable."

Matteo dipped his head. "Understood, Don."

A few hours later, the office air had grown colder. A new scent clung to it now — gun oil and cologne — as Marco Ricciardi and Vito De Sanctis entered, summoned by Salvatore's word.

Marco stood tall, his dark hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. His eyes were sharp — the keen, watchful gaze of a seasoned hunter — taking in every detail with cool precision. Vito, leaner and shorter, moved like a shadow behind him, his hand never far from the blade hidden beneath his sleeve.

Salvatore didn't sit in his chair this time.

"You both made yourselves very bold last month." He said, pacing in front of his desk. "Mocking my son. Treating him like a stray dog. Did you think I wouldn't find out?"

Marco opened his mouth, but Salvatore raised a hand.

"Save it. I should have both of you chop your hands off. But I believe in second chances." He stopped in front of them, eyes glinting. "You want redemption? Earn it."

He stepped closer, his voice low, dangerous. "Find Alex Chiesa. Kill him. I don't want him alive. I don't want him to speak. Bring me his head on a silver platter. I want that wretch erased from the earth, once and for all."

Marco and Vito exchanged a glance. The game had changed.

"When?" Vito asked.

"Now." Salvatore hissed. "The bounties are being pulled. He'll think he's safe. He'll come up for air. And when he does…"

"We'll be waiting." Vito said, a grin slowly stretching across his face.

Marco's voice came softer, more tentative. "Don… Ricardo is still in his hands. Are we sure this won't—"

"That's not your concern!" Salvatore cut him off, the ice in his tone sharp enough to cut. "Your only job is to find Chiesa and end him. Fail me again, and it won't be a warning next time — your heads will decorate this office."

The wind was soft that morning, brushing in from the sea and rustling through the wild rosemary and sage that clung to the island's rugged terrain. In the study, sunlight pooled over the desk, where papers lay half-read and an untouched espresso had gone cold.

Alex sat in the worn leather chair, one hand absently rubbing at his temple, the other resting beside an open laptop, its screen casting a pale glow across his face. Lines of data and encrypted messages blinked quietly, waiting. But his gaze wasn't on the intel before him — it was distant, unfocused, his thoughts drifting somewhere far beyond the room.

A knock came — firm, respectful.

"Enter." Alex said without looking up.

One of the bodyguards stepped in, a broad-shouldered man in a gray shirt. "Boss," he said, voice low. "The nurse says Ricardo's asking to go out for a walk. She wants to know if he's allowed."

Alex stilled for a second. His fingers curled over the edge of the laptop.

Then he spoke quietly. "Why not? He's not a prisoner."

There was a pause. His voice sharpened slightly. "Send two men to follow him. Make sure he's safe. And keep him away from the castle area."

"Yes, Boss." The guard gave a slight nod and turned, boots soft on the old wood as he left the room.

Alex remained still, eyes fixed on the open balcony beyond the arched doorway. The scent of the sea drifted in, briny and clean. 

He's not a prisoner. But he's not free, either.

Ricardo stepped onto the terrace, the sunlight hitting his face like a slap. He flinched from the sheer rawness of it. Weeks in the medical room had stolen his tolerance for brightness.

The nurse hovered at his elbow. "Easy. Your eyes need time to adjust." 

Ricardo ignored her. He took another step forward, then another, until the stone path was under his feet. The warmth of the air grounded him, steadied the unspoken tremor in his chest. Around him, the garden sprawled — wild sage and rosemary, oleander branches heavy with pink blooms, the salt-kissed breeze off the cliffs tangling in his unkempt curls.

His pace was unhurried, the dark coat draped over his loose linen robe fluttering softly with each step. Behind him, the nurse kept close, attentive and wordless.

But it wasn't just her. He sensed them before he saw them — two guards shadowing him at a distance, their presence a silent leash.

Ricardo didn't turn to look. He raised his head instead, taking in the view. Cliffs stretched ahead; and to the right, the hill sloped more gently, revealing a glimpse of marshland that gave way to a narrow strip of beach. When he turned, the land behind the villa rose sharply. At its crest stood the remnants of old stone walls — perhaps the ruins of a forgotten castle.

The water spanned endlessly in all directions, dotted with distant, shimmering islets. There was no doubt now — he was stranded on a remote island, far from any shore. If he weren't a captive here, it might have felt like paradise.

Without a word, he moved forward again. Gravel crunched softly beneath his boots as he passed through the olive grove, following the worn path that skirted the edge of the cliffs. The sea glittered far below — wild and dazzling — waves crashing against the rocks in a rhythm that sounded like applause from another world.

He stopped near a low stone wall that bordered the cliffside and leaned both hands on it. The guards tensed but didn't stop him. The breeze caught his coat, flaring it slightly behind him like wings. For a long time, he said nothing, simply staring out into the churning horizon. His breath came slow.

"I don't need babysitters." He finally said aloud without turning.

One of the guards answered, "It's for your safety."

Ricardo gave a quiet, humorless laugh. "Safety? That is the new excuse now?"

The sea stretched below, endless and indifferent. Ricardo gripped the bricks, his knuckles whitening.

Jump — whispered the old, broken part of him.

But his body refused. It clung to life with a coward's desperation.

Behind him, one guard murmured into a radio. Reporting. To him.

Ricardo curled his lips, pushing off the wall and kept walking, slower this time, letting the wind blow against him as if it could peel something off his skin.

Back in the villa, Alex stood at the balcony, watching from above, fingers clenched around the railing, cold and unmoving.

From that height, Ricardo looked like a ghost of memory drifting through the present — delicate, distant, out of reach.

The intercom crackled. "He's at the south cliff, Boss. Not too close to the edge." 

Alex's grip tightened. "Good."

A beat of static. Then, hesitant: "He's just… standing there. Hasn't moved in ten minutes."

Alex's jaw clenched. He knew what stillness like that meant. The kind that wasn't peace, but paralysis.

"Keep watching." He said, and turned back to the study.

He picked up the phone from the desk, fingers hovering for a long moment before he finally made the call.

"Contact Matteo Bianco. I'll talk with him."

Two days later. 

The wetland stretched out in quiet solitude, the wooden boardwalk cutting through tall reeds that whispered in the sea breeze. The afternoon sun painted the marsh in gold, the water's surface shimmering like fractured glass. Birds waded in the shallows, their calls distant and mournful.

Ricardo walked slowly, his steps measured. The air here was thick with the scent of brine and damp earth, a far cry from the sterile smell of the medical room. He still moved carefully — his body not fully his own yet — but the pain had dulled to a persistent ache that was easy to forget. Behind him, at a discreet distance, the nurse and the two guards trailed without a word.

Then, from the opposite end of the boardwalk, a figure appeared.  

Alex. 

He wore a pale linen shirt, sleeves carelessly rolled to his elbows, the sea wind tousling his dark hair. His hands were tucked into his pockets, posture loose — too loose, as if trying a little too hard to seem unbothered. When their eyes met, he tilted his head and offered a faint smile, laced with mock surprise.

"I didn't realize you'd be out here." He said, tone airy, rehearsed. "What a coincidence."

Ricardo stared.

Alex looked worn — more depleted than Ricardo had ever seen him. His face was pale, the usual warmth drained from his skin, and deep shadows bruised the edges of his bloodshot eyes. Every movement he made was deliberate, but beneath that control was the heaviness of someone barely holding together.

Something twisted in Ricardo's chest — a tight, aching pull he didn't want to feel. He forced it down, locking it away before it could surface.

Without replying, he turned sharply on his heel, shoulders stiff, ready to walk away.

Alex's voice chased after him. "By the way, there's something I should tell you."

Ricardo stopped. Didn't turn. But he listened.

"Bianco contacted me."

That made Ricardo tense. Slowly, he glanced over his shoulder.

Alex took a step forward, the boards groaning softly under his feet. "He asked for your release." A beat. "And I decided... I'll let you go." Another pause, heavier this time. "Once you've recovered enough."

Ricardo turned fully now, his eyes narrowing, suspicion written sharp across his face. "When?"

"A few more weeks." Alex replied, "That's what Doctor Simone says."

The tension in Ricardo's brow deepened. His voice dropped, slow and edged. "What did you ask them to pay?"

Alex's lips twitched — a tight, unnatural smile, one that didn't touch his eyes. "Ransom, of course… more than the bounty your father put on you."

Ricardo's jaw tightened. It didn't convince him. His father had abandoned him, had let him be broken, yet now he was negotiating with Alex and willing to pay more to get him back?

"How much is that?" Ricardo pressed, voice flat.

Alex faltered, his answer slower this time. "I… don't think it matters now." He didn't meet Ricardo's eyes. A beat passed before he shifted tone, grasping for another thread. "Anyway, there's something else. Doctor Simone thinks a change of space might help your recovery. So you'll be moved into the master bedroom tonight."

Ricardo's brows furrowed. "I don't need to."

"It's a larger room," Alex offered. "More comfortable. More private."

Ricardo studied him for a long moment, something flickering behind his eyes. Then, abruptly, he asked, "What is this place?"

Alex blinked. "An island, as you can see."

"It's where you grew up?" The question slipped out before Ricardo could stop it. He didn't know why he cared. But he did.  

A light flashed across Alex's face — too quick to name, gone almost before it showed. Then he looked away, toward the far-off cliffs rising from the coast like jagged memory.

"…Kind of," he answered eventually. "Yeah."

Silence settled between them, thick and unspoken. The marsh birds cried in the distance.  

Ricardo stood there for another breath, then turned again, walking away down the path, his footsteps heavy but steady.

Alex stayed where he was, alone on the boardwalk, staring after Ricardo as his figure disappeared behind the reeds. His legs trembled  slightly beneath him, fatigue pulling at his bones. Beyond the marsh, the waves kissed the sand in a steady rhythm, their distant murmur fading into the hollow quiet Ricardo had left behind.

He hadn't told Ricardo the truth — that he'd refused to hear Matteo's offer, cutting him off before a price could be named.

That he'd asked for nothing in return for Ricardo's freedom.

After dinner, the maid led Ricardo up the carved stone staircase to the third floor. He moved slowly, one hand trailing lightly along the banister, the other tucked inside the folds of his coat. His shoulders still ached faintly — a dull echo of pain — but it no longer commanded him. Now, curiosity did.

At the top of the stairs, the hallway extended to a set of double doors, heavy and dark with age. The maid pushed them open with a soft creak, stepping aside.

Ricardo walked in.

The master bedroom was soaked in color — deep, rich scarlet that clung to the senses like blood. Scarlet curtains fell in velvet waves on the sides of the tall balcony door. A matching rug sprawled beneath his feet, the same hue as the coverlet stretched across the wide, four-poster bed. The walls were lined with elegant molding, and against one of them stood a wide, imposing bookshelf, packed tightly with books of all sizes — leather-bound volumes, worn paperbacks, and titles in multiple languages.

He didn't know what he expected. Definitely not this.

It felt like walking into a sealed memory. Not his own — someone else's. The air was still, scented with something old, something faintly floral. The kind of scent that clung to fabric kept untouched for years.

"This…" Ricardo began, turning halfway to glance at the maid. "This room…"

The maid stiffened, a flicker of nerves in her eyes. "We— We prepared everything fresh, Signore." She said quickly, brushing an invisible crease on the bedspread. "Cleaned it thoroughly, of course."

"That's not what I meant." Ricardo said, voice low. "How long has this room been unused?"

The woman hesitated. Her fingers stilled against the fabric.

"For over ten years." She said at last, voice barely above a whisper. "No one was allowed to touch it. Not the sheets, not the shelves, not even to dust. Don Dante used to do it himself. Now… Signor Alex does."

Ricardo frowned. He moved deeper into the room, his steps slow and deliberate, until he reached the tall French doors that led to the balcony. He pressed his palms against them and pushed. The hinges creaked in reluctant protest before the doors finally gave way, swinging open to let in a rush of sea air tinged with salt and fading sunlight.

The view was breathtaking — the Mediterranean Sea awash in molten gold, the sky streaked with hues of amber and rose. But Ricardo's gaze didn't linger on the horizon. It landed instead on the metal latch fixed to the door.

It wasn't a regular latch for a room like this.

It was the kind designed to hold a heavy padlock. Not something meant for privacy, but for confinement — the kind of mechanism you'd use if you were afraid of something escaping rather than someone breaking in.

A ripple of unease tightened in his gut, crawling up the back of his neck like cold fingers.

"Whose room was this?" He asked, although he might have guessed the answer.

The maid's lips parted, then shut again. She glanced nervously toward the door. "I... I shouldn't say more. Signor Alex doesn't allow us to speak of it." She paused, her fingers twitching slightly. "If everything's in order, I'll give you some privacy. And if you need anything, just use the bell beside the bed."

"Thank you." Ricardo nodded.

The maid's footsteps faded down the stairwell, leaving Ricardo alone in the scarlet silence. He sat at the edge of the bed, hands resting loosely on the cool silk sheets, eyes on the velvet curtain fluttered faintly in the sea breeze.

He exhaled slowly, his mind a churn of questions — the untouched room, the special lock, the maid's expression when she was asked the questions... the sense that he had just stepped into something sacred, or haunted.

Then a noise broke the stillness.

A loud thud — sharp, heavy, like something had fallen just beyond the wall.  

Ricardo's head lifted.

Curiosity stirred in his chest. Cautiously, he rose and stepped out into the hallway. The corridor was dim, lit only by a lantern flickering near the stairwell. Then he saw it: a door on the far side, slightly ajar, light spilling through the gap onto the wooden floor.

He approached it silently and pushed it open.

The room was no bigger than a nursery — narrow, modest, and stark. Mechanical parts littered the floor, some skittering close to Ricardo's shoes. At the center of the mess sat Alex, legs folded beneath him, one hand resting awkwardly on the floor to balance himself. Beside him lay a wooden box toppled onto its side, its contents scattered in a disarray of tiny gears, polished wood fragments, and delicate screws. Nearby, a set of tools gleamed faintly under the overhead light, half-buried beneath the fallen box.

Alex looked up, visibly startled. His eyes widened, then quickly softened into a sheepish sort of embarrassment.

"So… you've moved in." He said, trying to sound casual. "How is it?"

He struggled to stand up, but his leg buckled slightly — whether from injury or exhaustion, Ricardo couldn't tell. Alex caught himself on the edge of the desk, wincing. "Sorry, it's a little… disorganized here."

Ricardo's gaze swept the room. A small, plain bed was pushed against the wall, its blanket neatly folded. A low table stood near it, cluttered with papers and a simple bedside lamp. There was a tall locker in the corner, its top shelf empty — likely where the fallen box had been stored. That was it. No decorations. No color. Just a child-sized room too cramped for a grown man.

"This is where you sleep?" Ricardo asked, incredulous.

Alex gave a crooked smile. "My bedroom, yes. Not far from yours."

Ricardo's brows knit slightly. "A child's room?"

"I've been used to this room since I was little." Alex said, tone lighter than his eyes. "Habits are hard to change, you know."

He offered a half shrug, like it was no big deal. Like it hadn't meant anything that the master of the entire island lived in a room that looked like it had belonged to a forgotten boy.

"And…" Alex added, more softly, "If you need anything, you know where I am."

Ricardo's expression hardened. "I won't need nothing."

He turned and walked out without another word.

But once back in the master bedroom, he didn't lie down. He didn't reach for a book, or close the door. He simply stood still, surrounded by the heavy silence and the deep scarlet glow of curtains, rugs, and bedding that seemed frozen in time.

His thoughts drifted to the stark contrast between this untouched, almost sacred room and the austere tiny space down the hall — a grown man sleeping on a narrow bed beneath a locker crammed with forgotten pieces, mere steps from a real bedroom no one had dared to touch for over a decade.

He remembered the look Alex had given him — not calculating or guarded, but uncertain. Human.

The same man who'd orchestrated his ruin, who had broken him with ruthless precision, still clung to a space barely large enough to breathe. A space that looked more like a shelter than a habitat.

What kind of boy had lived there? What kind of past made someone build power and cruelty like armor, yet still sleep inches from the ghosts of childhood?

And why did that question stick in his mind like a splinter beneath the skin?

Why, no matter how hard he tried to shove it down, couldn't he stop thinking about that room… and that man?

Chapter Text

The next morning, rain fell over Castello Island in a hushed, silver curtain, muffling the world beyond the balcony. Ricardo woke to the sound of it — not the sharp drumming against glass, but the whisper of water on stone, the sigh of wind slipping through the closed French doors, outside which the downpour blurred the horizon into a watercolor of gray and green. The scent of petrichor and salt seeped into the scarlet-drenched room, cool against his skin.

Breakfast arrived on a tray — espresso, fresh figs, and warm croissants dusted with sugar — but Ricardo barely tasted it. His attention snagged on the bookshelf against the far wall, its contents suddenly vivid in the storm's muted light. The night before, he'd only registered its presence; now, he approached it like an archaeologist uncovering a tomb.

The collection was incongruous. Between leather-bound classics and Italian poetry stood rows of technical manuals. These were books in Italian, naturally — but also in English, French, and German. His gaze passed over some titles he vaguely recognized from school, and others that meant nothing to him: Information Theory and Reliable Communication, Principles of Quantum Computing, Applied Cryptography... Volumes on advanced mathematics, programming languages, cybersecurity, and systems architecture.

He didn't understand most of it. He wasn't a mathematician, nor a programmer — it was as if these books have been written in an alien language. But something about them held him there. Not because of what they said, but because of what they suggested.

Ricardo pulled one down — The Art of Exploitation — and flinched when it fell open to a chapter on buffer overflow attacks. In the margins were handwritten notes in tight, angular script:

    "Payload structure must account for ASLR — see p. 187 for workaround."

    "Tested on Linux kernel 2.6.16, patch effective. — 14.8.07"

The ink had faded with time, but the urgency of the annotations remained. Someone had studied this with obsessive focus.

Ricardo traced the words, pulse quickening. This wasn't the library of a mafia boss curated for display. These books had been read — deeply. Spines were worn, pages dog-eared, margins filled with dense, slanted handwriting. Some books had entire sections marked with tabs, notes stuffed in between, equations rewritten and annotated in pen. This was the workspace of a scholar. A scientist.

He grabbed another book — Network Security: Private Communication in a Public World — and flipped through its pages. More notes filled the margins, but this time the handwriting was different: rougher, less refined, like it belonged to someone younger, still learning.

Tucked near the middle was a small sticker, and scrawled on it in the earlier, elegant hand was a brief comment:

    "A., your solution on p. 45 won't scale. Try the modular inverse approach instead."

The rain thickened, sluicing down the balcony's wrought-iron railing. Ricardo barely noticed. He was knee-deep in a realization: these books were relics of a mind obsessed with systems, with precision, with control. The very skills that had built Alex's cyber empire — his almost unhackable networks, his ghost transactions, the way he'd weaponized Ricardo's own family's distrust.

This is how he did it.

The notes were a blueprint. A trail of breadcrumbs leading to the heart of Alex's power. And yet —

Ricardo frowned. The dates scribbled inside the covers stopped abruptly fourteen years ago. The most recent publication was more than a decade old. Whoever had owned these hadn't touched them in years.

These weren't just books. They were the residue of a mind that had once burned bright — hidden now in the heart of a forgotten villa, on an island no one was meant to find.

And somehow, Ricardo felt that by reading, even without understanding, he was brushing against that presence. A ghost — not haunting, but lingering. Quiet. Brilliant. Lost.

The maid arrived quietly, a neat stack of towels pressed to her side. With a gentle knock and a courteous greeting, she waited for Ricardo's permission before entering. Just as she stepped forward, Alex appeared at the doorway.

"I'll bring these in." He said, his voice low, his smile faint and unreadable as he reached for the towels.

The maid hesitated. Like everyone else in the house lately, she trod carefully around Alex. But after a brief pause, she nodded and backed away.

Alex entered quietly, the towels in his arms nothing more than a pretense. His gaze immediately found Ricardo, who was sitting on the small sofa by the bookshelf, one leg folded beneath him, a thick volume on cryptography open across his lap. The morning rain still clung to the air, the smell of wet stone and salt wafting in through the open balcony doors.

"Interested in this?" Alex asked softly.

Ricardo startled. He snapped the book shut and jerked his head up, fingers tightening around the book's spine. He had heard the door, but hadn't expected Alex. His eyes narrowed, jaw working like he was weighing the cost of speaking. In the end, it wasn't anger that broke the silence — it was curiosity.

"Yours?" He asked, almost grudgingly.

Alex set the towels down on the dresser, fingers lingering on the fabric. "Not exactly."

The evasion was deliberate. Ricardo pressed. "The notes are from two different hands. Yours and…?"

A pause. The rain filled the silence.

"My mother's." Alex said at last, quiet as a confession.

Ricardo blinked. "Your mother?"

"She was a cryptographer." Alex replied, lowering himself into the opposite armchair. "She built the first cyber system for my father."

Ricardo stared. So what he guessed was true — the sophisticated ransomware networks, the finesse in Alex's digital warfare, the way his cyber operations effortlessly outmaneuvered Salvatore's crude, brute-force tactics — at least until Clara Ventresca broke them. It wasn't just training. It was inheritance.

But then came the weight of memory. The rumors. Whispers of a brilliant woman who vanished too soon. Some said her husband silenced her. Others claimed she walked into the sea and never returned. Every version ended the same — she disappeared, consumed by tragedy.

Ricardo swallowed hard. "And what happened to her?"

Alex looked down. His hands twisted together tightly in his lap. "She… I… I don't…"

The rest never came. Couldn't.

"I'm sorry." Ricardo murmured after a beat. Softer than he intended. Honest, despite everything.

Alex raised his eyes. Something unguarded flickered in them  — fragile, almost trembling.

"You said you're sorry." He said quietly. "That means you care. About how I feel."

Ricardo's face hardened in an instant, shutters slamming down over whatever had slipped through. "You're mistaking my habitual courtesy for compassion."

Then his voice sharpened. Anger, long simmering beneath his skin, boiled to the surface.

"I don't even know why I'm talking to you!" He snapped, pushing to his feet. "Why should anyone care to know about the woman who gave birth to a monster? Maybe she taught you codes and equations, but clearly not how to be a human being. If she tried to raise you at all, she failed — completely, and irreversibly."

The words landed like glass shattering on stone.

Alex went still.

He didn't speak. Didn't even blink. But the shift was visible — the color drained from his face, and the corners of his mouth tensed in a painful attempt to keep something contained. His eyes reddened, not with tears, but from the sheer effort of holding back a reaction.

A breath he couldn't take. A memory he couldn't outrun.

He looked at Ricardo, gaze splintered, as if something vital had cracked behind it. The silence between them stretched, dense and unforgiving.

Then, without a word, he rose. Walked to the door. Paused.

"Maybe you're right." He said at last, voice low and rough. "Maybe she did fail."

And he left — the scent of rain, salt, and something deeply wounded trailing in his wake.

Ricardo stood in the quiet that followed, heart pounding, fists clenched.

Regret came immediately — bitter and sharp.

Alex's mother had likely died when he was just a boy. And what he said… it had cut too deep.

But then again, didn't he deserve it?

Didn't they both?

Ricardo's mind was a mess — a storm of guilt, anger, and something far too raw to name. He didn't want to sit, but he couldn't stand still either. His eyes drifted back to the bookshelf, desperate for distraction, for air. His fingers brushed the spines until they caught on something different — a paper notebook, worn at the edges, hidden behind a thick volume on encryption theory.

He pulled it free.

On the inside cover, in elegant, looping cursive, was a name: Elena Morandi. The ink had faded slightly with time, but the grace of the handwriting remained — calm, deliberate, and unmistakably hers.

The first few pages were filled with half-formed equations, scribbled-out code fragments, and the occasional phrase that looked like personal notes. Then, nestled in the middle of the book, was a single page written in the same script of the name.

A poem.

Her handwriting here was less controlled, the letters slanting as if the words had bled from her against her will. Ricardo leaned in and began to read.

    They dress the lie in silk and charm,

    And call it love to break your will.

    They teach you silence, gift you harm,

    Then watch you vanish, soft and still.

    I was a bird who learned too late

    The sky was locked behind his gate.

    Each promise hung with threads of lead,

    Each vow a shroud the living dread.

    They said: be quiet, bear the cost,

    But every word I lost

    Was just another nail

    In the coffin of my name.

The words coiled around his ribs like smoke. He turned the page.

    My son, if ever you should find

    These lines I left, please read them kind.

    I loved you more than breath or flame,

    But still, I left — and bear the shame.

    Not all who run have hearts grown cold —

    Some flee a world too dark to hold,

    A life where love must twist and bend

    Until it breaks, or meets its end.

    I could not tear the rot apart,

    So I escaped to guard my heart.

    Not from you — but from the lie

    That told me mothers shouldn't cry.

    I left no gifts, no grand defense,

    Just ink and grief and consequence.

    But if these words are all you see,

    Know I chose them carefully —

    To fight the silence, not to flee.

Ricardo's breath caught as he read, each line digging into him like hooks. This wasn't some abstract cry — it was personal. A confession etched in grief and resistance.

He sat down slowly, the notebook still open in his lap.

This woman, whoever she was before the world called her a mafia wife, had been brilliant. And terrified. And trapped.

And she'd left all this behind — for a son who, somehow, had inherited both her mind and the very world that destroyed her.

The rain outside whispered against the stone walls and balcony rails, a soft, relentless rhythm — but inside him, silence had shattered.

He read the poems again, slower this time, each line pressing into him like a bruise. The voice on the page was intimate and sorrowful, woven with intelligence and ache — a woman who had once fought codes for a living, only to find herself trapped in a life far more encrypted. Her words were a quiet rebellion, a soft scream buried in paper. And now, years later, her son had kept it, preserved it. Not discarded or forgotten, but protected like something sacred.

Ricardo closed his eyes.

He thought about what Alex had done to him — the betrayal, the schemes, the manipulation. He thought about the pain, the fear, the long days when hope felt like a rumor. But then he thought about Alex earlier that day — the way his eyes had filled with colorless grief when he'd struck with those cruel words about his mother, the way he left the room as if trying not to bleed.

Maybe she did fail. — Alex had said.

Ricardo had wanted to hurt him. And he had. But now... he felt the recoil.

This poem wasn't just a trace of Alex's mother — it was a thread of who Alex used to be, or perhaps who he still was beneath the hardened shell. The boy raised in the echo of sorrow and silence. The boy who might have loved a mother who tried to escape, who left behind words when she couldn't leave anything else.

Ricardo swallowed hard, his throat tightening. He didn't excuse anything. He hadn't forgiven. But he sat there, notebook trembling slightly in his hands, and he felt something shifting — not a softening, but an unraveling.

The man who had destroyed him had also been destroyed, piece by piece, long before.

And suddenly, that felt harder to carry than he expected.

Somewhere in the storm, a truth hovered — about the locked master bedroom, the man who slept in a child's room, the woman who'd left behind equations like love letters.

And for the first time, Ricardo found himself wondering: who was really the captive here — him, or Alex?

The dream began softly —

A child's room, bathed in the honeyed glow of a nightlight. Small hands clutching a blanket. A woman's voice, warm as summer wheat, humming that old Sicilian lullaby — the same one from the music box.  

"Dormi, dormi, bel bambino…"

Her fingers brushed through the boy's hair, then she leaned in and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Her lips were warm. Her voice, a hush of safety.

"Mamma loves you." She whispered, like a promise.

The light clicked off.

Then the storm broke.

A thunderclap ripped the sky apart, so loud it seemed to shake the walls. The boy jerked upright in the dark, blinking against sleep. His fists rubbed at his eyes, searching.

"Mamma?"

No answer.

He padded barefoot into the hallway, the cold wood biting his soles. Lightning flashed, painting the villa in jagged blue-white strokes. The master bedroom door hung slightly open. Empty. The bed sheets were smooth, untouched. Papers scattered on the carpet — pages filled with half-finished equations, notes he remembered copying but failing to understand, the ones that made her frown, then go quiet.

And the balcony door rattled in the wind — open, for the first time since he could remember.

Storm howled into the bedroom.

He stepped outside.

"Mamma?" He called again, a tremble in his voice.

Then he saw it.

Draped over the balustrade, rain-soaked and clinging — her favorite shawl. The deep indigo one stitched with silver threads. Whipped by the wind. Beckoning.

Like a flag. Like a goodbye.

A sob caught in his throat.

He ran — tiny feet sliding, hands outstretched, heart frantic.

"Mamma!"

And then he woke.

The cry still caught in his throat as air rushed back in — ragged, choking. 

The present crashed in — still the cramped child's bed. Still the storm howling outside. Still alone.

Alex curled onto his side, forehead pressed to the wall. His ribs heaved. The nightmare's aftershocks rolled through him — not panic, not fear, but the older, deeper wound: the certainty that love was a language spoken only in past tense.

She had kissed him goodnight. Promised love.

And vanished from his life.

In the dark, Alex dug his nails into his palms until the pain grounded him — until he remembered how to breathe around the hollow where her voice used to be.

He had survived the silence that followed her. He would survive what still lay ahead.

And yet, here he was — still in the same room, the same child's bed, untouched by time. As if some part of him believed that if he stayed, if he didn't grow too far from that night, she might come back.

And find her boy still waiting.

Chapter Text

The ancient stone of the castle ruins loomed under the iron-gray sky, its few standing walls clinging to the cliff like ribs of a dead giant. Wind whispered through cracks in the stones, carrying the scent of sea brine and damp earth. Moss grew thick in the crevices, and the ground was slick from rain. From the outside, the place looked forgotten — just another relic lost to history atop Castello Island.

But beneath the ruins, life thrived.

A narrow stairwell, disguised as part of the ruins, led down into the depths. The air grew cooler, damper, the deeper one descended. Fluorescent lights cast a monotonous blue glow over the reinforced tunnel walls, their hum blending with the distant thrum of generators. 

Alex moved through the dimly lit corridors with the quiet precision of a man who knew every shadow, every turn. His polished boots clicked against the concrete, the sound swallowed by the low murmur of machinery and hushed voices. His expression was unreadable — sharp jaw set, amber eyes scanning the activity around him with apathy. 

It had once been a dungeon, centuries ago. Now, the maze of chambers had been stripped and repurposed into a high-functioning clandestine operation, a vast underground complex — part laboratory, part vault, part fortress.

The passage ended at a steel door secured with a biometric lock. It slid open with a mechanical groan, revealing the heart of the operation — a cavernous lab carved into the stone, lit by rows of harsh white fluorescents. Glass partitions divided the space into sections. Stainless steel tables stretched in long, orderly rows, cluttered with bubbling flasks, micro-scales, centrifuges, and vacuum-sealed containers. The air was thick with the chemical bite of ammonia and acetone, laced with something sharper — the sterile, metallic tang of synthesis.

Inside, two chemists in white coats and protective goggles moved with clinical precision. Their gloved hands darted from beaker to burner, cooking up batches of carfentanil — a synthetic opioid so potent it bordered on weaponized — along with shards of methamphetamine, alpha-PVP, U-47700, methoxetamine, and trays of pressed MDMA tablets. Each tablet bore the Chiesa emblem: a wolf with an iron crown, gleaming faintly under the lab lights.

Nearby, laborers in black masks and protective gear packaged the finished product into vacuum-sealed bags, stacking them into crates marked as "agricultural supplies." A few armed guards stood at the exits, their presence a silent warning.

Alex paused at the threshold, hands in the pockets of his tailored black coat, eyes taking in everything with surgical detachment.

One of the men — a stocky middle-aged handler named Pietro — broke off from checking inventory and approached, removing his mask.

"Boss." Pietro greeted, voice low and weary. "Glad you're here. We've hit another wall."

Alex barely turned his head. "Go on."

"Our distribution's been frozen again. Dealers in Genoa, Bari, Valencia — they all stopped moving product. Salvatore's threats are spreading. They say even a whisper of our name is enough to get them buried."

Alex's eyes narrowed. A muscle in his cheek twitched, but he said nothing for a beat. Behind Pietro, one of the burners flared as a chemist adjusted a dial. The blue light danced across the room.

"And the French channels?"

Pietro shifted uncomfortably. "Same story. Corsica, Marseille — nothing. Everyone's spooked. We lost sixty percent of revenue last month. If this keeps up—"

"It won't." Alex cut in, his voice quiet but sharp. He moved slowly through the lab, fingers brushing over the sealed packages lined in precise rows. "Salvatore's playing the same old game — squeeze, starve, watch us flinch. But fear only works if we let it."

He stopped beside a steel prep table and turned to Pietro with measured calm. "Give it three days."

Pietro blinked, uncertain. "Three?"

A slow, icy smile tugged at the corner of Alex's mouth. "Yes. In three days, Salvatore's going to dig his own grave — and when he does, we'll be ready to take everything back."

He reached for a small vial of CX-42 from the table, a volatile psychoactive compound still in early testing. The liquid inside shimmered faintly as he turned it between his fingers, the fluorescent lights catching its iridescent sheen.

"Prepare the inventory." He said. "Top-tier quality. Pack everything we've got."

Pietro hesitated. "But, Boss… are we sure there'll be a way to push them out?"

Alex placed a hand on his shoulder, firm and composed. "There will be." He said. "The fire Salvatore lit is going to leave a void — and we'll be the ones to fill it."

The news began to arrive just as Alex predicted — three days to the hour, carried by encrypted messages and hushed phone calls.

In Barcelona, a shipment of high-purity cocaine — meant for a cartel boss with a notorious temper — arrived sealed and stamped with the Garavani crest. But when the buyers tested it, the powder was cut so badly with baking soda that it fizzed in the testing solution. The cartel's enforcers stormed the meeting point, slaughtering three of Salvatore's men and leaving their mutilated bodies in the harbor as a message.

In Rio de Janeiro, a deal with a powerful favela syndicate turned into a bloodbath when their payment — a ton of Garavani-grade product — turned out to be 80% flour and crushed painkillers. The syndicate's leader, a man who had worked with Salvatore for over a decade, sent back the heads of the Garavani couriers in ice coolers.

Garavani's cocaine shipment to Hamburg was also completely swapped. Product was laced with chalked benzocaine and powdered detergent. The German buyers burned the entire consignment and pulled out of negotiations on the spot.

And in Naples, where Salvatore's oldest allies operated, an entire warehouse of product was seized by authorities after an anonymous tip, only for forensic tests to reveal it was fake, laced with enough laxative to send a clear and humiliating message.

The damage wasn't just financial. It was reputational.

Sao Paulo and Lisbon followed — shut down distribution overnight. His South American partners are accusing him of betrayal. One of them even put a price on Salvatore's head until he clears his name.

Salvatore's phone rang non-stop — furious allies, deceived partners, enforcers demanding explanations. His carefully constructed network of trust was unraveling in days.

He stood rigid behind his desk, knuckles white as they pressed into a map riddled with pins and scrawling. The air reeked of burnt cigar and the sharp sting of whiskey he'd hurled moments ago — the glass lay shattered near the wall. His men — the few who hadn't lost faith — lingered at a cautious distance, watching him like they would a lit fuse.

"HOW?" Salvatore roared. The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot. His face was stone — but it was the kind that crumbled under pressure.

Gianni, a wiry lieutenant with sweat beading at his temple, stepped forward reluctantly. "We traced the Barcelona load. Seals were clean. Route had no gaps. The only one with access before distribution was…"

"Luca Marchetti," Salvatore finished for him, voice low and lethal.

Gianni nodded. "He's vanished. His apartment's cleaned out. His wife and son left for Switzerland last week."

Silence gripped the room — then came the crash. Salvatore's fist slammed into the table, sending glasses shattering to the floor. No one moved.

"Find him, and anyone who's ever stood close to him." Salvatore snarled. Then after a beat, he added, "Who's running the interrogations?"

"Diego Renzetti. As usual."

Salvatore's eyes narrowed. "Pull him out. I don't trust that bastard anymore."

Gianni blinked. "But Don… we still need someone to—"

"Then YOU do it." The words hit like a blade drawn across concrete.

Gianni stiffened, throat tightening. "Me? I… I'll do my best."

Salvatore stepped close enough for Gianni to smell the smoke on his breath. "If you don't, you won't need to worry about your best." He turned away sharply. "Start with the Naples safehouse. If Luca had help, we flush it out now."

Ramon found Alex in the lab, reviewing a freshly labeled batch of synthetic opioids. He strode in, a smirk playing on his scarred face, and tossed a tablet onto the table.

"You seen this yet?"

The screen displayed encrypted chatter, news alerts from underground forums,  and — most damning — a video of a cartel boss setting a Garavani flag ablaze in front of a roaring crowd of armed men.  

Alex scanned it, then set the tablet down. His expression didn't change, eyes cool with the look of someone who already knew the outcome.

"Luca Marchetti did his job." He said flatly.

Ramon reached into his jacket for a cigarette, then stopped mid-motion as Alex's gaze flicked up. A wordless warning. No smoking in the lab. In his excitement, Ramon had nearly forgotten.

He chuckled instead, backing off. "Better than just a job. He followed every step to the letter. Let our people into the logistics chain, rerouted the containers, and swapped the product without a hitch. No one noticed till the whole thing detonated in their faces. Now Garavani's scrambling like a rat in a flooded basement. His allies are turning on him. Even the Commission's questioning his control."

Alex tapped once on the ledger in front of him. "Luca was the perfect mole. Garavani's veteran logistics manager. Clean record. No vices. No reason to betray Salvatore — unless you knew where to push."

Ramon exhaled. "The matching marrow for the kid's leukemia treatment?"

"And the debts." Alex confirmed. "It wasn't loyalty I bought. It was desperation. He would never betray Salvatore for cash. But for his son…" A faint, cold smile. "He became our scalpel."

Ramon whistled low. "Salvatore's losing it. He pulled four of his own men into the basement yesterday — shot two when they wouldn't talk. And the kicker? He benched Diego Renzetti."

Alex raised an eyebrow. "His interrogation hound?"

"Yeah. Doesn't even trust him now. Guess that livestream still has teeth."

At the mention of the "livestream", Alex's eyes darkened, turning to the blue flame glowing from the burner — like fire torn from hell. He stared into it for a moment, then murmured, "Salvatore's bleeding hard from the inside now. The paranoia will finish what we started."

A pause. Then Ramon's grin faded slightly. "What about Marchetti then?"

"He's in Argentina by now." Alex said smoothly. "New identity. Full cover. His son's in remission."

Ramon studied him. "You actually kept your words to him?"

Alex's reply was simple. "He earned it."

There was a pause as the weight of what they'd done settled into the room like the salt mist from the waves outside. The Garavani empire, once untouchable, had just been poisoned from within — not by force, but by precision. Quiet sabotage. Personal debts. Human leverage.

And now, the breach was open — a deep, bleeding wound in the Garavani empire — wide enough for Alex to move into the next and most decisive phase.

"Time for a business trip." He said, turning away from the tables, "Back to the mainland."

Ramon's grin sharpened. "So it begins. Our counterattack."

Alex paused mid-stride. "One more thing. Set up a meeting for me with Matteo Bianco. In person."

Ramon's smirk faded. "You're serious?"

"I don't waste words."

"But isn't that risky? Meeting Salvatore's man? He must be waiting for you to show up."

Alex met his eyes, voice even. "Bianco isn't answering to Salvatore."

Ramon arched a brow. "Then who the hell is he answering to?"

Alex's mouth curved faintly — not quite a smile, but something knowing. "A more human person than Il Diavolo."

He offered no further explanation, and Ramon could only stare blankly.

"But… you don't need to go in person to collect the ransom." Ramon said quickly. "Bianco made it clear — they're willing to negotiate remotely. We can handle it from here."

Alex turned, heading for the steel door, his coat catching the cold light. "There's more to the ransom than money." He said. "And some messages must be delivered face-to-face."

His footsteps echoed into the passageway, leaving Ramon alone with the hum of machines and the sharp tang of chemicals — and the growing sense that whatever Alex was planning next, it wasn't just about business or war.

It was something deeper. Something personal.

And Ramon had a bad feeling about this.

The maid's quiet knock interrupted the stillness of the master bedroom. Ricardo looked up from the book he wasn't reading as she entered, carrying something small and wooden in her hands — the music box.

She set it carefully on the dresser, avoiding his gaze. "Signor Alex thought you might want this back."

Ricardo's fingers stilled against the pages. He had deliberately left the box behind in the medical room when he moved, a silent rejection of Alex's attempts at sentimentality. And now, after days of absence, it had found its way back to him.

The maid slipped out, leaving him alone with the box.

For a long moment, Ricardo just stared at it. The olivewood was polished smooth, the mother-of-pearl inlay catching the dim light. He had mocked it before — called it a kid's toy. But now, after learning about Alex's mother, after reading her poems, the box felt different.

Heavy.

Slowly, he sat on the edge of the bed and reached for it. The hinges creaked faintly as he lifted the lid. The tiny carved boy and his dog sat frozen beneath the glass, waiting. Ricardo turned the brass key at the base, winding it until the mechanism resisted. Then he let go.

The melody began — soft, delicate, the same Sicilian lullaby his own mother had hummed to him. The same one Alex's mother must have sung to him, too.

Ricardo exhaled, his chest tight.

He hadn't realized until now — this box wasn't just a toy. It was a relic. A father's attempt to comfort a son left alone in the dark.

The music played on, filling the scarlet-drenched room with something fragile.

Then, as the last notes faded, a faint shuffle came from outside the door — a deliberate scuff of shoes against wood.

Ricardo didn't look up. "I know you're out there."

There was a pause. Then the door opened a crack. Alex stood in the threshold, hesitant, almost sheepish, a smile tugging awkwardly at his mouth. His usual sharpness was softened — his hair slightly mussed, his sleeves rolled up haphazardly, as if he'd been pacing before mustering the courage to knock.

Ricardo raised a brow. "You're probing me, right? You didn't need to pull a move like that. Honestly, it's stupid." He tapped the music box. "What if I'd just smashed the thing?"

Alex's lips twitched. "You wouldn't."

"Why are you so sure?" Ricardo asked flatly.

"Because you're a decent human being," Alex said, stepping inside. "Unlike me."

Ricardo rolled his eyes, opening his mouth to retort — 

"Don't throw me out yet." Alex cut in, raising his hands in mock surrender. "I'm not staying long. In fact, I just came to say goodbye — for a short while."

Ricardo stilled. "You're leaving?" His voice was carefully neutral.

"Back to the city. Just a quick trip." Alex's tone was light, but his fingers flexed at his sides. "Hopefully, I'll come back in one piece in a few days."

A pause. Then Ricardo asked, "To the front line of the war? To confront my father?"

Alex shook his head. "No. I'm going to meet Matteo."

Ricardo's attention sharpened. He leaned forward, suddenly more alert. "Matteo Bianco?"

Alex nodded. "To settle some details," he said, choosing his words carefully. "About… returning you."

Ricardo's gaze hardened. "And what details need to be handled in person?"

Alex didn't answer. Instead, he pulled something from his coat — a sleek black phone with a charger. He put it gently on the dresser beside the music box.

"This connects you to me." He said.

Ricardo picked it up, started it. The phone booted quickly — plain black interface, only one app installed: a secure video chat. One contact. No browser. No messages. No data connection to the outside world.

Just Alex.

"That's the only thing it can do, right?" Ricardo said dryly.

Alex looked almost embarrassed. "Just… special circumstances." Then, more earnestly, "I'll let you talk to Matteo if I get the chance. So keep it charged."

Ricardo studied him for a long moment. The Alex in front of him now was different from the cold strategist who had orchestrated his ruin. This Alex was… unsettled. Almost nervous.

"Why are you really meeting Matteo?" Ricardo asked, his voice low.

Alex hesitated. Then, just as softly, he answered, "Because I need to know if his offer is genuine."

Ricardo's face remained impassive, but his knuckles whitened around the phone. "Who sent him? Not my father, right?"

Alex's eyes flickered — just enough to betray the answer.

"My mother, then?" Ricardo pressed. "And they kept it from my father?"

Alex didn't deny it. After a moment, he said quietly, "You have a good mother. She never turns her back on you."

The air between them thickened with all the things Alex couldn't say — about mothers who vanish, about sons left behind.

"I should go." Alex said, turning toward the door, already steeling himself for the cold dismissal he knew was coming.

"Don't die out there." The words tore from Ricardo's throat before he could stop them.

Alex froze. Then turned, the tension in his shoulders softening. He offered a faint, aching smile. "I'll crawl back from hell for you."

Then he was gone, leaving only the echo of footsteps and the ghost of that promise.

Ricardo stared at the empty doorway, then down at the music box. The carved boy and his dog stared back, frozen in their silent vigil. A bridge between past and present. A testament to all the ways love could both wound and heal.

Outside, the wind howled, bringing with it the sharp scent of a storm on the rise.

Chapter Text

The Calabrian sunset bled crimson across the vineyard as luxury cars slithered through the rows of gnarled grapevines. Their tinted windows hid faces that could move millions with a phone call — Neapolitan narcos in Brioni suits, Corsican smugglers with gold Rolexes glinting beneath cufflinks, Balkan arms dealers smelling of oud and gun oil. They'd been summoned by Don Vittorio Greco, Salvatore's oldest ally, to formulate emergency war plans against Alex Chiesa.

More than a dozen had come. They brought no guards and no weapons — an old code still honored among the highest ranks: no blood on neutral soil.

A spiral staircase led down into the cellar — but this cellar was no wine vault. It was a fortified chamber of polished concrete, with a horseshoe of leather armchairs around a heavy wooden table, facing a sleek projection screen. Each man was handed a glass of Barolo, poured by a young silent steward, then ushered to a seat.

They were told Salvatore Garavani would meet them here.

Then the door opened.

The one that stepped in was not Salvatore Garavani, but Alex Chiesa.

Draped in a tailored black coat, Alex moved like a panther circling prey. His hands empty but his eyes holding the weight of a loaded gun.The amber had hardened to topaz - cold, calculating, utterly unafraid.

Silence. Then chaos.

"What the fuck?"

"Why the hell is he here?"

"Is this a joke, Greco?"

Vittorio Greco sat motionless, hands resting on his cane, eyes unreadable beneath silver brows. At seventy-eight, he'd survived more coups than most had seen funerals. Men called him a relic — but Alex had seen something else.

One year ago, in a quiet villa overlooking Lake Como, Alex came to him without guards, without enmities — just clarity.

"You've seen kings rise and fall, but none of them ever offered you a seat at the table." Alex said. "They used your ports, your routes, your men — then discarded you when the crowns grew heavy."

He slid over a folder. Inside were satellite photos, shipping manifests, and encrypted logs — proof that Salvatore had already begun shifting control of Vittorio's prized routes to a younger, more obedient rival, who used to be Vittorio's own disciple.

"Salvatore's giving your empire away before you're even in the grave." Alex said. "Side with me, and I'll make sure your legacy is earned, not erased. I don't want your crown, only my war. And I need men who built the old world to help shape the new."

That night, Vittorio had stared at the folder long after Alex left. And by morning, the old man made the call that would fracture Salvatore's inner circle for good.

Now, in the quiet vineyard, as Alex stood where Salvatore was supposed to be, Vittorio remained still. But inside, he knew — he had chosen right.

Alex wasn't begging for loyalty. He was building a new era.

With a quiet smile, Alex pulled out a chair and sat, crossing one leg over the other. "Gentlemen. Let's talk."

"Think the bounty's gone so you can waltz in, boy?" Sneered Don Farouk, the Moroccan hashish lord. "How bold. How stupid."

Alex sat still for a breath. Then, without raising his voice: "I know. I know what you're thinking. That if you drag me to Salvatore now, you'll earn a favor. Maybe ten million. Maybe twenty. Divide it up, you each get what? A few hundred thousand?"

His gaze swept the room like a blade. Then he leaned forward. 

"You know how much Salvatore makes in a year? Thirty billion euros. That's more than one percent of Italy's GDP. And how much of that did he ever share with you?"

A few of the older men exchanged wary glances.

"Bullshit." Muttered a tall Corsican, shaking his head. "You're a walking corpse, and you don't even know it."

"Why should we betray Salvatore for you?" Another snapped. "What makes you think you're worth anything?"

Alex didn't blink, his presence too calm.

"Because I don't deal in faith. I deal in facts," He answered, voice steady, sharp as a scalpel. "Salvatore is falling. You've all seen it. The paranoid purges. The bridges he's torched. The allies left to rot. His own son, fed to the wolves just so his pride wouldn't bend."

A flicker of cold fire lit behind his eyes. "So ask yourselves: what do you think he'd do to you?"

He let the question hang in the silence, heavy as a noose.

"Don't insult yourselves by pretending you don't know who he really is. None of you followed him out of loyalty. You obeyed because his boot was on your throats. But that boot's slipping now. Salvatore is bleeding. And a bleeding lion doesn't rule the jungle — he draws the jackals."

Alex's eyes narrowed. "It's time the real predators move in."

A thin, sharp laugh cracked the air.

It came from Gaetano Spira — the Neapolitan don whose family had ruled the ports of Campania for forty years. Gaetano was old blood, older than most in the room, with slicked-back silver hair and an arrogant slouch in his seat. His fingers were weighed down by rings — rubies, sapphires, a diamond pinkie that glittered whenever he raised a glass. His mouth curved in a scornful smirk.

"You?" he scoffed, voice rough from decades of cigars and backroom deals. "You come here to lecture US on power? Who the hell do you think you are? You were your father's mistake. A slippery little bastard with bloodied hands and no spine. So filthy even your own mother couldn't stomach the sight of you — she must have killed herself out of shame."

Uneasy murmurs stirred the air, but no one stopped him.

"You were nothing but a ghost two years ago. A dog on the run. A mutt scurrying for scraps. Salvatore crushed you like kindling and scattered your ashes to the gutters." Gaetano went on, rising slightly in his chair. "And now you show up here, babbling about 'sharing' a dying lion's empire…with us?" He barked a laugh, harsh and humorless. "Is this supposed to be a joke?"

Alex's expression didn't flicker.

"You talk like a man who thinks he's untouchable." He said evenly.

"I AM untouchable." Gaetano snapped, standing now, wine sloshing from his glass. "Do you think one flashy speech and a cheap trick is going to make us follow you? You have no army. No territory. You have a bounty history so long, kids in the street use your name as a ghost story. You are nothing but—"

The motion was fluid.

With practiced ease, Alex drew a compact pistol from beneath his coat and pointed it at Gaetano's head. No tremble. No raised voice. No theatrics.

Just cold, focused intent.

Gasps. Chairs scraped. Then the room froze.

Gaetano stilled — more out of pride than fear. His eyes didn't widen. His smirk lingered. He laughed again, low this time.

"You wouldn't dare. Not here. Not in front of all of them. You still think you need to convince us."

"No need to convince you." Alex tilted his head slightly. "You know your nephew Massimo? The one who slept with your mistress?" He asked, almost casually. "He's been waiting for you to drop dead for years. Poisoned a bottle of your grappa last month, by the way. He thought you wouldn't notice."

Gaetano blinked.

Alex's mouth curled into the ghost of a smile. "I already reached a deal with him. And this will be a gift to your successor."

Gaetano opened his mouth — maybe to call his bluff, maybe to spit one last insult.

Alex didn't wait to find out. He pulled the trigger.

The shot rang like thunder in the stone chamber. Gaetano's body jerked, then slumped back into the leather armchair. A clean hole marked his forehead, and blood streamed down in a slow, ruinous trail, soaking the collar of his tailored suit. The crystal glass slipped from his fingers and smashed on the floor.

"Fuck me."

The men nearest flinched — gasps, muffled curses. One reached for a phantom holster, only to remember the old rule: no weapons. His hand froze midair.

Alex didn't spare the corpse a glance. Calmly, he stood up as he reloaded. The spent shell clinked against the stone floor like a funeral bell tolling early.

"Who's next?" He asked, voice like silk drawn tight over a blade. "Who else is so eager to pass on his fortune to an heir right now?"

A low murmur drifted from the far end of the table: "They were right… you really are a rabid monster."

Alex smiled — slow, wicked. "Only if you bite first."

Silence.

Then, Vittorio Greco let out a breath and cleared his throat. "Well. That's one hell of an opening statement."

"Apologies for the mess, Don Greco." Alex bowed slightly, slipping the gun back into the holster beneath his black coat.

Then, as if nothing had happened, he poured himself a glass of Barolo from the decanter beside Gaetano's still-warm corpse. The rich red wine flowed like blood.

"Gentlemen," he said, lifting the glass slightly, "please. Sit."

But no one moved. Europe's most feared mafia bosses stared across the table at one another, frozen. Not a single hand reached for a drink.

Alex didn't wait.

"When you worked with Salvatore, did he ever offer you more than scraps? No. He ruled like a lion — alone at the top, devouring everything you built, leaving you chained to his favor."

He began to pace slowly around the long table, his footsteps echoing on the stone like a metronome ticking down the old order.

"I won't be your lion. I don't want a throne. I only want what was stolen from me — three smuggling routes, a casino in Messina, and a few construction contracts. That's it."

He paused, letting the simplicity of it settle.

"All the rest? Yours to divide. I'm not here for a crown. I'm here for business. And business, gentlemen... should be mutually profitable."

Then he turned to Vittorio, his voice like a command cloaked in courtesy. "Don Greco. If you would."

Vittorio nodded and pressed a button. A screen flickered to life at the end of the table, casting ghostly light across the stone chamber. A map of Europe appeared — ports, routes, terminals, and cities marked in colored codes and shifting borders.

Alex stepped to the front, glass still in hand, now more lecturer than warlord.

"The French ports go to the Corsicans. The Balkan arms pipeline — Kovacevic. Amsterdam distribution, I leave in Dutch hands..."

He finished the breakdown with elegant finality, then turned back to them.

"This is the end of kings. Of lions. What we need now is partnership — men of power working together, not under one fist. Stability. Fairness. Profit without fear."

Silence followed. Long and taut.

Then, Farouk chuckled under his breath and leaned back. "Fuck it. I'm in."

The ripple began. One by one, heads nodded — cautious, calculating, or quietly impressed.

Finally, Vittorio rose. His face was pale but resolute. He raised his glass high.

"You've heard his offer." He said. "And you've seen his conviction."

He turned toward Alex.

"To new alliances."

Glasses lifted, hesitantly at first — then more firmly, as old loyalties faded in the weight of what had just been decided.

Alex raised his own, amber gaze steady and cold, untouched by doubt.

"To a future none of us have to fear."

Gaetano's corpse sagged in silence, a crimson pool spreading beneath him — a grim punctuation to the promise just spoken.

But no one looked his way.

The body was no longer a man, only a stain — a small inconvenience already fading from memory.

Outside, the wind rolled over the Calabrian hills, carrying the scent of soil, iron, and coming storms.

And beneath that vineyard, power shifted hands — not with chaos, but with calculated violence and ruthless vision.

Alex Chiesa had just claimed the battlefield without firing a second shot.

In just three days, the underworld's balance fractured and reshaped like tectonic plates beneath the surface.

Phone lines burned with whispered deals and shifting loyalties. Garavani-affiliated ports found their shipments stalled, their street dealers disappearing or switching colors. The once-loyal transportation networks — trucking lines, couriers, even customs agents on Salvatore's payroll — rerouted themselves under quiet new contracts, now bearing Alex Chiesa's mark.

The synthetic drug operations, dormant and gutted for weeks, suddenly surged back to life. Product flowed from labs into cities across the continent like a vein reconnected to a beating heart. Amsterdam to Marseille, Naples to Warsaw — his routes buzzed with restored traffic, guarded by men who had, until days ago, worn Garavani's colors.

It wasn't just the logistics. It was the message: The wolf is back — and he isn't bleeding anymore.

Salvatore's empire, so long built on fear and dominance, began to crumble in chunks. Not from an outside war, but from within — as if the bones of the beast were splintering under their own weight. Trusted lieutenants stopped answering calls. Safehouses went dark. Strategic partners became suddenly unreachable. Some defected. Some vanished. And some, Salvatore knew, were waiting to see who would win before they declared a side.

Even the Vault was useless now.

Salvatore sat in his study, the leather-bound dossiers spread before him like a graveyard. Names. Secrets. Blackmail that could topple politicians, ruin bankers, destroy rivals.

But what good were secrets when the entire board had flipped?

Too many families turned against him at once. Too many knives pointed from all directions. He couldn't threaten them all. Couldn't burn down every clan without turning the Commission against him. The moment he struck one, the rest would descend like vultures.

If he lashed out blindly, he'd be declaring war on half of Europe's mafia elite — and Salvatore Garavani wasn't suicidal. Not yet.

So he did what predators always do when the walls closed in: He focused on the one thing he could still control.

Alex Chiesa.

He would find him. And he would kill him — not just to settle a score, but to claw back everything that was slipping through his fingers.

Alex had returned to the city. That much was certain. But Salvatore knew more than that.

Much more.

And soon, very soon, Alex would have nowhere left to run.

The penthouse was quiet, but not calm. Tension clung to the air like humidity before a storm. In the living room, Alex's two guards stood sharp-eyed and still, flanking the entrance. Ramon and his crew were stationed several floors below, watching the building's camera feeds, eyes glued to every shadow from the garage to the corridors.

Yet Alex knew — if this went wrong, no number of men would save him.

Ramon had argued against this meeting. "It's a trap." He'd snarled. "Bianco's loyal to Salvatore. You walk in there, you're walking into a coffin."

But Alex had silenced him with a look.

Some risks had to be taken.

Alex stepped into the study, silk shirt midnight blue, collar open, sleeves neatly rolled. 

Matteo sat by the desk, watching Alex approach with a tension he didn't bother to hide. Before he could speak, Alex tossed a slim black document bag onto the desk.

"As I told you," Alex said quietly, "I don't want ransom. But there's a condition."

"Say it." Matteo replied, voice measured.

Alex tapped the bag. "Salvatore never finds out. And Ricardo leaves — new identity, new life, far from here."

Matteo hesitated, then unzipped the bag. Inside were a Swiss passport, a first-class ticket to Buenos Aires, and bank documents — a saving account with 50 million euros deposited.

"All under his new name." Alex said. "But he can't know it's from me. Tell him his mother arranged it."

Matteo's brow furrowed. "Why are you doing this?"

"If he goes back to Salvatore, what then?" Alex's hands pressed on the desk, his voice steel. "How long before his father's paranoia turns on him? How long before the war swallows him whole?" He exhaled sharply. "This is the only way he walks away alive."

Matteo studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly: "After everything you did to him... why protecting him now?"

Alex turned toward the window, his reflection fractured in the glass. "You don't need to understand."

"Is this another ploy in your war?"

"This has nothing to do with the war." Alex's voice dropped, raw at the edges. "The war is between me and Salvatore. Always has been. Ricardo…" His voice became rough, "He should have never been part of it."

Matteo sat back, watching him, like he was trying to solve a puzzle that didn't want to be solved. "So you know it?"

Alex stilled. "Know what?"

"That Ricardo stopped his father from having you killed. Signora Isabella told me. She said the hit was already in motion. He stepped in and defused all the follow-up."

The words hit like a bullet to the chest.

Alex didn't move. Didn't breathe. For a second, the room seemed to tilt.

Ricardo had saved him.

And he'd repaid him with ruin.

"I... didn't know." Alex said at last, voice hoarse. "I'm glad you told me."

Matteo's gaze was piercing. "But you knew he was into you?"

Alex's jaw tightened. "Let's not talk about that."

Matteo exhaled, relenting. "Fine. You promised I could speak to him."

Alex nodded. "Of course."

He pulled out his phone, fingers steady despite the storm raging inside him. The video chat app opened with a soft chime, and the screen began to pulse with quiet ringing.

Somewhere, across the seas, Ricardo's face would flicker onto the screen. 

And in less than two weeks, Alex would have to let him go.

Chapter Text

Days had passed. Ricardo had counted them not by numbers, but by the long silences that echoed in his chest like hollow drums. No word from Alex. No messages. No calls. Not even a whisper of movement from the outside world. And pride — bruised, raw, but intact — kept him from making the first move.

He held to his routine like a soldier clinging to discipline during training: morning walks along the rocky shoreline, the salty air stinging his half-healed skin; physical therapy sessions alone in the quiet of the stone terrace, each stretch a reminder of pain endured and survived; hours spent reading old books in the sunroom, eyes scanning pages he barely absorbed. Anything to keep the ghosts at bay.

And lately, there were signs. From his balcony, he could see the increased activity at the docks — boats, once silent and forgotten, now moved with purpose; black-clad men loading crates down the worn path from the ruined castle that loomed above the island like a scar. Workers bustled, product carried away, conversations kept hushed. Ricardo said nothing — he didn't ask, didn't want answers. But some part of him, buried under layers of numbness, wondered what had shifted in the world beyond this prison of peace.

That afternoon, he lay on his back across the bed, one arm folded beneath his head. The muscles in his shoulder ached from the position, a low throb that reminded him healing was still incomplete. But it was bearable. Manageable. He closed his eyes.

Then, the phone rang.

A sharp, shrill sound that shattered the quiet like gunfire.  

Ricardo's breath hitched. His fingers twitched toward the device where it sat on the nightstand, screen glowing with the single contact he'd been trying not to think about.  

Alex.

He stared at the screen for several seconds, stomach tightening. Finally, he answered.

Alex's face filled the screen — sharper than Ricardo remembered, shadows pooling under his eyes like bruises. His gaze locked onto Ricardo's with an intensity that felt physical, as if he could reach through the screen and touch.  

"Ricardo."  

Just his name. Just that. But the weight behind it made Ricardo's throat tighten.  

He forced himself to stay limp against the pillows, affecting a boredom he didn't feel. "So?" A lazy, cold drawl. "You haven't died yet."  

Alex's mouth quirked, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Still breathing." A pause. Then, softer: "I'll let Matteo talk to you."  

Ricardo shot upright so fast his vision spun. The sudden motion tugged at his healing scars, but he barely registered the sting.  

Matteo's face replaced Alex's — emotional, tired, but full of something Ricardo hadn't seen in weeks: warmth.

"Finally. Ricco." Matteo's voice cracked on the nickname, the one only family used. "How are you?"

"Matteo…" The name barely left Ricardo's throat. His eyes burned instantly, tears threatening to rise without warning. He tried hard to hold them back. "I…" He wanted to say he was fine, but the words felt like poison. "I'm alive. Still." His voice faltered. "How's my mom?"

"She's waiting for you." Matteo said gently. "The only thing she cares about is getting you back. Nothing else matters to her now."

Ricardo's vision blurred. "I miss her…" He whispered, lowering his head for a moment.

"Don't worry." Matteo leaned closer, as if he could bridge the distance through the screen. "You'll see her soon. We've made a deal." 

Ricardo's expression shifted. A chill moved through him. "A deal?" His voice sharpened. "How much did you pay him?"

Matteo hesitated. He glanced upward, off-screen. Ricardo knew immediately he was looking at Alex.

Alex gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head.

Matteo understood. He exhaled and lowered his gaze to the document bag resting in front of him. "Fifty million euros."

Ricardo's jaw clenched, a flicker of emotion passing through his eyes before they settled into a calm too still to be natural.

"That's a lot." He said flatly, while his gut churned.

Of course. He should've known. He did know. But some foolish part of him — buried deep and stubborn — had hoped Alex hadn't asked for a price. That maybe, just maybe, there was still something untainted between them.

Hearing the number out loud crushed that hope like glass underfoot. The anger that rose wasn't just for Alex — it was for himself, for still expecting decency from a man who had already taken everything.

"It's nothing," Matteo replied, his voice firm, "as long as you come home safe." A pause. "Alex said your recovery was going well?"

"Well… yes." Ricardo replied, looking away. "The injuries have almost healed." Just the body. The rest — the fractures no bandage could mend — were just his own business.

"That's good. I'll tell your mother. She'll be relieved."

There was a long pause before Ricardo asked, almost reluctantly, "And… my father?"

Matteo's face stiffened.

Alex's jaw twitched slightly. He didn't speak, but he watched Matteo like a hawk.

"He doesn't know any of this." Matteo said finally.

Ricardo frowned. "But if he finds out—"

"He'll see it as treason." Matteo finished. "Yes. I know. And your mother knows. But this is the risk we're willing to take. For you, Ricco… it's always worth it." He paused, then added with a sideways glance at Alex, "We have a plan to keep you safe."

Alex chose that moment to step back into frame. "Satisfied?" His tone was carefully neutral, but Ricardo didn't miss the tension in his shoulders. "Matteo needs to go."

"Right. I can't stay long." Matteo forced a smile. "We'll meet soon, Ricco. Take care of yourself."

"Matteo—" Ricardo's voice choked. "Tell my mom… tell her to stay safe. And you too."

"I will."

As Matteo stepped away, guided out of frame by a quiet bodyguard, Alex leaned forward into the camera again.

Ricardo's expression changed instantly.

"Fifty million?" The words tore out of him, raw and burning. "That's what I'm worth to you?"

Alex tried to smile, but it was brittle, aching. "More than you're worth to your father."

Ricardo's laugh was a breathless scoff. "So that's it. After all, I'm still just a pawn. A weapon to use against my father, and now a bargaining chip to squeeze my mother." His voice grew tighter with every word. "Regret? Don't insult me. You're not even trying to fake it anymore."

"No, Ricardo." Alex murmured, voice shaking. "You're not—"

"Save your bullshit!" Ricardo's hand trembled as he gripped the phone. "Let me go, and we're done. I don't want a single goddamn thing to do with you ever again!"

He ended the call before Alex could reply, and hurled the phone against the velvet curtains. It bounced harmlessly onto the rug, a pathetic rebellion.  

Outside, the distant rumble of boat engines grew louder.

And for the first time since the church, since the pain, since the betrayal — Ricardo crumpled forward, buried his face in his hands, and let the scream tear out of him. Raw. Piercing. Desperate.

The screen went dark in Alex's hand.

He stared at his own reflection in the black glass, thumb hovering over the call button. For a long time, he didn't move — just stood there, breathing into the heavy silence that pressed in from all sides.

Then, slowly, he lowered the phone.

What was the point of calling again?

To tell Ricardo the ransom never existed? That the fifty million came from him, not his mother?

No. That truth would only tighten the chains Ricardo was trying so hard to break.

He had chosen this. Chosen to continue playing the villain in Ricardo's story, chosen to continue being hated by him — if that was the only way to set him free.

The elevator door slid open with a quiet chime, and Alex stepped into the underground garage, flanked closely by the two bodyguards. His expression was unreadable, jaw set in silent tension. 

Ramon leaned against the hood of a black Mercedes, arms crossed, a cigarette dangling from his lips. His men stood by the other vehicles, engines already humming, headlights casting long shadows across the concrete.

"Took you long enough." Ramon drawled, exhaling smoke.

Alex didn't answer. His gaze flickered toward the far end of the garage — too still, too quiet.

Then, without warning, the roar of an engine shattered the silence.

A black SUV barreled into the garage like a predator unleashed, tires screeching, headlights blinding. Gunfire erupted — sharp, staccato bursts — before Alex could even shout a warning. Bullets punched into metal, shattered windshields, sent sparks flying off the concrete.

"Cover!" Alex's guard shoved him behind a pillar just as a spray of bullets chewed into the wall where he'd stood. The other guard wasn't fast enough — a bullet struck him in the thigh, spinning him around before he crumpled to the ground with a choked gasp.

Alex's pulse hammered in his throat. He crouched, drawing his pistol, and returned fire. The SUV skidded between him and Ramon, cutting them off. Through the tinted windows, he caught a glimpse of Marco Ricciardi's sneering face behind the wheel.

"Get yourselves out!" Alex yelled to Ramon, then grabbed the bodyguard's arm. "Stairs. Now."

"Go!" Ramon barked to his men. They scrambled into the vehicles, tires squealing as the Mercedes and two other cars peeled out, weaving through gunfire, heading for the garage entrance — their only chance to regroup.

Alex and the guard bolted for the emergency stairwell, gun in hand, breath ragged. Behind them, Marco's men gave chase, their shouts bouncing off the walls. On the second-floor landing, Alex spun and fired twice — two black figures dropped, their bodies tumbling down the steps.

By the time he reached the upper level, his breathing was shallow, his shirt damp with sweat.

But the moment the heavy door to the ground floor swung open, he felt it.

The trap.

A soft click behind him. His guard reloaded the gun, stepping through — then a single shot. The man's head snapped back. He dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

And standing at the front of the marble entrance hall, beneath the ornate chandelier, was Vito De Sanctis.

"Drop it." Vito said, gun already raised. Around him, five others emerged from the shadows, weapons aimed, eyes cold.

Alex froze, gun still in hand, body half-crouched, wild with adrenaline.

"Drop. It." Vito repeated.

There was no winning this. Not with six against one, not with one bullet left.

Alex's hand opened, and the pistol clattered to the floor.

The men surged forward and dragged him to the hall, wrenching his arms behind his back. One struck him across the face with the butt of a rifle — his head jerked sideways, blood already dripping from his lip. Another punch drove into his ribs — once, then again.

"Hold him still!" Vito barked, stepping closer. He looked Alex up and down like a captured prey. "Alex Chiesa, the bloody filthy wolf. Look at you now — cornered, panting, pathetic."

His fist slammed into Alex's gut like a hammer striking stone. "Got you at last."

The blow drove the air from Alex's lungs. He doubled over, only for a knee to pound into his face, snapping his head back. Blood filled his mouth, copper-bitter.

He spat the blood onto the floor between them, teeth red.

"Matteo did good." Vito went on, voice oily with triumph. "Boss will be pleased."

At a signal, two more guards dragged Matteo into the hall, his face twisted in guilt.

Alex's vision swam, but he forced himself to focus. "You… You told Salvatore?" His voice was hoarse with disbelief and fury. "You're not betraying me — you're betraying Ricardo!"

"No!" Matteo's eyes were wide, desperate. "I didn't! I didn't know they were following me. I swear—"

"You fool!" Alex snarled.

Vito laughed, low and cruel. "Let's skip the soap opera. Boss wants this quick." He leaned in, breath reeking of tobacco. "He just wants your head. But before I deliver it…"

A flick of his wrist. A knife flashed in the light. Sharp. Curved. Code.

"I'm going to enjoy this."

Alex didn't even have time to suck in breath before Vito drove the knife straight into his abdomen.

White-hot pain exploded through him. Blood welled around the steel, soaking his shirt, dripping onto the floor. His body convulsed against the grip of his captors, mouth opening in a soundless scream.

"No!" Matteo lunged forward, only to be hauled back by two men. "Vito, you can't — Ricardo's still in his hands! Only he knows where!"

Vito's grin widened. "Boss's order is clear: just kill him."

He twisted the hilt.

Alex gasped, a ragged, animal sound. The blade carved deeper, a slow, deliberate torment. His vision blurred. His legs gave out, but Vito's men held him upright, forcing him to endure every second.

"Look at you." Vito sneered, leaning close. "The great Alex Chiesa. Reduced to this." He wrenched the knife sideways, tearing flesh. "Where's that grand war plan now? Where's your big conspiracy?"

"VITO!" Matteo screamed again. "Don't! You can't kill him yet — Ricardo will die if you do this!"

Vito glanced at him — then looked back at Alex, who was barely holding himself up, head lowered, blood dripping down his pants.

"I don't give a damn. Boss wants a message sent. And this…" He shoved the knife in deeper, earning a sharp cry from Alex, "is the loudest way to say it."

Alex's breath came in shallow, wet hitches. Blood trickled from his lips. But his gaze, when it locked onto Vito's, was still burning.

"Go… to hell." He choked out.

Vito laughed. "You first."

He yanked the blade free, only to raise it again, this time angling it higher, aiming between Alex's ribs, where one clean thrust could puncture lung, heart, everything that kept him alive.

Alex barely had the strength to move. He clenched his teeth, a hoarse breath escaping his lips as fresh agony wracked his body. The world around him blurred — pain blooming in waves, hot and cold and numbing all at once.

"No!"

Matteo's roar tore through the hall, fierce and filled with something primal. In the chaos and the blood, no one saw how fast he moved. With a sudden, violent twist, he broke free from the men restraining him. His elbow cracked against one guard's jaw, his hand snatching the pistol from the other's holster before anyone could react.

The gunshot was deafening.

Vito staggered mid-thrust. A dark stain bloomed between his shoulder blades, his mouth parting in disbelief as the knife fell from his fingers. He turned, eyes wide and red with rage. "Traitor…" He rasped, a breath more than a word, before collapsing to his knees — then falling forward, lifeless.

For one fractured second, silence.

Then Alex moved.

It wasn't conscious — more like instinct, something wired into his bones. He thrashed violently, ignoring the scream of his injuries, and drove his elbow into the gut of the guard holding him. The man reeled, and Alex lunged for his sidearm. His hand closed around the grip just as the second guard raised a weapon.

Alex fired — once, twice. The man dropped.

He didn't know where the strength came from. Blood soaked his shirt, his abdomen torn open, yet he pushed forward. Somewhere in the haze, only one thought pulsed, louder than the pain, louder than the gunfire erupting around him:

I can't die. Not yet. Not until Ricardo is safe.

"Come on!" Matteo's voice snapped through the chaos, grabbing Alex's arm and pulling him upright.

Together, they stumbled toward the exit. Gunshots rang behind them as the remaining men regrouped, shouting orders and cursing Matteo's name. Matteo half-dragged Alex, shielding him with his body, firing wild bursts to buy them seconds — each second, a miracle.

Outside, tires shrieked across the stone-paved driveway as Ramon's convoy stormed back onto the estate grounds. Their cars were bruised with bullet holes and cracked windshields, engines snarling like wounded animals — but they were still running. Still fighting.

Ramon leapt from the Mercedes before it had fully stopped. His eyes swept over the carnage — gun smoke, bodies, blood — and landed on Alex, slumping against Matteo, one hand clamped over his abdomen, slick with blood, desperately holding in what his torn flesh could no longer contain.

"Shit." Ramon raised his pistol and fired two sharp shots behind them, forcing their pursuers back into cover. "Get him in the Fiat!" He shouted over the noise. "Let them chase the Mercedes."

The small car skidded to a stop, doors flung open, engine humming like a nervous heart.

Matteo shoved Alex toward the open door, but Alex's hand shot out — weak yet insistent — fingers clenching Matteo's sleeve in a desperate grip.

"Come with us." Alex gasped, barely able to speak.

Matteo shook his head. "No. I'll buy you time."

"Don't be stupid, Matteo, they'll kill you—"

"Then make sure it's worth it." Matteo's voice was steel. He pulled his sleeve free. "The plan's void now. Tell Ricardo—" His eyes locked onto Alex's, fierce, unyielding. "Tell him not to come back. He's safer with you now."

A fresh burst of gunfire cracked the air.

Matteo turned on instinct, raising his weapon and unleashing a hail of bullets down the hall. "Go!" he shouted over his shoulder.

Alex didn't have time to argue. He collapsed into the Fiat's backseat as his strength gave out. The world was fading, his blood pooling fast, darkness creeping at the edges of his vision.

Ramon jumped in and slammed the door behind him.

"Drive!"

The car lurched forward. The last image burned into Alex's mind before unconsciousness took him was Matteo — standing in the mouth of the building, gun raised, silhouetted against the muzzle flashes like a man who had already made his peace.

Ricardo stood on the balcony, motionless, the fading dusk casting long shadows over the stone tiles beneath his bare feet. The air had cooled, tinged with salt and smoke, and the island was beginning to sink into the quiet hush of night. Below, the sea turned dark and restless, waves lapping against the rocks like whispers of secrets too old to name.

The phone was in his hand again.

He had thrown it aside after the call, furious, heartbroken, disgusted — with Alex, with himself. But after the rage cooled and the silence stretched on, something had shifted.

Ricardo had picked the phone up again with shaking fingers, telling himself it was practical. Necessary. He had forgotten to ask the one question that actually mattered: When could he leave?

Surely that bastard owed him that much after taking the fifty million. Now that the ransom was paid, what reason did he have to keep him waiting? Ricardo told himself he'd call, demand answers, demand release. And yet when the line rang and rang, each unanswered call echoed louder in his mind.

He tried again.

And again.

And again.

From afternoon to the hour the sun bled into the ocean, he kept dialing. At first with fury — biting curses spat into the ringing, demanding Alex pick up. Then with confusion. Then with something colder, deeper, more suffocating: dread.

Ricardo's arm dropped to his side as the call once more went to silence. He stared ahead, jaw clenched, heart beginning to beat a little too fast.

Why wasn't he answering?

The possibilities coiled in his gut like serpents.

Had Alex been lying? Had he taken the money and still decided to keep him prisoner?

But a sickening twist of instinct surged in his chest. The kind of instinct born not of logic but of knowing someone too well, even when you hate them. Maybe especially when you hate them.

Something had gone wrong.

Ricardo's fingers tightened around the phone. He should not care. He SHOULD NOT. Alex had orchestrated his ruin, had turned his body into a battleground, had shattered him in ways that could never be repaired no matter the cost.

He should feel nothing. He told himself that over and over.

But fear bloomed anyway, cold and rising. Not just for Matteo or for his mother.

For Alex.

He gripped the balcony railing, knuckles white. A cruel thought rose: What if this is how it ends? What if your last words to him were "I don't want a single goddamn thing to do with you ever again"?

He didn't want to care.

He wanted to be free.

But now, as night swallowed the sky, all Ricardo could hear was the echo of a voice that refused to answer… and the silence that sounded a little too much like a farewell.

No, he didn't want those last words to be true. Not really.

Chapter Text

The hour had grown late, the mansion cloaked in stillness, but Isabella's heart was pounding against the quiet. She stood alone in her private lounge, fingers clenching around her phone. The screen still displayed her last unanswered message to Matteo:  

"Are you safe?"

No response. Hours had bled into silence.

She exhaled, pressing her palm to her chest, as if she could physically steady the frantic drum of her heart. The room — once her sanctuary, with its plush reading sofa and shelves of leather-bound novels — now felt colder with every tick of the clock. 

Something was wrong. Deeply wrong.

Then a knock on the door.

"Signora," the guard murmured, avoiding her eyes. "The Don requests you in the basement."  

Her stomach dropped.  

The basement — not the wine cellar, not the staff quarters — the interrogation chamber.

She didn't ask questions. She only gave a small nod, straightened her spine, smoothed her skirt, and followed, her heels echoing down the long corridors like war drums.

The air turned damper as they descended, the scent of metal and mildew creeping in. When the heavy steel door creaked open, it hit her like a punch to the chest.

Matteo was on his knees, arms stretched out and shackled to a wooden interrogation frame. Blood soaked the left leg of his pants where a bullet had torn through. Bruises marred his face, one eye nearly swollen shut. And still — even like this — he lifted his head at the sound of her heels and gave her a look.

Not a plea.

But an apology.

Salvatore sat in a chair beside him, legs crossed, cold and composed. On the table next to him lay a scattered array of damning evidence: Matteo's phone, a black document folder, several pages spread out like an accusation, and a passport.

Isabella's heartbeat quickened.

He knows.

"What is this about?" She asked, fighting to keep the tremble out. "Why are you interrogating Matteo again? And making him so… miserable?"

Salvatore didn't look at her. His gaze remained fixed on Matteo, cold as a scalpel.

"You still defend him?" He murmured. "Even now?"

Isabella forced her hands to stay still at her sides. "I don't understand."

Salvatore's laugh was dry, mirthless. He reached down, grabbed Matteo's hair, and yanked his head back. Matteo hissed through clenched teeth but didn't cry out.

"Vito is dead," Salvatore said flatly. "Killed by him. To save Alex Chiesa."

Isabella's breath caught.

No.

Her eyes flicked to Matteo. His jaw was set, his breathing ragged, but there was no denial in his gaze. Only resignation.

"And I wonder," Salvatore continued, releasing Matteo with a shove, "what role YOU played in this little betrayal."

Isabella's nails dug into her palms. "What are you accusing me of?"

Salvatore stood, circling her like a predator. "You think there's anything in this house that escapes me? I knew he was contacting Chiesa — that's why I had him followed. What I didn't expect… was you."

Isabella's throat tightened.

"Signora Isabella has nothing to do with this!" Matteo suddenly shouted, his voice hoarse but fierce. "It was me. Only me. I acted alone."

Salvatore backhanded him. The crack of bone against flesh echoed in the chamber.

"Alone?" Salvatore sneered. He picked up Matteo's phone from the table, tapping the screen. "The last messages were from you, Isabella. Matteo usually cleans his tracks well. But this time?" His voice dropped to a venomous hush. "He was too busy playing the traitor to cover the footprints for you."

He then gestured to the table. "And these — new papers for Ricardo, a ticket out, fifty million euros from Chiesa. All real. What the hell were you conspiring?"

"We weren't conspiring." Isabella said, her voice breaking through the frost in her throat. "Yes, we contacted Chiesa — but only to bring Ricco home."

"Liar!" Salvatore's roar echoed through the chamber like a gunshot. "You weren't bringing him home — you were sending him away. Smuggling him out, from me!"

Isabella's composure cracked, her gaze flared with sudden fire. "If I do that, that's because you're a monster of a father!" She snapped. "You left him to rot! You knew killing Chiesa could have Ricco slaughtered in their retaliation, and you ordered it anyway!"

Salvatore's face darkened like a storm cloud, his voice dropping to a deadly growl. "How dare you betray me like this?"

He took a step forward, then another, his boots heavy on the concrete, his fury building behind his eyes like a volcano about to erupt.

"You think I don't know what it means to negotiate with a man like Chiesa behind my back?" He hissed. "You think I'd let my enemies dictate terms like I'm some weak, senile old man?"

He loomed over her now, towering, rage boiling in every word.

"What did you offer him, huh? Fifty million euros — for what? Mercy? Or a bullet in my skull while I sleep?"

Isabella recoiled, the accusation striking like a slap. "You're out of your mind."

"Oh, so the asshole's suddenly a saint now?" Salvatore barked, his lip curling. "He just lets Ricardo go and hands over a fortune out of the goodness of his heart? You expect me to believe that bullshit? You think I'm a fool?"

He grabbed her wrist, yanking her toward him. "Give me your phone."

Without a word, she handed it over. There was no point resisting now. Salvatore scrolled, found nothing new. Just as she said.

He looked up at her, suspicion twisting his features into something cold and cruel. "You deleted them. Scrubbed away the proof of your little bargains. Or maybe you made them with your voice — or your body."

Isabella's chest burned, her voice rising, raw. "What the hell are you saying? Throwing filth like that at your own wife?"

Salvatore's eyes narrowed, a breath hissed between his teeth. "The mother cheats. The son betrays. Seems rot runs in the blood."

And then, slowly, deliberately, he drew his pistol from its holster — and pressed the muzzle hard against Matteo's bloodied temple.

"Last chance." He growled through gritted teeth. "Tell me the truth. Or I'll blow his fucking head off."

Isabella's vision blurred, the world tilting around her. "No… don't… Please." Her voice cracked as she took a trembling step forward. "You've already seen everything. It's exactly as I said — nothing more."

"Still lying." Salvatore hissed, and with a smooth click, disengaged the safety with his thumb.

"Please!" Isabella fell to her knees beside his legs, reaching up with both hands, pleading. "Don't do this…"

Matteo stirred weakly, lifting his head, his one good eye locking onto hers.  

"Don't." He rasped, voice barely audible. "It's not worth it…"

"Salvatore, please—!"

"Enough."

The gunshot split the air like a thunderclap. A spray of red hit the concrete.

"No—!" Isabella screamed.

Matteo's body slumped forward, blood blooming across the floor like a grotesque flower.  

Salvatore lowered the gun, his expression disturbingly serene.

"Clean this up." He ordered the guards. Then, turning to Isabella, he added coldly, "You're not leaving this house again." 

Without another word, he walked away, his footsteps fading down the hall.

Isabella stayed kneeling, frozen, as Matteo's blood crept into the folds of her dress.

Only her broken sobbing pierced the silence — the dying echo of a hope, mercilessly destroyed.

Salvatore strode into his office like a storm rolling in from the sea —dark, suffocating, a shadow of rage barely contained. The blood was still wet on his hands — Matteo's blood. It speckled his shirt cuff, dotted the back of his palm, a chilling reminder of betrayal and justice, or so he told himself.

Marco shot up from the armchair like he'd been shocked with live wire. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cool air, and his fingers twitched at his sides. "Don—"

"Speak." Salvatore snarled.

Marco swallowed hard. "We chased Chiesa's car, the Mercedes, to the village. We boxed it in at the old vineyard road. But…"

Salvatore's jaw tightened.

Marco hesitated a second too long. "He wasn't in the car. It was a decoy."

A cold silence fell over the room. Salvatore's gaze, slow and venomous, fixed on Marco like a predator judging whether the prey was worth killing.

"Not in the car." He repeated softly. "So… he tricked you."

Marco flinched. "I...I thought—"

"You thought?" Salvatore exploded. He shoved the contents of the desk onto the floor with a crash — glass, papers, and a porcelain ashtray scattering across the carpet. "You imbecile! A decoy? After I handed you his location. After I gave you everything — THIS is what you bring me?"

Spittle flew from his lips, his face contorted into something monstrous. The veins in his neck bulged like ropes under his skin. Marco had seen Salvatore angry before, but this was something else. This was volcanic.

"I'm sorry, boss—"

"Sorry?" His voice was glacial, razor-sharp with contempt. "You had him — bleeding, broken, cornered. And then Vito ends up dead, and you—" He stepped forward, jabbing a finger hard into Marco's chest. "You let him vanish. Slipped right through your fingers like fucking sand."

Marco's pulse throbbed in his throat. He could feel the weight of Salvatore's gaze — like a scalpel peeling back his skin. "We're still searching. We'll find him. He can't have gone far, not with those injuries—"

Salvatore's hand shot out, gripping Marco's collar, wrenching him forward until their faces were inches apart. Marco could smell the blood on him. The rage.

"Listen carefully." Salvatore hissed, his voice now a whisper, almost more terrifying than his shouts. "This is your last chance. One more failure — and you'll wish you ended up like Matteo."

Marco's breath stuttered.

"Do you understand?"

A nod. Too quick. Too desperate.

Salvatore released him with a shove. "Now go. Finish your job."

Marco didn't hesitate. He turned, his footsteps crackling in the heavy silence, and fled.

Alone, Salvatore stared at his hands — streaked with blood, Matteo's and now his own, where his nails had bitten into his palms. His chest rose and fell with tremors of rage, the hollow echo of betrayal — and the name that festered like venom on his tongue.

Alex Chiesa.

The architect of every fracture in his house. Because of that goddamn beast, he had lost so many of his own. Matteo — loyal Matteo — was nothing more than a twitching corpse cooling on the basement floor. Isabella's eyes, once soft with devotion, now blazed with defiance. And Ricardo, his son, his blood, had turned into a stranger, warped beyond recognition. All of it, all of them, poisoned by Alex Chiesa.

Salvatore's lip curled, and he crushed his bleeding hand into a fist.

He would burn every corner of the earth until Alex Chiesa was dragged into the light.

And when he found him —

He wouldn't just kill him. He would dismantle him, piece by piece, until pain was the only language he remembered.

It was past midnight on Castello Island. The night was still and silvery, enveloping the villa. The sea murmured softly beyond the cliffs, each wave folding over the next in a rhythm Ricardo had memorized like a lullaby. Yet tonight, it only sharpened the unease coiled in his chest. He lay sprawled atop the cool sheets, eyes open, breath shallow, one hand resting over the spot on his chest that never seemed to stop aching. The room was dark, lit only by the faint moonlight pouring through the open curtains. Crickets chirped outside. The scent of salt and oleander drifted in through the slightly ajar balcony doors.

Then came a new sound — faint at first, almost uncertain. A distant mechanical hum cutting through the natural hush. Ricardo blinked, turning his head. The sound grew louder, unmistakable now: the engine of a boat, coming fast.

He sat up.

The engine suddenly stopped. Shouts followed — the rough, urgent bark of men's voices, distorted by distance and wind. Ricardo was on his feet in an instant, pulse spiking. The marble floor was cold under his bare feet as he crossed to the balcony, the sea wind whipping through his loose shirt.

Below, chaos unfolded in jagged bursts — shadows darting across the moonlit dock, voices sharp with panic. Men poured from the villa, their silhouettes tense against the golden spill of light from the doorway. From the water's edge, more figures emerged, running, their boots pounding against the wooden planks. One man carried another on his back, the limp body draped like a corpse, arms dangling.

Ricardo's breath hitched.

Fragments of shouting rose to him — "The medical room—" "Get Doctor Simone—" "He's bleeding out—"

Then, the villa swallowed them whole, and the night erupted into movement. Doors slammed. Footsteps thundered down the hallway just beyond his room, voices overlapping in a frenzy of orders and curses.

Ricardo stood frozen at the balcony, his fingers digging into the railing until the wrought iron bit into his palms. The chaos below — the shouts, the blood, the terrible urgency — all of it screamed "Alex, Alex, Alex" in his skull.

His body tensed to move, muscles coiling with the instinct to run — down the stairs, through the halls, to wherever they'd taken him. To see for himself if the bastard was even alive.

He took one step back from the balcony, then stopped.

No.

He wrenched himself away from the balcony doors like they'd burned him. The night air suddenly felt too thick, too heavy, pressing against his lungs. He paced the length of the platform, bare feet silent against the cold marble, his pulse a wild, traitorous thing in his throat.

Why should I go?

The thought was a blade, sharp and vicious. After everything — the betrayal, the humiliation, the way Alex had carved him open and left him to bleed before selling him like a commodity, robbing his mother — why the hell should he care if the man was dying in some medical room? Let him choke on his own blood. Let him — 

A strangled noise escaped him. He dragged both hands through his hair, pulling until the pain grounded him.

Coward.

That was the truth, wasn't it? He wasn't staying because he didn't care. He was staying because he DID. Because if he walked into that room and saw Alex broken and bleeding, he might — 

What? Forgive him?

The laugh that tore from him was raw, ugly. No. Never. But he might remember. The Alex before the betrayal. The one who had looked at him like he was something precious. The one who had kissed him in the dark like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

And that — that was worse than hatred.

Ricardo stood there, trembling, caught between the ghost of what they'd been and the ruin of what they were. The villa hummed around him, distant voices, hurried footsteps, the muffled clatter of medical instruments. Life and death playing out just beyond his door.

And still, he didn't move.

The first pale light of dawn stretched across the sky outside, filtering weakly through the ornate windows of the villa's third floor. The halls were still, heavy with the silence of a sleepless night — until the thundering sound of boots shattered it.

Ramon stormed up the marble stairs like a force of nature, his face contorted in rage, eyes burning with a barely restrained fury. His fists were clenched, and his breath came in sharp bursts. At the top of the landing, two guards moved to intercept him.

"Ramon, stop. You can't come up here—"

"Fuck off!" He barked, shoving both of them aside with explosive strength. The taller one staggered against the banister, the other slipped down a step. But neither dared raise a hand against him. He was family.

The doors to the master bedroom burst open with a violent crack as Ramon rampaged in.

"Where is that bitch?!"

Ricardo hadn't slept. He sat on the edge of the bed, his body rigid, a half-finished glass of water beside him on the nightstand. When the door slammed open and Ramon's voice echoed through the room, he froze. Every muscle in his body locked up as if struck by lightning.

His mind went blank, wiped clean by the sheer, primal terror of seeing him again. The man who had—

No. No no no—

For a split second, he wasn't in the room at all. He was back in that cursed church — wrists bound, legs spread, nothing but cold metal and the blinding white light above. The stench of scorched paraffin invaded his nose again, thick and oily, clinging to his lungs like smoke. Behind the glare, the silhouettes returned: masked men, nameless, faceless — watching, recording, feeding on his humiliation like vultures circling rot.

And then there was Ramon — not just standing in this room, but there, then, blood-slicked, teeth bared, fury pouring from him like venom. His face twisted in rage, but all Ricardo could see was a reflection of the monsters who had torn him apart. Even drenched in Alex's blood, even screaming, Ramon's image merged with them. Just another ghost wearing the same face in the endless reel of his trauma.

The present ricocheted through his skull, but his body was still trapped in that past. His brain stopped. His limbs wouldn't move. Even fear, even rage, deserted him. There was nothing left but paralysis, a stillness so total it felt like drowning in ice.

Ramon didn't hesitate. With a roar, he crossed the room and drove his fist straight into Ricardo's face.

The blow knocked Ricardo backward onto the bed, blood immediately gushing from his nose, bright and wet against pale skin.

"Fucking jinx! Worthless filthy whore!" Ramon bellowed. "Alex is dying, because of you!"

Ricardo's breath caught. The name. That name.

The pain snapped him out of his paralysis — not just the physical ache in his cheek, but the sudden cracking of that mental wall he'd built since the church. The memories surged back with crushing force. The ropes. The screaming. The heat of shame burning under skin. And the face. Ramon's face. Laughing. Relishing.

He pressed the heel of his palm to his bleeding nose, smearing crimson down his cheek, then laughed — hollow and jarring, like a blade sliding over glass.

"He's dying?" He rasped. "Good."

Ramon's face darkened.

Ricardo sat up slowly, every inch of him trembling, not with fear now — but fury.

"Or wait... should I say sorry? Ah, yes — I'm sorry. Sorry I didn't get to end him with my own hands."

"You little shit!" Ramon exploded, lunging forward again. "I swear, if Alex dies, I'll gut you like a pig and bury you beside him while you are still screaming."

His hand shot out again — open this time, aiming for Ricardo's throat.

"I should rip your pretty face to shreds first. See how you'll seduce him when you're nothing but meat and scars!"

Ricardo lashed out — half instinct, half pure fury. Before Ramon could get a grip, the guards burst in, grabbing his arms and pulling him back.

"Ramon! Stop!" One of them shouted, dragging him away by the shoulders. "Boss's orders. We're to protect him. You can't be here!"

"Let me go!" Ramon snarled, twisting violently in their grip. "He's fucking cursed! You're all blind if you don't see it!"

"You need to leave! Now!"

The guards hauled him out, kicking and shouting.

Ricardo sat on the bed, breathing ragged, blood dripping onto his chest. 

"GO TO HELL!" He screamed after them, his voice raw. "BOTH OF YOU!"

The door slammed shut.

And silence fell.

But the silence wasn't real — not for Ricardo. In his head, the sounds still roared: laughter that curdled his blood, muffled screams echoing in the cavernous hall, and that sickening rhythm of flesh striking flesh, over and over again. His hands shook uncontrollably, blood from his nose dripping in bright red drops onto the scarlet carpet, like crushed petals from a slaughtered rose.

His skin crawled, recoiling from touches that weren't there but felt all too real — phantom hands, ghostly pressure, the memory of being opened and broken. The rip deep inside him, one he thought had already healed, flared with sharp, raw pain. His vision narrowed, the edges going dark. Light splintered into floating specks. The air in the room thickened, turned claustrophobic. The walls pressed in, breathing with him, suffocating him.

And there, alone and bleeding, Ricardo fell back to the worst day of his life. Every sound, every sensation, every humiliation surged back in full — as if no time had passed at all.

He curled in on himself, arms locking around his torso like iron bands,  as if he could physically contain the memories bursting through his seams. But they came anyway — relentless, violent waves crashing through the fragile dam of his composure.

A wet gasp escaped him. Then another. His vision swam with unshed tears that finally overflowed, scalding tracks cutting through the blood on his face. The sob that ripped from his throat was an animal thing — wounded, furious, alive in a way that shocked him.

Yet in that moment, a flicker of vision suddenly flashed through his mind — Alex.

That face — drained of color, lips slack, those clever, sharp amber eyes dulled with death. His body limp beneath stark white sheets.

Gone.

Ricardo jolted, a tremor ripping through his spine.

Is Alex really dying?

The question slithered in before he could block it, before he could remind himself that he didn't care. That he wasn't supposed to care.

But it wasn't caring. Nor was it fear of Ramon's threats.

It was rage.

Unfinished, unresolved, seething.

Because dying was too damn easy. Too clean for someone like Alex. He didn't get to slip away, not like this — not while Ricardo was still drowning in all the wreckage he left behind.

Ricardo gasped, blood thick in his mouth. His chest heaved as if it were caving in.

He doesn't get to die before I decide.

He pressed his fist to his temple, grinding bone to skin like he could squeeze the chaos out. His heart was hammering so violently he thought it might break through his ribs. His body shook — not just from the trauma echoing in his nerves, but from the sheer, unbearable weight of everything Alex had lit and left burning inside him.

If Alex was dying...

No.

I won't allow it.

I'm not done with you yet. You bastard!

Alex didn't get to leave. 

Not until he looked Ricardo in the eyes and saw what he'd created.

Not until he tasted the fury, the heartbreak, the love that had curdled into something poisonous.

Not until he fell to his knees, shaking, begging for the forgiveness Ricardo might never grant.

Only then — only then — would Ricardo decide: a bullet, or a second chance.

Mercy… or fire.

But not like this.

Never like this.

Chapter Text

Ricardo sat alone in the bedroom, legs slack, one hand dangling over the arm of the chair. His eyes were hollow, drifting between the carpet and the wall, as if searching for answers or maybe just a crack he could crawl into and disappear. The silence was weighty, but not peace — it was a suffocating stillness. A stillness that buzzed in his ears, fed by anxiety that never stopped clawing at his brain.

The door creaked open.

"Boss is awake." The guard said stiffly. "He wants to see you."

For a beat, Ricardo didn't breathe.

Then it hit him — a sharp, involuntary gasp, like inhaling broken glass. 

So the bastard is still alive.  

Relief surged through him, violent and unwanted, before rage came crashing in to smother it. The corner of his mouth twitched — not with joy, but with something darker. A smile that was more a wound than an expression.

He stood slowly, not saying a word, and followed the guard.

After two weeks, Ricardo stepped into the medical room for the first time since his own confinement.

The air was still sharp with antiseptic, but now clotted with the thicker, metallic tang of blood. The scent had changed, just like everything else. The lights overhead were harsh, almost too bright, casting sterile white reflections off the polished tile floor. It was the kind of room that made you feel cold even when you were burning.

Everything was in its place. And yet nothing felt the same.

The nurse greeted him with a cautious look. "He just came out of an eight-hour operation." She said softly. "He's awake, weak, in pain. But he insisted on seeing you. Alone."

Ricardo said nothing. Just nodded once. The guards and nurse exchanged wary glances and stepped out, leaving the door to click shut behind them.

He moved forward into the room — and stopped.

Alex lay on the same sickbed where Ricardo himself had once been. Bare-chested, his torso covered in blood-streaked gauze, a thick bandage wrapped tightly around his abdomen. The sheets pooled low on his hips, his skin was ghostly pale, and his lips trembled with shallow breaths. A man caught between life and death.

Ricardo's heart twisted, but his face remained cold as stone. He took a step closer. Then another. Until he stood right beside the bed.

Alex's eyes fluttered open. His gaze landed on Ricardo's bruised face. Even in agony, he looked concerned.

"What happened?" His voice was a frayed whisper.

Ricardo's laugh was brittle. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

Alex's brow furrowed. "Someone hit you. Who?"

"Who?" Ricardo echoed, mocking. "That surprises you?"

"Ramon?" Alex's fingers twitched against the sheets. "He did this?"

"You sound so shocked."

"I told him not to go near you—"

"How thoughtful." Ricardo cut in, voice rising with venom. "So you keep me locked on this island like a beast on display, let your dogs guard me — the same men who raped me, tortured me — and tell them not to go close because I might bite?"

"No." Alex said quickly. "None of them are here. I had them removed. You'll never see them again."

"But Luciano is still here, isn't he?" Ricardo's voice turned into a snarl. "Ramon Luciano — he fucked me! And you kept him close. Why? Tell me, Alex, when you remember how your men used me, did it thrill you? Does it turn you on? Is that it?"

Alex flinched. "Ricardo…"

"Do you want the details? Is that what you called me here for? Let me remind you. How their cocks pistoned into me — throat, ass — over and over. How I choked, how I came. Is that what you need to sleep at night?"

"Stop. Ricardo, please... Stop!" Alex's hands gripped the sheet. His body tensed, fresh blood seeping through the bandages.

"You regret it now?" Ricardo voice dropped to a lethal hiss. "Then prove it. Kill Luciano. Kill the ones who touched me."

"I… I can't." Alex whispered, agony etched in every word. "They just... followed orders."

Ricardo's eyes went dead. "YOUR orders."

A beat of silence. Then Alex exhaled, his voice broken. "If you want to kill me...do it. My life is yours. You can bleed me dry if that's what you need. Just — don't finish it yet. If I die now, I can't protect you. You won't make it off this island without me. Ricardo… Please… I'm not asking for forgiveness. Just believe this one thing: I only wanted to get you out of this war alive. I wanted you to have a way back. A future."

"Liar." Ricardo growled, his hands curling into trembling fists. His chest heaved with the weight of fury, disgust, and something more painful still. "How dare you — how dare you dress yourself up as my savior!" His voice cracked with venom. "You're bleeding not because of me, but because of your own greed. You were wounded chasing your dirty ransom. Fifty million euros, wasn't it? Don't use my name to sanctify your suffering. This?" He gestured to Alex's blood-soaked bandages. "This is karma."

"Karma…" Alex gave a bitter laugh that turned into a grimace of pain. "Maybe you're right."

"Then let me go."

"I can't." Alex's voice was steel wrapped in exhaustion. "Matteo killed Vito to save me. Your father is out for blood—"

"What?" Ricardo's voice cracked. "You have to let me go — my mother, Matteo — they're in danger. Because of you!"

"I know. But you going back now will only put yourself in danger."

"I don't care!" Ricardo exploded. "I have to go. I have to try!"

He lunged forward, hands seizing Alex's shoulders, shaking him violently. "You took the money! Then let me leave!"

Alex's jaw locked as a sharp, searing pain shot through him — the sutures in his abdomen were yanked apart. But Ricardo didn't relent. His palm slammed down on the wound, pressing with brutal force until a strangled gasp escaped Alex's throat.

"You ruined everything!" Ricardo roared. "Everything you touch — you destroy!" His breaths came in ragged, furious bursts, his rage trembling at the edge of madness. "You'll pay for all of it!"

Blood spilled anew, a crimson stain unfurling in fast motion. The gauze drank it greedily, the fabric turning slick and heavy where Ricardo's fingers had dug in mercilessly into the wound — needing to see Alex break, needing to hear him scream.

And scream he had.  

A raw, gutted sound tore from Alex's throat as his back arched off the bed, the pain wrenching through him like wildfire.

Good. Ricardo thought viciously, a flicker of savage satisfaction flashing through him.

But beneath that rage — buried, trembling — something softer coiled in his gut. A part of him wanted to scream, to tear his own skin off, because he was torturing Alex — and some sick, broken part of him didn't want to stop.

The door burst open. Guards swarmed in, prying Ricardo off the bed.

"Don't hurt him!" Alex rasped between gasps of pain. "Lock him up. Watch him — twenty-four hours. No one touches him. No one comes near him. Especially Ramon."

His eyelids fluttered, barely holding open, as sweat traced slow, trembling lines down his pale forehead.

"I'm sorry, Ricardo." He murmured. "Even if you hate me more after this — I'm sorry."

Ricardo thrashed as they dragged him out.

Behind him, he heard a guard shout, "Get the doctor! Boss has passed out!"

Ricardo looked down. His hands were wet. Blood. Alex's blood. Still warm.

He let out a laugh. High, broken, hysterical. Then the tears fell — silent, bitter, unstoppable.

"Karma." He whispered.

But it didn't feel like victory.

It felt like drowning.

The master bedroom no longer felt like a room, but a beautifully disguised prison. Ricardo stood near the locked balcony doors, where thick glass shimmered under the fading sunlight. A heavy padlock clamped over the latch, cold and silent, as if mocking him. Beyond the balcony, the sea glittered like a blade. He couldn't reach it. The wind was gone. The pitiful little freedom was gone.

Guards lingered in the halls, their footsteps a constant, rhythmic threat. He could hear them murmuring, the occasional scrape of a boot against wood. Outside, more men patrolled the cliffs, their shadows crossing the terrace like specters. There was no escape. Not this time.

The realization settled over him like a shroud.

This was how Elena lived.

The thought struck him with brutal clarity. He could almost see her — Alex's mother — trapped in this same room years ago, her fingers pressed against the same glass, a padlock keeping her in as it now kept him. Was she watched like this? Was she whispered about, pitied, dismissed? Had she too counted the steps from bed to balcony, measuring the boundaries of her cage? Had she lain awake at night, knowing her husband's men waited outside, willing to kill her if she tried to run?

Ricardo sank onto the edge of the bed, his fingers tracing the embroidered silk of the coverlet — the same one Elena might have touched in those years. Had she sat here too? Staring at these same walls, these same locked doors?

His gaze drifted to the notebook on the nightstand — Elena's words, her secrets, her despair etched in ink. He flipped it open, his fingers trembling as he traced the faded lines of her poetry.

"They teach you silence, gift you harm, then watch you vanish, soft and still."

A shudder ran through him. He could picture it too clearly: Elena's desperate flight, the shouts of Dante's men, the dark water swallowing her whole. A woman erased. A mother lost.

He closed his eyes, and in the dark, Elena's face blurred into his mother's. The thought gutted him. What if his mother was in danger now? What if she, too, was being locked behind some door by his father? Hurt. Silenced. Erased.

The rage rose, but so did something quieter — grief, empathy, a horrifying understanding. He was starting to feel like those women: caged, voiceless, waiting for a man's cruelty to decide their fate.

The parallels coiled around him like a noose. Elena. Isabella. Himself. All of them bound by blood and betrayal, by men who ruled with brutality and terror.

And then there was Alex.

Ricardo's hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. Just hours ago, he'd wanted to break Alex — to make him scream, suffer, beg. And he had. Even if only for a moment, he'd pressed down on that wound with deliberate cruelty, driven by vengeance and fury. He'd enjoyed it — the raw, guttural sounds tearing from Alex's throat, the way his body arched in pain. The memory replayed in his mind like a slow-motion reel of violence.

It should've felt like justice. It should've made him feel powerful.

Instead, it left him shaking.

There was no triumph in it now, only a sick, hollow ache spreading in his chest. The image of Alex — pale, broken, bleeding under his hand — haunted him. The sight of that blood soaking into the gauze, hot and real against his palm, turned his stomach.

He looked down at his fingers, as if they still bore the stain. It wasn't blood anymore. It was shame he couldn't wash off.

The rage that had driven him now twisted into something darker: fear. Not fear of Alex. Fear of himself.

He'd pressed his hand into the wound not just to punish — but to make him hurt, to reduce him to flesh and blood and screams, and to relish it. That was what monsters did. What Alex had done. What Ramon had done. What Alex's father might have done. What his own father, Salvatore, had done. And now… what he had done.

Ricardo staggered back from the memory as if it had physically struck him. Was this how it began? With one act of cruelty justified by pain? With one scream that made you feel powerful, and the next one easier to ignore? He thought of the guards watching him now, of the padlock, of Elena's poems. Of his mother, maybe locked away, maybe dying, maybe already dead.

Alex had once been a boy who scribbled his thoughts in the margins of his mother's books, careful, curious, trying to understand a world that offered him no mercy. A boy who had clutched on to her hand behind walls, locked in the same prison cell, clinging to warmth in a world gone cold. And now — look at him. A man suffocating under the weight of his own brutality, shackled not by iron, but by the consequences of every bloody choice he made. Barely conscious, barely human, trying to steer a war that had already consumed him.

Ricardo stared at his hands again, as if expecting to see blood still smeared across the fingers.

What if I become him?

If he lost everything — if his mother died, if his world burned — what would stop him from becoming just like Alex? Would he wear cruelty like armor and call it strategy? Would he learn to love the power of fear more than the pain of loss?

The thought made him sick. And yet he knew it: the edge was there. A single step away. The monster wasn't just in Alex. It lived in all of them. It was the inheritance of this world. And it was already reaching for him.

The notebook slid from his lap, landing soundlessly on the carpet.

For the first time, he understood.

Not just Elena's poems, but the brutal, suffocating world they had been written in. The mafia world that had shaped Alex into a monster and Elena into a ghost.

And for the first time, his fear wasn't only for what this life had stolen from him.

It was for what it could still turn him into.

Maybe that was what Elena had truly been running from — not the violence itself, but the slow, inevitable rot it planted in the soul.

One day later.

Alex lay motionless on the sickbed, the dim light of dusk leaking in through the sheer curtains. The painkillers dulled the worst of the agony, but his mind remained sharp — too sharp. Every breath pulled against his stitched wound. Every blink summoned memories he couldn't erase. Then came the knock.

A guard stepped in, a tablet clasped in his hand, his face stiff with unease. "Boss. This just came in. From the insider in the snake den."

The guard adjusted the bed, lifting Alex into a sitting position. His breath hitched with the effort, pain flickering across his face. With unsteady fingers, he took the tablet and tapped play.

The six-minute video opened in silence — grainy footage from a surveillance camera looking down on the lavish lobby of the Garavani mansion — marble floors, plush velvet sofas, gold-gilded columns, the kind of wealth meant to impress rather than comfort. And the door burst open.

Salvatore stormed in, dragging Isabella by the arm. She was in black — tight pants, a silk blouse now torn at the shoulder. Her hair was disheveled, her face already streaked with blood from a split lip. Salvatore hauled her forward like a sack of discarded meat, his face twisted into something barely human.

"You think you can run?" His voice was a guttural snarl, spit flying from his lips. "You think you can betray me and just disappear?"

Isabella stumbled, her knees hitting the marble. She tried to rise, but Salvatore's boot slammed into her ribs, knocking her back down. A choked gasp escaped her.  

"I wasn't running…" She cried, voice breaking. "Salvatore, listen to me—"

A backhand snapped her head to the side. She crumpled to the floor.

"LIAR!" He kicked her. Once. Twice. Then dragged her up by her hair.

The camera caught every detail — the way her wedding ring glinted as she raised a shaking hand, the way her dark hair stuck to her face with sweat and blood.

Salvatore grabbed her again, wrenching her up by the collar of her blouse. "You betrayed me. You and that traitor Matteo. You thought you could sell me out to Chiesa?"

"I just wanted Ricco back—"

Another blow. This time, his knuckles caught her temple. She reeled, her legs giving out, but he didn't let her fall. He yanked her forward, his free hand seizing her throat.  

"You don't get to decide what happens to my son!" His fingers dug in, cutting off her air. Isabella's hands clawed at his wrist, her nails drawing blood, but his grip didn't loosen. Her face darkened, her lips parting in a silent scream.  

Then — with a roar — Salvatore hurled her backward.

Isabella's body crashed into the sharp edge of a marble statue — an ornamental angel, its wings outstretched. The sickening crack of her skull splitting echoed even through the muffled audio.  

For a second, she just… hung there. Eyes wide. Mouth slack. Then she slid to the floor in a boneless heap, blood pooling beneath her head in a dark, spreading halo.  

Salvatore staggered backward, panting. For a long moment, he simply stared.

"Isabella?" His voice was suddenly small. He dropped to his knees, turning her over. Her head lolled, her eyes glassy, unseeing. A trickle of blood ran from her nose.  

"Isabella. Isabella!" He shook her, his fingers pressing against her throat, searching for a pulse that wasn't there.  

Then — realization.  

His face went blank. The shock faded, replaced by something colder. He stood, wiping his bloody hands on his pants.  

"Clean this up." He muttered to the guards who had been standing frozen at the door. "And get rid of the statue."

Then he walked out, leaving his wife's corpse on the marble floor.  

The tablet screen went black.  

Alex's breath came in shallow, uneven bursts. His fingers trembled where they gripped the edge of the bed. He had seen violence before — had delivered violence before — but this…  

This was different.  

This was Isabella. Ricardo's mother.  

A woman who had tried to save her son. A woman who had died for it.  

Matteo was already gone. Now her. All because of this war he thought he could control.

He looked down at the tablet again.

Ricardo.

His stomach twisted. Should I show him?

Ricardo already hated him. Already blamed him for everything. If he saw this… if he saw his mother's murder, her body discarded like trash…

He'll never forgive me.

But if he hid it? If Ricardo found out later, from someone else?

That betrayal would be worse.

He swallowed hard, jaw tight with pain and dread. Then he turned to the guard.

"Bring him here." He said hoarsely. "Ricardo. Tell him… I need to show him something."

The guard hesitated. "Boss… are you sure?"

Alex's voice was hollow. "Just do it."

He closed his eyes, whispering like a voiceless prayer: "Please, don't hate me more than you already do."

Chapter Text

Minutes later, the door groaned open.  

Ricardo stood framed in the threshold, bracketed by guards who hovered too close — as if he might shatter or strike. His face was marble-carved, a mask of cold indifference, but there was a tightness around his mouth, a heaviness in his stare. 

Alex had managed to haul himself upright against the pillows, the tablet a leaden weight on his lap. His gaze flicked up — amber meeting storm-blue — and then quickly moved away.

"Leave us." He commanded, his voice low but firm.

The guards hesitated. One spoke up, uncertain. "Boss, after what happened earlier—"

"Now." Alex's tone sharpened. "And don't come in until I call. No matter what you hear."

The guards traded anxious glances. One opened his mouth to protest, but the cold finality in Alex's eyes silenced them. Without another word, they stepped out and shut the door with a reluctant click.

"Lock it." Alex said, turning his gaze back to Ricardo.

Ricardo's brow rose. "Why?"

"I don't want us disturbed."

He paused, then moved to the door and turned the lock. The metallic click echoed in the quiet room.

Still facing the door, he asked, "Is this another one of your games?"

Alex didn't speak right away. His fingers tightened around the tablet, his throat working as he fought for the right words. There were none.

"I have something you need to see." He said finally, his voice rough.

Ricardo's eyes dropped to the tablet. A ripple of unease stirred in his chest.

Alex held it out to him. For a second, neither moved. The device hovered like a live grenade, the space between their hands charged. Alex's fingers were fever-hot; Ricardo's, icy. The screen blinked to life, casting hellish shadows across their faces.

"Your father's house." Alex said quietly. "Last night."

He didn't release it right away. His fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary before letting it go.

"Brace yourself, Ricardo. It's not something you can unsee."

Ricardo's breath caught, just briefly, before his expression iced over. He knew. Somewhere in his bones, he already knew. 

The footage began to play.

For the first few seconds, Ricardo didn't react. He just stared, his face a blank slate as the video played out.

Then —

"No."

A whisper. A plea.

His fingers dug into the edges of the tablet, his knuckles bleaching white as bone. His breath hitched — once, twice — as the horror unfolded before him. As his mother was dragged. As she begged. As she bled.

Then — the crack of her skull against marble.

Ricardo made a sound. A raw, animal noise, torn from somewhere deep inside him. His knees buckled, the full weight of his body catching hard against the edge of Alex's bed. Tremors wracked his frame, violent enough to rattle the medical equipment nearby.

"No, no, NO—!"

His voice shattered. The tablet slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor. His hands flew to his hair, gripping fistfuls of dark strands as if he could physically tear the images from his mind.

"She was—she was just—"

His words dissolved into a choked sob. His shoulders hunched, his body folding in on itself like a dying thing.

Alex reached for him. "Ricardo—"

Ricardo recoiled as if burned. His head snapped up, his eyes wild, bloodshot.  

"DON'T TOUCH ME!"

The scream ripped through the room. His chest heaved, each breath a ragged, wet struggle. Tears streaked down his face, but his expression wasn't grief anymore.

It was fury.

Pure, unbridled hatred.

"This is your fault." He hissed, his voice trembling with venom. "YOURS. If you hadn't taken me — if you hadn't started this fucking war — SHE WOULD STILL BE ALIVE!"

Alex flinched. "Ricardo—"

"SHE DIED BECAUSE OF YOU!"

Ricardo pounced forward.

His hands closed around Alex's throat, slamming him back against the bed. The monitors shrieked in alarm, their wires tangling as Alex gasped, his wound tearing beneath the bandages. Blood seeped through the gauze, hot and slick, but Ricardo didn't let go.

His thumbs pressed into Alex's windpipe.

"I should kill you." He snarled, his voice shaking. "I should fucking KILL YOU."

Alex's face turned alarmingly red, but he didn't fight back.

His hands remained limp at his sides, his body pliant beneath Ricardo's assault. But his eyes — those damned amber eyes — held no fear. No anger. Only a quiet, terrible acceptance that was somehow worse than any resistance.

Ricardo's grip faltered.

A strangled sound escaped him — half sob, half scream — before he shoved himself away, stumbling back. His legs gave out, sending him crashing against the wall. He hit the floor with a dull thud, his entire body shaking with violent tremors.

Only then did they register the frantic pounding at the door — the panicked guards trying to break through the solid oak.

"Stop knocking!" Alex rasped while gasping for air. His voice was hoarse, just loud enough to carry through the door. "I'm fine."

The pounding ceased, leaving only the sound of Ricardo's ragged breathing and the persistent beep of medical equipment.

"She's gone." The words slipped out at last, a faint whisper barely louder than a breath.

Alex said nothing. What could he say?

Ricardo inhaled — but the breath broke halfway. And then —

He screamed.

A sound so raw, so broken it didn't sound human. It echoed against the walls, filling every corner, every crack. He screamed until he couldn't anymore — until his voice gave out, until all that remained was silence, punctuated by the shaking of his shoulders and the collapse of his body into shuddering sobs.

His mother was dead.

And nothing would ever be the same.

Alex watched — silent, motionless, bleeding — as Ricardo's grief flooded the room in wave after merciless wave. The air itself seemed to thicken with it, pressing against Alex's lungs like seawater, threatening to drown them both. Ricardo's fingers clawed at his own arms as if he could tear the pain out of his skin. His breaths came in ragged, wet gasps, each one a struggle against the weight of his loss.  

Minutes dragged like hours, until the sobs began to taper — not because the pain had lessened, but because the body could only endure so much. What remained was a hollowed figure, curled in on himself — a shell of the proud, defiant boy who had once withstood every cruelty the world threw at him.

If he lost everything…

Now he had.

So predictable. So inevitable.

Alex's throat constricted. He had foreseen this outcome — accounted for it in his meticulously crafted revenge. The downfall of the entire Garavani family had always been part of his grand design. 

And now that it was unfolding, exactly as intended… How did it taste?

After what felt like a lifetime, Ricardo lifted his head from the crook of his elbow. His face was swollen, streaked with tears and snot, his eyes bloodshot and glassy.

When he finally spoke, his voice came out raw, shredded by grief. "You asked me to lock the door. You wanted me to hurt you." A pause. His fingers twitched against the floor. "You think that would make me feel better?"

Alex's reply was quiet. "It's what I deserve."

Ricardo let out a laugh — if it could be called that. Dry, brittle, hollow. It wasn't amusement. It wasn't even bitterness. It was the laugh of someone who had just realized the cruel joke the universe had played on him, and found it neither funny nor tragic. Just ineluctable.

Alex didn't understand that laugh. He'd never known how to.

Then, as if from nowhere, Ricardo spoke again, his voice shattered but clear:

"Tell me about your mother."

Alex blinked. That wasn't the question he'd expected. His lips parted. Then closed.

"What really happened to her?"

A muscle jumped in Alex's jaw. His fingers curled into the sheets, the pain in his abdomen flaring as if in warning. "Are you sure you want to hear it? Now?"

Ricardo's gaze didn't waver. "Tell me. I want to know her story."

Alex exhaled, long and slow, his eyes drifting toward the ceiling. It was difficult to breathe, more from memory than pain.

"I lost her when I was barely eight." He began, his voice dry. "But it's not the same story as yours. She didn't die. She… escaped. Successfully."

Ricardo's breath hitched. His eyes — dead a moment ago — flickered with something like hope. "So she's still… alive?"

Alex's smile was a razor's edge. "Yes. She lives a happy life in another part of the world. Another country. With a new husband, and new children." The last words were deliberate, each one a blade twisted just so.

Ricardo swallowed, his voice was barely a whisper. "You already found her?"

"Found her?" Alex repeated with a weak, bitter laugh. "I know where she is. But I haven't reached out. Neither has she. Not once in all these years. No letters. No calls. Nothing." His voice cracked, "Maybe she's already forgotten I exist."

He looked away.

"Sometimes, I'd rather believe she died the night she left me. At least then I wouldn't be the child left behind intentionally. A child not worth keeping."

Ricardo studied him for a long moment. Then, softly, "I'm glad she made it out."

Alex turned his head with effort, locking eyes with him. His gaze shimmered, fragile, on the verge of breaking — like glass catching the light just before it splinters.

"She abandoned me…" His voice rose slightly, "Right when I needed her the most."

"I know." Ricardo said slowly, "But… if she hadn't… if she'd stayed — maybe she'd have ended up like my mother. Brutalized. Slaughtered. Maybe she knew the only way to protect herself was to run." His voice broke. "Now I wish my mother had done the same. I wish she hadn't loved me so much. Hadn't tried to save me. Then she might still be alive."

Alex said nothing. Just looked at him. His chest rose and fell heavily, but his mouth stayed still, caught between argument and understanding.

Ricardo continued. Quieter now. More distant.

"Is it always like this, Alex? You have to hurt someone — even the people you love — just to survive in this world? And in the end, we all become the same thing — inflictors, murderers, ghosts of the ones we used to be. Is that the cost of staying alive?"

His hands clenched. "Everyone starts as a victim. Then they learn to fight, to hurt, to kill, until they become the very thing that broke them." He looked up, his eyes burning. "Why does it have to be like this?"

Alex's gaze darkened. His expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes — something pained and haunted.

"I don't know." He said, teeth clenching. "Maybe it's fate. Maybe we were marked for this from the beginning. Born into blood. Into violence. Inevitable. Inescapable."

He hesitated. Then, quieter:

"But not for you, Ricardo. I'm working on a new identity for you. Everything — papers, money, transport. You can leave. Run. Never look back. You don't have to live like this. Just give me a few days, and you're free."

Ricardo blinked at him, like he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"You want me to escape, like your mother did?"

"That's the only way."

But Ricardo shook his head. Not in anger — just… lost.

"No, Alex. You still don't get it. I don't want to flee."

Alex's voice hardened. "What do you want, then? Revenge?" A bitter smile. "Fine. When you're safe, I'll give myself to you. Wrap myself in a bow. Do whatever you want."

"It's... it's not that simple…" Ricardo murmured, slumping back against the wall, exhaustion dragging at every inch of him. The fire that had flared in him moments ago was gone now — burned out, or buried too deep to find.

He didn't know what he wanted. Or maybe he did. Maybe he just couldn't face it yet.

A coward running? A monster seeking vengeance? A hollow soul lost somewhere in between?

He didn't know what he was becoming.

But whatever it was… he wasn't sure he could stop it anymore.

Days slipped by in a strange, suspended stillness — like the hush before a storm. The island, once a sanctuary carved out of chaos, now felt like a tomb. Beyond the jagged cliffs, the world was shifting at breakneck speed under the weight of the war Alex had unleashed. But here… here, time stalled. Ricardo barely spoke. The others kept their heads down. And though Alex's body was healing inch by inch, something inside him unraveled faster than any wound could close — a dread he couldn't shake, tightening with every breath.

Then, it came.

A single piece of intel shattered the illusion of peace.

The guard arrived breathless with the report. Alex read the decrypted message with narrowing eyes, his lips pressing into a thin line.

Salvatore's men had found the Fiat. The discarded car near the port was enough to spark suspicion. Now he was scanning the islands — one by one.

Alex wasted no time. He summoned Ramon and Pietro to his medical room.

The moment they entered, Alex — still pale, shirt clinging to his torso with a mix of sweat and blood from the fresh dressing change — pushed himself up with a wince. The wound in his abdomen throbbed in time with his pulse, a constant reminder of how close death had come — and how much closer it now loomed. 

"Salvatore knows." He said without preamble. His voice was low, taut with urgency. "They found the Fiat. He's sweeping the Mediterranean Sea. And he'll soon find us here."

Ramon raised a skeptical brow. "There are thousands of islands in the Med. He can't possibly check them all."

"Satellite imaging. Thermal scans. It's only a matter of days before he pinpoints us." Alex said, his gaze sharpening. "We have to move. Immediately."

The command hung in the air like a blade. Ramon and Pietro tensed.

"I want everyone off this island." Alex continued. "No trace left. Take all the product, every piece of equipment, all the paintings. Burn whatever you can't carry. Wipe the dungeon clean. You were never here."

Pietro nodded, ready to turn toward the exit. But Ramon hesitated, sensing something more.

Alex looked at him. "Once everything's packed… leak our location to the police. Give them the exact coordinates. Tell them Ricardo and I are here. Make sure they find us before Salvatore does."

Silence. Then —

"What?" Ramon blinked. "You're not coming with us?"

Alex met his gaze. "I stay. With Ricardo. Until the police arrive."

For a heartbeat, the room was utterly still. Then Ramon lunged forward, slamming his palms against the bed frame hard enough to rattle the IV stand.

"Have you lost your fucking mind?" His voice was a snarl. "You're going to turn yourself in? Just like that?"

"My injury will slow me down anyway." Alex's reply was measured, almost cold. "But this way, I control the narrative. I take full responsibility, and they'll stop hunting the rest of you. It buys you freedom. Buys us time. You'll be able to rebuild what's left." He turned to Ramon, eyes unwavering. "In my absence, you take the lead, and Pietro the secondary."

"Lead what? A fucking funeral procession?" Ramon leaned in, his breath hot with fury. "We had a plan, Alex! We HAD a plan. You can still walk away from this. That livestream footage? We can argue its validity, say it's deepfake. And if it comes down to it, I take the fall. Me. Two years, max. You don't even get touched."

"You already did time for my father." Alex said, his voice soft but unyielding. "You're not doing it again for me."

"But it was YOUR plan!" Ramon roared. "The one we all agreed on. Every move was calculated. Every risk controlled. All you have to do is simply make that Garavani boy disappear and never testify."

The air turned to ice.  

Alex's voice dropped to a lethal whisper. "The plan changed."

Ramon's face twisted. "No. YOU changed." He stabbed a finger toward the door, where Ricardo's presence lingered like a ghost. "Because of him. Because of that pathetic, broken little wh—"

"Don't finish that sentence." Alex warned, eyes like razors.

Ramon took a sharp step back, his boots scuffing against the tiled floor as if the weight of Alex's words physically struck him. His hands flew to his head, dragging through his hair in frustration before balling into fists at his sides.

"Alex." He growled, pacing once, twice, like a caged animal, then turning back with fire in his eyes. "This charge — it's Salvatore's last damn card. His desperation play. And you're folding now? When we're this close to burning him to the ground?" He threw his arms into the air. "People are turning on him — his allies, his soldiers — they're ripe for the taking. And you want to throw it all away now?"

He shouted in disbelief. "You think this is just about a kidnapping charge? Wake the hell up. If you step into a cell, he'll have you gutted before you take your second breath behind bars. This isn't justice. It's an execution."

He was trembling now, chest heaving, fury barely held in check. "And you're walking into it like it's some kind of noble sacrifice?"

Alex exhaled slowly, his voice hardening into steel. "I know the risk. I know what I'm doing."

"Do you?" Ramon's voice cracked. "Because right now, it looks like you're committing suicide."

Silence.

Then Alex lifted his chin, his gaze unyielding. "And you're still taking orders from me."

The decision was made — final, irrevocable.  

Ramon's jaw worked, fury and betrayal wrestling behind his eyes. But he said nothing more. He turned on his heel and stormed out of the room.

Pietro lingered for half a second. "You're sure about this?" He asked, quieter.

Alex didn't look at him. "Yes. Get to work."

With a stiff nod, Pietro followed Ramon, leaving Alex alone in the sterile silence.

Outside, the first shouts of evacuation rang through the winding trails. The island had begun to breathe in panic. Beneath the castle relics, the underground vaults came alive with hushed chaos — footsteps thudded, crates shifted, the air thick with sharp sting of gasoline and low flicker of controlled flames. Devices vanished. Art was carefully packed and sealed. Generators were dismantled. Floors were scrubbed.

By dawn, the island would be emptied.

Everyone would be gone.

Everyone except Alex. And Ricardo.

The only two left waiting — for fate, for justice, or for the inevitable end.

Chapter Text

Alex winced as he pushed himself off the medical bed, his hand pressing against the fresh bandages wrapped around his belly. The wound still burned with every movement, but he refused to call for Ricardo. He wouldn't summon Ricardo like that — not for this. He had to go to him.

He walked slowly up the stairs, each step deliberate, stiff with pain. Two guards flanked him closely, ready to steady him if his steps faltered.

The master bedroom door was shut. Alex dismissed the guards with a nod, then knocked.

No answer.

He hesitated — just for a moment — then turned the handle and stepped inside. 

The room was dim. Curtains half drawn. The faint light of late afternoon bled across the floor. Ricardo sat on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the balcony doors, now unlocked but still closed. He didn't turn when Alex entered, didn't even blink — just kept his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the glass, where muffled shouting and noises were coming from.

Alex stood silently for a while, hand braced against the doorframe. "Can I come in?" The words scraped raw against his throat.

Ricardo didn't answer. A faint nod came instead — barely a movement, like the ghost of a yes.

Each step across the scarlet carpet cost him. Alex lowered himself into the armchair opposite Ricardo with a barely suppressed groan, his fingers whitening around the carved armrests.

For a long moment, silence claimed the space between them.

Then, from beyond the balcony, the distant sputter of a boat engine broke the stillness — harsh and jarring, like the world reminding them it hadn't stopped.

"They're evacuating." Alex spoke. His voice sounded foreign to his own ears — too calm for the storm raging inside him. "By dawn, only you and I remain."

That drew Ricardo's attention. He turned his head at last, and Alex almost wished he hadn't. His face was gaunt, eyes rimmed in red, the skin beneath them dark and sunken. Not angry — just emptied out, like grief had scraped him clean.

"And then?" He asked, his tone dull, distant.

"Then the police come." Alex watched a moth batter itself against the lampshade. "We'll be here waiting."

"Police?" Ricardo blinked, slow and disbelieving. "You're not—"

"I am." Alex cut him off gently. "I'm turning myself in. For the kidnapping. For everything I've done to you."

Ricardo stared at him, breath caught in his throat.

"This is what you want, isn't it?" Alex said softly. "Justice."

The word struck like a slap. Ricardo's jaw clenched. Justice. He'd dreamed of it. Fantasized about it. But now it rang hollow, like a verdict spoken too late.

"Why?" He asked. The word trembled out, brittle and raw. "Why now?"

Alex's expression didn't change. "Because it's the only thing left I can give you."  

Ricardo looked away, his throat working. His hands curled into fists by his lap. He wanted to shout. To scream that this wasn't enough. That nothing ever could be. But all the fury had burned out long ago, and in its place was just silence and ache and a thousand unanswered questions.

"And this… take it." Alex reached into his pocket and held out a small USB drive. "The footage you saw."

Ricardo stared at the offering as if it might bite him. When he finally walked forward, his fingers trembled ever so slightly before closing around the drive with sudden, desperate finality.

Alex continued, voice steady. "Once I'm taken by the police, you'll go back to your father. He won't be a threat to you now since you're useful to him in court. But you have to be careful. Pretend you know nothing about your mother. Nothing about what I gave you. Not a crack, not a tell."

Ricardo's breath hitched.

"Don't go easy on me." Alex added. "Use my case to gain his trust. And after that, what you do is up to you. But whatever it is, you'll be doing it alone. I can't help you anymore."

Ricardo just stood there, motionless, the USB clenched in his hand. He looked down at Alex, at the man who had shattered him — body, soul, everything — and who now, impossibly, was giving him the blade to finish it.

Alex exhaled slowly and forced himself to his feet again, stifling a grimace. "I'm giving you back your choices." He murmured. "The game is yours now. Play it however you want."

He turned to leave.

One step. Two.

At the door, he paused, glancing over his shoulder. "I'm sleeping upstairs tonight."

A beat of silence. Then—

"Alex."

His name came softly from behind. Eager. Unsteady. A plea wrapped in hesitation.

Alex turned, his heart catching.

Ricardo stood there, lips parted as if the words were rising too fast for him to catch. But they didn't come. He looked down, away, jaw tight.

"…Forget it." He muttered.

Alex studied him for a second longer, his expression unreadable. Then he gave the faintest nod. No judgment. No pressure.

He stepped out, and the door eased shut behind him with a gentle click — not quite a goodbye, but close enough to hurt.

Early the next morning, the sun had barely broken the horizon. A vague orange glow crept over the sea, casting long shadows across the weather-worn stones of the hilltop castle.

Alex was carried up the winding hill path on a stretcher, his face pale, breaths shallow but steady. His jaw clenched as the stretcher jolted over uneven ground, sending fresh waves of pain radiating from his wound.

"Easy." Pietro murmured, steadying the stretcher as they reached the castle ruins. Alex waved them off, insisting on walking the final distance himself. He gritted his teeth as he swung his legs over the side, Ramon immediately at his elbow to support him. The stone steps down to the vaults were slick with morning dew, each descent sending sharp stabs through his abdomen.

They reached the dungeon first — a maze of rusted cages and stone cells, now eerily empty. The drug lab deeper in had been scrubbed clean, equipment dismantled, files burned. Still, Alex double-checked every corner.

"No fingerprints. No samples. No loose ends." He muttered to Pietro, who nodded tensely.

But then — something felt wrong.

Alex turned. Ramon was gone.

He scanned the corridor again, heart beginning to thud painfully. "Where is he?" He asked, voice sharp.

Pietro's eyes widened. "He was right behind us—"

A cold dread slithered down Alex's spine. His gut twisted, not from the wound this time — but from the creeping certainty in his mind.

Ricardo…

"No." Alex breathed, panic clawing at his throat. Before Pietro could stop him, he wrenched a pistol from a guard's holster and bolted for the stairs, ignoring the searing pain as his stitches tore open.

"Boss, your wound—!"

"Get out of my way!" Alex barked, and began limping, half-running, down the path toward the villa. His bandages were already blooming red again, but he didn't care.

Sand kicked up around his boots as he descended. Even from halfway down the hill, he could see them — four figures on the shoreline, struggling.

Ricardo, arms bound behind his back, was being shoved forward, staggering in the shallow surf. Ramon and two other men were dragging him toward the deeper water.

"RAMON! Don't you fucking touch him!" Alex's roar tore from his throat as he stumbled down the slope, his boots skidding on loose gravel. The guards scrambled after him, Pietro shouting for them to stop, but Alex was a man possessed.

The scene at the beach unfolded in horrific clarity. Ramon had Ricardo in a brutal headlock, forcing him into the surf. The waves crashed around them as Ricardo thrashed, his bound arms rendering him helpless.

"I'm saving you from yourself, Alex!" Ramon bellowed as seawater foamed around them. "No bullet holes, no evidence! They'll think the spoiled brat tried to swim for it!" He shoved Ricardo's head underwater, holding it down as bubbles erupted violently at the surface.

Alex crashed into the shallows with a splash, the icy water shocking his system. With a strangled roar, he rammed into Ramon and shoved him aside. Water exploded around them. Ramon staggered back with a curse. 

Ricardo erupted from the water with a choking gasp, his shoulder flapping as Alex caught him.

"You've lost your damn mind!" Alex roared at Ramon, shielding Ricardo's shuddering form. With shaking hands, he fumbled to untie the ropes binding Ricardo's wrists, the saltwater making the knots slippery.

Ramon's face twisted with fury. "Look at you!" he spat, seawater dripping from his beard. "Willing to throw away everything — for what? For him?" He gestured wildly at Ricardo, who knelt coughing in the surf, his chest heaving.

Alex stood up straight, breathing hard. The pistol in his hand rose — aimed directly at Ramon.

"Don't try me." Alex growled.

Ramon let out a broken laugh. "After everything we've been through? You'd really shoot me?"

Alex didn't flinch. "You think I won't dare?"

His right hand held the gun steady, but his left clutched his abdomen, red soaking through his white shirt in thick rivulets.

"You can't do this to me, Alex!" Ramon's voice shook. "You can't do this to yourself! Let me finish it — let me kill him!"

"Shut up!"

The gunshot cracked across the beach, splashing water inches from Ramon's boots. The guards froze. Even the gulls fell silent.

"Next one's between your eyes." Alex said, his voice deadly calm.

Pietro stepped forward cautiously. "Ramon... come on." He gestured to the waiting yacht, its engines rumbling impatiently.

"Take him." Alex didn't lower the gun. "To the boat. Leave now. All of you."

Ramon stared at him in disbelief, but the guards moved in. No one argued.

They dragged Ramon away. His furious screams echoed behind them as the rest of the crew boarded the yacht.

The waves lapped gently at the shore. Alex stood alone now, trembling. Blood seeped between his fingers, dripping into the turquoise water, swirling like ink in the clear shallows.

He looked down. The water around his boots was all red.

His knees gave out and he collapsed into the surf.

"Alex!" Ricardo scrambled forward, catching him before his head went under. The water was shockingly cold against Ricardo's skin as he hauled Alex's limp form onto dry sand, leaving a smeared crimson trail behind them.

"Doctor! We need the doctor!" Ricardo screamed toward the departing yacht, his voice raw with panic. But the vessel was already pulling away, its wake foaming white against the morning sea.

Alex's bloody fingers weakly grasped Ricardo's shirt. "Let...them go." He gasped, his face ashen. Each breath came shallower than the last, his pupils dilated with pain and blood loss.

"You're bleeding out — fuck, I need to get you back." Ricardo hooked his arm under Alex's shoulders and began dragging him toward the villa. Alex's head lolled against Ricardo's chest, his breath coming in wet, ragged gasps that warmed Ricardo's salt-crusted skin.

"Hold on. I've got you." Ricardo muttered, over and over. "You're not dying here. Not now."

The sun rose slowly over the sea, casting golden light on the blood-streaked sand. Behind them, the tide began to wash it all away.

The door slammed open as Ricardo stumbled into the medical room, topless, chest heaving with every breath. His arms were locked around Alex, who hung limp against him, half-conscious, his body heavy with dead weight. Crimson soaked through the shirt Ricardo had stripped from himself and tied around Alex's waist during the climb from the beach.

The room was dim and sterile, the faint scent of antiseptic still hanging in the air. Ricardo lowered Alex onto the sickbed with trembling urgency, his fingers shaking as he unwrapped his own shirt from Alex's waist. 

Alex lay on the bed, his body glistening with seawater and blood, his skin pale against the stark white sheets. His breathing was shallow, lashes fluttering weakly as he looked up at Ricardo, dazed but quiet, lips parted as if he might speak but couldn't find the strength.

"Don't move." Ricardo said softly.

He reached for the hem of Alex's ruined shirt, fingertips grazing the soaked fabric before lifting it with slow, deliberate care. Each inch of bare skin unveiled made his breath hitch — Alex's body was lean, sinewy, forged in violence and survival. Bruises bloomed dark across his ribs, and faded scars crossed his torso like a map of pain and endurance. The bandages had come loose, dark red blooming beneath them like crushed roses. His skin, though ghost-pale from blood loss, was fever-warm beneath Ricardo's touch.

Ricardo swallowed hard and moved to the waistband of Alex's pants. His fingers fumbled with the button, the metal cold against his knuckles. He tugged the zipper down slowly, the sound loud in the quiet room. The fabric was stiff with half-dried blood, sticking to Alex's thighs. Ricardo hooked his fingers into the waistband and peeled the pants down, revealing the black briefs beneath, damp with sweat and seawater.

His breath stuttered.

He shouldn't hesitate. He couldn't hesitate.

His hands lingered on Alex's waist, his thumbs tracing the sharp ridges of his hip bones before moving to the elastic band of his briefs. With one firm motion, Ricardo pulled them down, his knuckles brushing the sensitive skin of Alex's hips, and the contact sent a flush rushing to his cheeks.

Alex exhaled sharply, his hips tensing, then relaxing under Ricardo's touch.

His cock lay limp against his thigh, thick even at rest, his balls drawn tight from the cold. The sight shouldn't have made Ricardo's pulse jump — but it did. A flicker of heat, unwanted, unwelcome, coiled low in his gut before he ruthlessly shoved it aside.

He had seen Alex naked before — in the stolen moments, in the dark — but this was different. This wasn't intimacy. This was necessity.

He worked quickly, stripping the soaked clothes away, leaving Alex bare beneath him. Then he dried the skin around the wound using a clean cloth, and reached for the scissors on the nearby tray.

His hands trembled slightly as he cut the bloodied bandages. The gauze clung stubbornly to the injury, fused with blood and seawater. Sweat trickled down his temple as he leaned in, slicing carefully, peeling the fabric away with aching precision.

The wound beneath was a deep, angry gash, barely closed with jagged, ugly stitches, fresh blood welling up in slow, insistent pulses. Ricardo bit his lip, forcing himself to work methodically — cleaning, disinfecting, pressing fresh gauze firmly against the torn flesh.

Their bodies were so close now. Breaths mingled in the narrow space between them, hot and damp.

Ricardo's fingers brushed lower than he meant to — the curve of Alex's abdomen, just above the groin. Alex sucked in a gasp — not just from pain, Ricardo could tell, but from the awareness of his touch, raw and electric.

"There's too much blood…" Ricardo muttered, trying to stay focused, but his voice cracked.

Alex gave him a weak smile, his eyes fluttering half open. "You're blushing. Are you undressing me to save me... or just taking your chance to feel me up?"

"Shut up." Ricardo muttered, cheeks flushing deeper, though his voice lacked edge. He pressed harder with the gauze, pretending it was part of the treatment. "You're such an idiot."

Alex hissed in pain but didn't flinch. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, eyes glazed in fatigue yet still sharp enough to find Ricardo's face — and linger there. His lips curled faintly, watching the younger man frantically working on the fresh bandage like a first-year medical student thrown into a war zone.

Ricardo's pulse thundered in his ears. The heat of Alex's skin under his fingers, the raw scent of blood, salt, and sweat, the burning gaze — so distinctly Alex — flooded his senses. The moment felt too intimate, too charged. Something primal inside him twisted and tightened, aching and dark.

Finally, the bandage was secured. Ricardo let out a shaky breath and sank down on the edge of the bed, legs unsteady, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts. His hand — traitorous, hungry — rested against the bare skin of Alex's waist, just above his hipbone. His fingers didn't move, didn't dare.

He looked down at Alex — naked, bleeding, impossibly calm. His own skin flushed, heart thrumming. 

Alex looked back. His gaze was heavy-lidded and soft, drifting over Ricardo's bare torso, his lips parting ever so slightly.

"I think I should die now." He murmured, a fragile smile ghosted across his pale mouth. "It's the perfect moment to die."

"Stop talking bullshit." Ricardo snapped, voice rough.

Their gazes collided like storm fronts meeting — neither willing to retreat, neither able to advance. The space between them hummed with unspoken words, with years of tangled history that coiled tight in Ricardo's chest. His fingers twitched where they rested against Alex's bare waist, the warmth of his skin seeping into Ricardo's palm like a brand.

He looked at him — at the man who he had loved and hated, who had once broken him, yet still pulled him in like gravity. Electricity crackled along his nerves, pooling low in his abdomen in a slow, molten drip. His breath hitched as his eyes traced the familiar landscape of Alex's body — the infuriating, beautiful mouth that had whispered both love and betrayal with equal conviction, the sharp angle of his jaw, the vulnerable dip of his throat, the way the morning light gilded the sweat-slick hollow between his collarbones.

Alex's chest rose in shallow, uneven breaths that Ricardo felt more than heard. Every instinct screamed to close the distance, every breath Alex drew a tether pulling tighter between them. Ricardo's gaze moved downward — over the faint scars marring Alex's ribs, across the fresh bandages around his stomach, following the dark trail of hair below his navel, to the way his thighs tensed when Ricardo shifted closer.

His own body responded instantly, heat flooding his veins as his cock hardened painfully against the confines of his pants.

Desire twining with guilt, with fury, with something darker he refused to name. Ricardo's fingers itched to push, to take, to reduce Alex to nothing but trembling limbs and broken moans beneath him.

He wanted to ruin him.

To press him down into the sheets and fuck him until that clever mouth could form nothing but Ricardo's name. Until those calculating amber eyes glazed over with mindless pleasure. Until every coherent thought was stripped away and all that remained was the slick slide of their bodies, the slap of skin on skin, the animal sounds Alex would make when Ricardo finally let him come.

Before he could stop himself, Ricardo bent down and kissed him.

It wasn't gentle. It was hungry, possessive, desperate — a silent storm of grief and longing. His tongue slid against Alex's teeth, his hands gripping his jaw to keep him still. Alex groaned into his mouth, his fingers tangling in Ricardo's damp hair, pulling him closer, ignoring the stretching of his wound.

The kiss deepened, breaking and rejoining, again and again, until breath became an afterthought. They kissed like they were drowning, like this was the last breath they'd ever take, like they could fuse their broken pieces back together through sheer force.

Minutes passed. Or seconds. Or eternity.

When they finally parted, both were gasping.

"You were suffocating me." Alex said with a raspy chuckle, though his fingers was still curled in Ricardo's hair.

Ricardo braced his hands on either side of Alex's face, his thumbs brushing the sharp cheekbones. Tears welled in his eyes as he spoke, his voice raw: "I won't forgive you."

Alex's eyes softened, his breath warm against Ricardo's lips. "I know."

"I'll testify in court against you." Ricardo's words came out in a rush, each one a dagger turned inward. "I'll send you to jail."

Alex reached up, catching one of Ricardo's tears on his finger. He studied it for a moment before meeting Ricardo's gaze again. "Do it." He said gently. "Do whatever you want. Whatever you need."

A sob tore from Ricardo's throat. "Alex…" His tears dripped onto Alex's cheeks. "Why do you make it so hard for me to hate you?"

Alex closed his eyes, a small smile curving his lips. "That's my curse, isn't it?"

Ricardo's chest ached. He pressed his forehead against Alex's, breathing him in. 

"Alex…" He whispered that name again.

The unspoken words hung heavy in the scant space between them — all the things they couldn't say, all the pain they couldn't heal.

Ricardo wept — not with sobs or sound, but in the silent shudders that rippled through his body, in the way his shoulders caved and his hands clutched at Alex like an anchor. Alex didn't speak. He just lay there, one hand slowly rising to rest against the back of Ricardo's neck, holding him close. Neither said a word.

Time passed like that, slow and soundless.

Eventually, Ricardo's breathing steadied, though his eyes were still red, his forehead streaked with tears. When he shifted back, the mattress springs creaked beneath them, and Alex's eyelids fluttered open to reveal those familiar amber eyes, now dulled with pain but still glinting with dark humor.

A ghost of smirk tugged at Alex's bloodless lips. "Help me get dressed." He murmured, fingers twitched weakly against the damp sheets. "Can't have the police finding their wanted criminal naked in bed with his victim. Might give them... ideas."

Ricardo let out a short, broken laugh, and swiped at his face with the back of his hand. "You certainly know how to give people ideas." He shot back, but there was no real bite to it — just exhaustion and something dangerously close to fondness.

Alex's expression softened. "Ricardo..." His voice dropped to something tender and unguarded, fingers brushing weakly at the younger man's wrist. "Please."

The single word hung between them, weighted with more than just the request. Ricardo exhaled sharply through his nose and pushed to his feet.

When he returned from upstairs, the clean cotton shirt he'd changed into smelled faintly of lavender from Elena's old wardrobe. The bundle of clothes in his arms — dark slacks, a button-down, a leather belt — were things he'd carefully selected from Alex's own closet, simple, dry, nothing like the fine fabrics he usually wore.

Kneeling beside the bed, Ricardo worked with painstaking care. He guided Alex's arms through sleeves as if handling fine porcelain, buttoned each button with precise movements. When he lifted Alex's hips to slide the pants up his legs, he did it with a gentleness that contradicted every harsh word they'd ever exchanged.

Alex watched him in silence, obedient like a well-behaved child. His breath hitched not from pain but from the unbearable tenderness of the moment. Ricardo's hands lingered at the waistband, adjusting it just so, his knuckles grazing the newly dressed wound.

"There." Ricardo muttered, stepping back to survey his work. The words came out thicker than intended. "Presentable enough for your mugshot."

The corner of Alex's mouth quirked. Then, with a quiet grunt, he shifted, trying to push himself up from the bed.

"Where are you going?" Ricardo asked, concern sharpening his voice as he moved quickly to steady him.

"I need to go outside." Alex murmured, fingers curling weakly toward his arm. "Help me up."

Ricardo blinked. "Outside?"

"To the cliff." Alex said. "I don't want to waste whatever time we have left in this boring little room."

Ricardo hesitated. Then, silently, he slipped an arm around Alex's waist and pulled his arm over his shoulders. Alex leaned into him, heavy and fragile all at once, and together they moved — slow, uneven steps echoing down the hallway.

They passed abandoned rooms, hushed shadows, and finally reached the threshold where the villa gave way to the open world. The wind greeted them in a cool rush, and somewhere below, the sea murmured — steady, eternal, like the fate quietly waiting ahead.

Chapter Text

They sat on a sun-warmed stone near the edge of the cliff, facing the endless stretch of the Mediterranean Sea. The morning fog had begun to thin, curling away from the coast in ribbons, revealing a deep blue sky slowly waking from a sleepless night. Wind carried the scent of sage and oleander from the groves behind them, the kind of breeze that usually brought clarity — but today, it only made things blurrier.

Alex was slumped against Ricardo's shoulder, his body heavy and fevered, like his bones had melted beneath his skin. His breathing was shallow, and a thin sheen of sweat clung to his pale face, except for the feverish flush high on his cheeks. His fingers, usually so precise and controlled, now lay limp in his lap, twitching occasionally as if grasping for something unseen.  

They had been speaking quietly, slowly — pausing often for Alex to catch his breath or refocus his drifting thoughts. The subject had shifted from how Alex was injured to Matteo's sacrifice and finally, inevitably, to Isabella.

Ricardo let out a soft, bitter scoff, the sound barely audible over the whispering wind. "You seem to know everything that happens in my family." 

Alex gave a faint huff, somewhere between a breath and a sigh. His lips curved, not a smile, but a hint of sorrow. "Not everything."

Slowly, with visible effort, he lifted his head. His eyes — clouded by fever but painfully sincere — met Ricardo's. "If Matteo hadn't told me…" he began, his voice hoarse, barely holding together, "I would've never known."

He paused to catch his breath. "That you stopped your father from killing me." His hand shifted, fingers brushing against Ricardo's before curling around them gently. "That you were the reason I'm still breathing."

Ricardo didn't pull away. He held Alex's gaze, their faces close enough that their breaths mingled — warm and unsteady between them.  

"You saved my life." Alex continued, his thumb tracing slow circles over Ricardo's knuckles. "Why didn't you tell me? You could've sent something — anything. A sign, a word..." His voice wavered, thick with the ache of hindsight. "If I'd known who you truly were, what you did for me…" The silence that followed was heavy, almost unbearable. "Everything could've been different."

His free hand lifted, trembling slightly with fatigue, to cradle Ricardo's cheek. He leaned in, his lips parting —  

Ricardo turned his face away.

"I never thought about telling you." He said, voice low. "I never dared to."  

Alex's hand lingered in the air between them before falling back to his lap. "Because of your father?" His voice rasping, dry with fever. "The vendetta? Or just your loyalty?"

Ricardo lowered his gaze. "I don't know. It's too late to explain anything now."

"But your father thought you betrayed him anyway." Alex pressed. His grip on Ricardo's hand tightened, grounding himself as much as the other man. "And he still does." His voice dropped, urgent. "Believe me, I know how dangerous he is. Even to you. ESPECIALLY to you." He swallowed hard, fighting the way his vision blurred at the edges. "You need to make yourself look completely loyal to him. Tell him how much you hate me, how much you want to destroy me." 

Ricardo flinched, but Alex didn't stop.

"That's your shield right now." His breath hitched, his voice thin but determined. "Learn to survive before you learn to strike."  

Ricardo's jaw tightened. He turned his face toward the glittering horizon, trying to swallow the taste rising in his throat. "I know I'm terrible at both." He muttered. "Surviving. Fighting back."

He paused, then added with a bitter edge, "But you've taught me enough, haven't you?"

Taught him — the words hung between them, sharp as a blade. Through pain, through humiliation, through the calculated ruin of everything he had been.

Alex went very still. For a long moment, the only sounds were the waves and the distant cry of gulls. Then, softly — so softly Ricardo almost didn't hear it — Alex whispered, "I wish I hadn't."

He sagged on Ricardo's shoulder once more, exhausted. His fingers remained curled around Ricardo's, his grip loose but still there, as if he needed the contact to anchor himself.

Ricardo didn't move. He glanced down at Alex, at the fever-sheen on his skin, the unnatural flush beneath the pallor, the weight of him growing heavier by the second.

The sea kept murmuring below the stones, but it sounded farther away now. Muted. As if the world had narrowed to just this — just the fragile gravity between two men who had wrecked each other and yet remained bound, not by forgiveness, and not quite by hatred.

By history. And the ruins they carried.

Ricardo exhaled, slowly, and looked up again — his eyes tracking the horizon, where the last traces of mist had dissolved. The sky was clear now, the sun climbing toward its apex, gilding the cliffside in sharper light. Everything looked too vivid. Too real.

And then, he blinked, leaning forward, eyes narrowing. "Do you see that?"

On the horizon, a strange vision shimmered into existence. A distant land — floating, flickering — suspended above the sea like a dream stitched from heat and air.

"Is that Fata Morgana?"

Alex's head lolled slightly as he turned to look. His fever-bright eyes struggled to focus. "Yes." He murmured. "The mirage."

"I saw one when I was little." Ricardo said, his tone softening as he watched the illusion shift and waver. "It looked like a kingdom in the sky."

Alex's lips curved faintly. "If you stay on this island long enough, you'll see them often." His voice was thin now, almost translucent. "In Sicily's old tales, they're the magic of Morgan le Fay — the powerful sorceress. She builds phantom cities in the air."

Ricardo tilted his head. "Like… a parallel world?"

Alex let out a slow breath. "They are just illusions."

Ricardo glanced at him. "Still… they might be real. Could be another life out there. Another you and me."

Alex turned his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching with something unreadable. His amber eyes — dulled with pain but still deep — held Ricardo's for a beat too long.

Ricardo didn't look away. "Would they be luckier than us?"

A long pause. Then Alex's reply came soft, barely above a breath. "They'd meet on a sunlit street."

Something in Ricardo's chest twisted. His fingers curled tighter around Alex's, as if afraid he might vanish with the next gust of wind.

And just then, a shudder ran through Alex, sudden and violent. Ricardo felt it — the tremors wracking his body, the way his muscles locked and spasmed against the cold that wasn't there.  

"You are trembling." Ricardo said, his voice tensing.  

"I'm cold." Alex mumbled, his words slurring.  

"No..." Ricardo touched Alex's forehead, alarm rising in his voice. "You're burning."

He shifted, wrapping both arms around Alex's frail frame, trying to hold him together, trying to stop the shaking that seemed to come from deep within. Alex huddled into his arms. His head dipping forward, eyelids heavy and half-lowered. His skin was scorching to the touch, his pulse thready beneath Ricardo's fingers where they pressed against his wrist.

Ricardo felt the weight against him grow heavier.

"Alex." He cupped Alex's fevered cheek, the heat beneath his palm startling. He leaned in, pressing their foreheads together, their breath mingling in the fragile space between. Then, with aching tenderness, he pressed a kiss to the corner of Alex's mouth — soft, desperate — and whispered beside his ear, "Don't drift off. Stay with me."

Just at that moment, the distant roar of engines cut through the wind.

Ricardo turned sharply. On the other side of the cliff, above the crystal clear water, dark shapes emerged — police boats, breaking through the waves, their prows slicing toward the island.

Alex stirred weakly against him, his lashes fluttering as he tried to stay awake. "They're here." He murmured, his voice barely audible.

Ricardo's grip on him tightened instinctively. "Alex—"

But Alex was already pushing himself upright with what little strength he had left, his jaw set despite the pain and fever burning through him. His expression was eerily calm, as if he had rehearsed this moment a thousand times in his mind.

"It's time." He said.

The boats surged nearer, engines roaring louder with every beat of their hearts. Then the sirens erupted, sharp and jarring, slicing through the stillness and making the whole island tremble with their echo. Officers in tactical gear swarmed the shore, weapons drawn, their shouts sharp and commanding over the wind.

Ricardo didn't move as the first officers scrambled up the rocky path toward them. He held onto Alex like an anchor, fingers clutching at his arms as though letting go might shatter something in both of them.

Alex, barely upright, swayed against him. His skin was chalk-white and burning with fever, his breath shallow and uneven. His eyes — dull and unfocused — found Ricardo's with effort. "Ricardo," he rasped, "let me go." One trembling hand fumbled over Ricardo's, trying weakly to peel it away. "You're a hostage being rescued and I'm the kidnapper. Remember that."

Ricardo's voice came low, cracked. "They'll separate us."

Alex managed a flicker of a smile, fragile and sad. "That's the point, isn't it?"

The officers appeared over the ridge in the next instant — dark silhouettes against the glare of the sun. They fanned out quickly, surrounding the two of them with ruthless precision.

"Alessandro Chiesa, you are surrounded." A voice thundered through a bullhorn, rifles locking onto Alex from all sides. "Drop your weapon! Step away from the hostage! Hands in the air — do it now!"

Alex moved before Ricardo could react.

With a weak but deliberate motion, he managed to stand up, legs shaking beneath him. His hands rose slowly — trembling, palms out — a gesture of surrender that looked more like a plea for mercy.

"I'm unarmed!" He shouted, his voice ragged, hoarse, barely louder than the wind. "I surrender!"

The words were swallowed almost instantly by the crashing surf. But the officers heard it — they tensed, rifles still trained on him with deadly precision.

Ricardo's breath caught in his throat as he watched Alex take those first staggering steps toward the police. His stood too, keeping his hands visible, but his eyes locked on Alex's retreating form. The distance between them grew with each painful step, each one feeling like a chasm opening in his chest.

The officers advanced cautiously, their weapons unwavering. Alex didn't flinch as one of them — tall, square-jawed, buzz cut — lunged forward and seized him by the arm.

A strangled gasp escaped him. The grip twisted into his flesh, and his feverish body buckled without resistance. Then he was wrenched downward.

His knees crashed onto the jagged rock with a sickening thud. The impact drove a guttural cry from his throat, his frame folding over itself. Ricardo winced at the sound — it was more than pain; it was the sound of a body barely stitched together, coming apart all over again.

"Easy with him!" The words burst from Ricardo's lips before he could stop it. "He's sick! He's wounded — he needs a hospital!" He surged forward, only to be caught in a vise-like grip by another officer.

"Stay back, kid." The officer barked, yanking him behind the police line with unnecessary force.

The lead officer shot him a suspicious glance. "You Ricardo Garavani?"

Ricardo felt the weight of the moment pressing down on him. He straightened his spine, letting his family name settle around his shoulders like armor. "Yes." He answered, his voice dripping with the pride bred into him since childhood. "And I want to press every possible charge against this asshole."

Alex's lips twitched — almost a smile — before his expression smoothed into indifference.  

The officer pinning him didn't slow. He forced Alex's wrists behind his back and slammed the cuffs into place, paying no mind to the blood darkening his shirt or the tremors racking his fevered limbs. Alex's head drooped forward, breath wheezing between clenched teeth. His wound pulsed like fire — blinding, suffocating — but he stayed silent, refusing to cry out again.

Then — barely — he turned his head, catching Ricardo's eyes through the blur of pain and sweat. With all the force he could muster, he narrowed his eyes, lips curling into a silent plea.

Play along. Survive.

Ricardo's chest tightened. His breath stuttered. He heard the message like a whisper against his bones:

Hate me now. Let them believe it.

He staggered back, teeth gritted, fingers curling into fists. The ache in his chest felt unbearable as they dragged Alex to his feet. 

Then he spat, loud enough for every officer to hear. The tremor in his voice wasn't entirely feigned. "Got what you wanted, then?" His voice rose, sharp and cruel. "Enjoy your last taste of sunlight. I'll see you in court — and then you can rot in hell where you belong!"

No response. Alex couldn't answer — his legs gave out mid-step. One officer caught him, but not gently.

"He's burning up!" The officer yelled. "Get a stretcher, now!"

They act quickly. The stretcher appeared from behind the line, the medics moving like shadows. Ricardo stood frozen, helpless as they strapped Alex down, his wrists still cuffed. His head lolled sideways, eyes fluttering open for the briefest moment. They found Ricardo one last time — and held.

As if trying to memorize his face.

Then they slipped shut again.

The roar of the speedboat's engine shattered the moment. Ricardo watched, numb, as they carried Alex away, the boat shrinking to a speck on the horizon until it disappeared entirely.

Around him, officers swarmed the island, shouting orders and searching for evidence. The one who had restrained him earlier clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, kid. Let's get you home."

Ricardo didn't move. His eyes drifted past the chaos, past the breaking waves, toward the line where sea met sky.

The mirage still shimmered there — distant, untouchable. A phantom world where things might have been different.

Just like that other life.

When Ricardo finally stepped into the entrance hall of the Garavani mansion, the scent of polished wood and aged incense hit him like a memory he couldn't quite place — something warm, familiar, and now quietly rotting at the edges.

Salvatore waited at the top of the grand staircase, arms wide open, dressed in a dark suit as if mourning had become his second skin. His voice, when it rang out, was rich with emotion — the performance of a grieving father laced with false relief.

"My son," he called, descending with the slow elegance of a man who'd rehearsed this reunion in mirrors. "You're finally home."

"Papà."

The word scraped past Ricardo's lips bent into a shape that resembled a smile. He forced himself forward — each step taken with the brittle grace of a mannequin — one wrong angle and the illusion would fall apart. 

He let Salvatore embrace him. His arms hung stiffly at first, then slowly encircled his father's shoulders, a marionette mimicking affection. He pressed his face into the old man's suit, drawing in that blend of cigar smoke and cologne, holding it in just long enough to summon tears that didn't feel like his.

Then his gaze slid over Salvatore's shoulder, and the moment wavered.

The angel statue. Gone.

It had always been there — beside the stairs, wings open in quiet benediction, hands folded like it prayed for the house. Watching. Waiting. Its absence now felt deliberate, cruel. Like an accusation carved in empty space.

Ricardo swallowed hard, blinking back the image of his mother's body — twisted, broken, bleeding — where that angel used to stand.

"Where's Mom?" He asked, lifting his head, feigning confusion. His voice carried the right notes — soft, uncertain, searching — and yet it tasted like ash in his mouth. He masked the tremor with a tilted brow and the kind of innocence that disarmed. "She's not home?"

Salvatore's expression shifted — somber, theatrical, just enough to convince an outsider. He placed a heavy hand on Ricardo's shoulder, firm and paternal. His voice dropped, loaded with sorrow and venom.

"Ricco... my boy..."

The sigh that followed was long, weighted, tragic — the mark of a man accustomed to shaping truths into weapons.

"Your mother... she tried to save you. She sent Matteo to negotiate with Alex Chiesa."

He exhaled slowly, a master building a story.

"Matteo went in good faith. But Chiesa… that bastard… he took the ransom, then turned on him. Killed him in cold blood. Vito tried to intervene. He wounded Chiesa, yes — stabbed him hard — but Chiesa's men got to Vito. Shot him like a dog."

A pause. A calculated breath.  

"When your mother heard it... she couldn't take it. The news destroyed her. She feared you'd never come back. And that same night… she was gone. A heart attack." 

He bowed his head as if the memory pained him. His eyes glistened — perfectly timed tears, practiced and precise.

Ricardo didn't blink. But his nails dug into his palms.

"If Chiesa told you otherwise," Salvatore added, his grip tightening, "he lied. That's what he does. He twists reality. He poisons everything he touches. He's the one who took your mother from us. And Matteo, Vito, all gone — all because of that monster."

Ricardo held his father's stare. Inside, his stomach writhed.

The words were so smooth, so convincing. If he hadn't seen the surveillance footage with his own eyes — if he hadn't watched his father's hands around his mother's throat, heard her skull crack before she collapsed beneath him — he might have believed every single word.

It was almost perfect, the lie.

Almost.

He forced himself to falter slightly, to let the grief leak into his eyes, carefully, like ink soaking through paper.

Then the weight hit him.

He had to mourn her now — pretend it was the first time. Pretend he hadn't already cried in silence, fists pressed to his mouth in the dark, replaying the horror on loop in his mind until his eyes went dry. He had to perform, here, in front of her killer — the man who now wore her death like a medallion of loyalty.

Ricardo staggered a step back, one hand clutching the banister. A choked breath escaped him, and the tears came — real this time, despite the performance. For a moment, he almost collapsed under the guilt of faking his shock.

"Mamma..." The word broke as it left him.

He dropped to his knees at the base of the stairs, burying his face in his hands, letting the anguish pour out. His shoulders shook. Anyone watching would think he was breaking apart from fresh pain — but it was the old grief, the buried rage, the helplessness finally let loose.

He screamed inside — for his mother, for the true fury he'd been forced to smother, to swallow.

But when he finally raised his head, he twisted it — molding the grief, the fury, the raw pain into something dramatic and cold, a performance edged with cruelty.

"I'll kill him." He snarled, his voice ricocheting off the marble walls like a gunshot. "That bastard — I'll drag him into court and bury him under everything he's done. I want him dead!" 

He stood up, lips curling with spite.

"No… death is too kind." His voice dropped, low and bitter. "I want him to suffer. I want him ruined. I want him rotting in a cage, begging for death."

Salvatore tilted his head, intrigued.

"Let them treat him." Ricardo went on, each word like a brand against his tongue. "Heal him. Fix every damn wound. Don't touch him while he's in the hospital. Not yet."

He met his father's gaze, eyes blazing with hatred.

"Because when he walks into prison, I want him to feel everything. A thousand times what I felt. The pain, the humiliation. I want him torn apart slowly, day after day, until his soul rots before his body ever does."

A cruel smile pulled at his mouth.

Salvatore's eyes gleamed, shadowed with twisted pride. He cupped Ricardo's face between his calloused palms, the pressure just shy of bruising.

"This," he whispered, almost in awe, "this is my son."

His thumbs dragged roughly across Ricardo's cheeks, smearing away the tears like dirt. "My heir. At last, you've grown into the man I raised you to be."

He believed he'd won.

Ricardo dropped his gaze, jaw locked so tight it ached, fists trembling against his thighs. He leaned into the touch like a dutiful son, teeth grinding as the bile climbed his throat.

Somewhere far from this theater of lies, the man he'd just condemned with fire in his voice was still clinging to life, chest barely rising.

And here — right here — stood the real monster, wearing fatherly love like a mask carved in stone.

So Ricardo nodded.

Let him believe it.

He would keep playing this part, bound in a costume of hate and loyalty stitched together with lies — until the day he could tear it off, and Salvatore Garavani would finally see the son he'd created… standing over the ruins of everything he loved.

Chapter Text

The news hit like wildfire.

Alex Chiesa — arrested and hospitalized — was all anyone in the underworld could talk about. For a moment, it seemed like the mafia world had frozen in disbelief. But the stillness didn't last. It shattered like glass.

It wasn't just gossip; it was a seismic shock that cracked the fragile equilibrium holding the criminal world together. In a matter of days, alliances shattered. Territories long kept under uneasy truces ignited in blood. Every family with a score to settle, every capo with ambition, saw the collapse of Chiesa as a signal: the game had changed.

Salvatore Garavani, once the grand puppeteer behind many of the wars and profits, found himself drowning in the storm he'd helped create. He had expected Alex's fall to restore his dominance, but instead, it left a vacuum — one he could not fill, for betrayal could not be undone. Fires were everywhere, and his men were stretched thin trying to suppress uprisings from former allies who now carved out their own fiefdoms. Weapons moved across borders unchecked. Revenues shrank. Street-level loyalty eroded. The era when Salvatore's name alone commanded automatic obedience had ended irrevocably.

It was replaced by pure chaos.

Meanwhile, Ricardo lived like a ghost within the Garavani estate.

He was being watched — that much was clear. Salvatore didn't trust him, not fully. But fate had dealt him a strange kind of favor. The mansion, once a fortress of noise and power, now felt emptier than it had ever been. Most of the guards had been pulled to the frontlines — to defend critical routes, suppress turf wars, and keep rival families from storming what was left of their crumbling territory. Salvatore himself was practically a phantom. He spent his days in crisis meetings, firefights, and whispered negotiations that reeked of desperation. Most nights, he didn't return before midnight. Sometimes not at all.

And in that growing chaos, Ricardo moved freely. From dawn to dusk — and often long after — he drifted through the halls like a restless shadow. The staff fed him. The guards acknowledged him with blank nods. No one stopped him from roaming. No one dared question him, not to his face. 

But he was never truly alone.

Every morning, after breakfast served in hollow silence, he was summoned to the study on the east wing. There, a legal team waited — spearheaded by a silver-haired lawyer named Bellini, who smelled of ink and smoke. Ricardo was expected to work with him. Closely. Deliberately.

His task was to craft a statement for court — a testimony sharp as a blade, meant to slice Alex Chiesa into pieces.

"Be honest." Bellini would say, tapping his pen against a legal pad. "But don't be soft. Make it vivid. Make it hurt. The jury needs to feel it."

He was to paint Alex as a monster. A cold-blooded manipulator, abuser, and murderer. A morally degenerated lowlife and traitor to his "business partners" — the Garavani family. They worked for hours each day, rewording and refining each sentence until it dripped with implication and accusation. They wanted a narrative of betrayal and blood, the kind that would justify the harshest penalties — even life imprisonment.

And Ricardo played along. He said the words. He let them edit his grief into ammunition.

But inside, the fire burned.

Each line he helped craft felt like a blade twisting inward, carving deeper into a wound that never closed. They pressed him for every detail — every burn, every violation, every humiliating groan — forcing him to relive the nightmare over and over. Then they embellished it, layering horror on top of horror, reshaping truth into something monstrous — something bloody enough to make the headlines. It wasn't justice they wanted. It was erasure — not just of Alex, but of Ricardo too.

And slowly, he began to come apart.

Time and again, he had to step out, breath hitching, bile rising in his throat. He wanted to scream. To vomit. To dig a hole and vanish into the earth, forgotten forever.

What did he even want anymore? Justice? Revenge? Or just a way out?

Who was the real enemy now? Who deserved his fury? Who, if anyone, still stood beside him?

And was this really the ending he wanted to write — for Alex, for himself, for the wreckage they once called love?

It wasn't until the fifth day after Ricardo's return that Salvatore finally summoned him.

The Don stood waiting in the grand foyer, dressed in a jet-black suit that clung too tightly to shoulders coiled with strain. His face was pale and drawn, deep shadows bruising the skin beneath his eyes — like a man who hadn't slept in days.

"You're going to see your mother." He said, voice rough like gravel.

It wasn't an offer. It was a command. A test.

Ricardo's jaw twitched, betraying the tension he kept buried. "I've been waiting."

Salvatore's tone shifted, softened in a way that felt unnatural. "I'll come with you. Just in case you need… support."

Ricardo turned his gaze on him, slow and steady, before forcing a smile. "Thank you, Papà."

But he knew better.

This wasn't about mourning, or offering solace. It was about control — about the quiet dread gnawing at Salvatore, the fear of what the dead might murmur into the hearts of the living.

They drove in silence. Through the car windows, the city passed by in ruin — scorched storefronts with shattered glass, blood-streaked graffiti defacing crumbling walls, the wail of distant sirens echoing like a broken lullaby. People on the streets moved fast, eyes lowered, as if trying to vanish into the concrete as soon as possible.

But when the iron gates of the church graveyard creaked open, it was like crossing a threshold into another realm — untouched, serene, and sacred.

The Garavani family mausoleum was built into the foundations of the city's grandest cathedral, a baroque masterpiece of white stone and gilded archways. Columns stretched high overhead like arms pleading with heaven.

Surrounded by a dozen bodyguards in dark suits and mirrored sunglasses — two of them stationed at his sides — Salvatore stepped into the mausoleum with Ricardo, his hand clamped firmly around his son's elbow, as if guiding him… or restraining him.

It was a place of cold opulence — rows of polished white tombs, each engraved with the Garavani related name in proud, carved letters. Sunlight poured through stained glass, casting the marble floor in fractured jewel-tones — amethyst, ruby, sapphire. 

Fresh lilies rested at Isabella's resting place, too perfect to be from love — likely maintained by staff. Her name was etched in gold.

ISABELLA RIINA

Her portrait was carved in profile — young, beautiful, commanding. The epitaph below bore a simple line:

"Amata, ammirata, mai dimenticata." — Loved, admired, never forgotten.

Ricardo knelt before the tomb, his breath catching in his throat. His hand reached for the smooth surface, fingers trembling as if he could feel the warmth of her through the cold stone.

He murmured something that no one could hear. And then again, softer. "I'm sorry, Mamma."

Behind him, Salvatore shifted — a subtle, restless motion. His shoulders squared, rigid with unease.

Ricardo noticed.

Does he think she'll speak to me from the grave? Does he fear her ghost will point a finger?

Ricardo's jaw locked. He bowed his head, resting his forehead against the cold marble, breathing in the mingled scent of wax-polished stone and fading lilies — the last remnants of her presence.

"Mamma, I'm back." He murmured, this time letting the words drift just loud enough for Salvatore to catch. "Too late… I'm sorry..."

Tears came without force, without restraint — quiet and steady. Minutes slipped by in silence, broken only by the weight of grief.

When he finally looked up, his voice was soft but deliberate. "I want something of hers."

Salvatore stiffened. "What?"

"Something personal. To remember her by. Her cross necklace, maybe. She wore it every day."

The older man hesitated. His eyes darkened for a moment, weighing something behind them. Then he exhaled through his nose and nodded once.

"Gianni," he said, gesturing to the lieutenant beside him, "take him home. Give him what he asks for."

Gianni's beady eyes darted between them. "The necklace?" He watched Ricardo with the nervous intensity of a man who knew too much.

Ricardo held Salvatore's gaze. "And her pocket watch. The one Nonno gave her."

Salvatore's lip curled, then he waved to Gianni. "Just let him choose."

His voice was too casual, like he wanted to end the conversation quickly.

Ricardo rose slowly, brushing the dust from his knees, eyes never leaving Salvatore's. He saw it — that flicker in his father's eyes, a shadow of unease that passed too quickly to be called anything but fear. Fear not of ghosts, but of truths buried poorly. Of secrets that might still find a voice.

Back at the mansion, Gianni didn't speak much. He seemed annoyed — Ricardo could see it in the way his jaw worked, the way his fingers twitching before unlocking the office.

Salvatore's war room was untouched: a monument to control. Polished oak desk, walls lined with books whose spines had never been cracked, curtains heavy enough to drown out the sun.

Gianni hesitated, casting a sidelong glance at Ricardo.

"You should wait outside." He muttered.

Ricardo crossed his arms. "I'm not a stranger in my own house."

Gianni's throat bobbed. With a resigned sigh, he crossed the room to the far wall and tugged back a section of the bookshelf. It moved with a faint groan, revealing a sleek biometric keypad — dramatic in its secrecy.

He glanced at Ricardo warily but didn't ask him to leave. Instead, he pressed his index finger to the panel.

Ricardo stood just behind, silent as a shadow, eyes fixed on the sequence of numbers Gianni punched in: 7-2-0-6. 

A soft click answered. The panel shifted open, unveiling a gleaming steel safe behind it.

Gianni reached inside and pulled out a velvet-lined box. He opened it with less ceremony than Ricardo expected. Inside lay several familiar objects: a diamond wedding ring, a platinum pocket watch, the golden cross necklace Isabella had worn every day of her life… and —

Her phone.

Ricardo's heart skipped.

But he said nothing. His eyes swept past it. He reached forward, hands steady, and picked up the necklace, then the pocket watch.

"That's all?" Gianni asked gruffly.

Ricardo only gave a faint nod in return.

The box was closed. The safe re-locked. The bookshelf slid back into place.

But Ricardo had already memorized the code.

That night, Ricardo lay rigid in bed, the cross necklace curled in his palm like a blade. The metal bit into his skin, grounding him — an anchor to the woman who had been his world, and the lies that had buried her.

Sleep wouldn't come.

His thoughts circled back to the phone.

Why hiding it in a steel safe, tucked behind a false bookshelf, sealed away with such care among his mother's jewelry? Salvatore never did anything without purpose. If he'd locked it up like treasure, then it held something he feared. Or something he needed. Maybe both.

Was it about Alex?

Aside from that one video call with Matteo, everything Ricardo knew about what had happened to his mother — and to Matteo — came from Alex. He knew his father had lied. But how much of Alex's story was true? How much was just another kind of manipulation?

Maybe the phone held the answers.

And he needed the whole truth — no matter what it cost.

Outside his window, the city burned. Fire crawled along the distant docks, painting the sky in flickering orange, while sirens howled through the dark like wounded animals. Gunshots cracked now and then — sharp reminders that Marigemelli was tearing itself apart. Somewhere out there, Salvatore was scrambling to stitch his crumbling empire back together, one bloodstained thread at a time.

His most loyal men were either dead by his own hand, or too entangled in street wars to bother watching over one broken son sulking in the west wing.

Every night bled into the next, and every one was the same.

Ricardo waited two full days, quietly studying the guards' routines with a sharp, measured eye. Somehow, he had learned patience — a discipline once foreign to him — and with it came a cold, unwavering focus he never knew he had.

The nanny always made pizza for the guards' midnight snack — thick-crusted, heavy with tomato sauce. The kind that masked flavors well.

That afternoon, he crushed a small dose of his mother's sleeping pills into powder between two spoons. When the nanny stepped away to answer the phone, he slipped into the kitchen and stirred the powder into the simmering sauce — just enough to fog the minds of those who would eat it later.

By midnight, silence crept over the mansion. One by one, the guards succumbed to drowsiness. The man with the master keys slumped into the armchair near the west wing stairs, snoring lightly. Ricardo moved carefully in his soft socks, and slid the keys from the guard's belt with two fingers, barely disturbing the man's coat.

Every hallway was lined with surveillance cameras — like blinking eyes that never shut. When he reached the foyer, he paused. In the ceiling's corner, one lens stared back at him. That one — the same camera that had captured Isabella's murder. 

Someone had been watching back then. Someone was watching still.

And someone — hiding deep within his father's trusted circle — was working for Alex.

Ricardo looked straight into the lens. His voice was no more than breath, his lips shaping the words:

"Help me."

It was a desperate gamble. But whoever was behind the feeds had the power to edit, to distort reality — to decide what stayed and what disappeared.

And as the silence held, Ricardo began to suspect he knew exactly who it was.

He walked on, navigating the house like a veteran thief, every floorboard memorized from childhood, every shadow a temporary ally. He crossed the west corridor without a sound, ducking behind a cabinet just as a guard shuffled by, yawning between sluggish steps toward the kitchen.

Salvatore's office loomed ahead, silent and immovable. One guard sat slumped at the far end of the hall, snoring against the wall — dead to the world.

The key slid into the lock with a soft click. Ricardo exhaled, pushed the door open, then closed it just as silently behind him. Inside, the room was bathed in darkness, save for the cold, pale beam of his phone's flashlight. He kept the light low, scanning the towering bookshelves until he reached the far wall. His fingers found the faint groove in the wood. He pulled. It shifted open with a soft, reluctant moan.

There it was — the keypad.

7-2-0-6.

He entered the numbers with hands trembling not from fear, but from anticipation. The lock released with a smooth hiss, and the steel faceplate slid aside, revealing the safe.

The box was waiting there, with the phone inside.

Ricardo stared at the phone — a small, ordinary thing, locked away like a dangerous secret.

He took it gently, knelt beside the desk, and plugged in the charger he'd brought. The screen flickered, then lit up.

The lock screen hit him like a punch to the ribs — Isabella, radiant with laughter, her arm wrapped around his youthful shoulders, the sea behind them glittering like glass, sunlight caught in their eyes.

It was his eighteenth birthday. Just four months ago.

Ricardo inhaled sharply.

He entered the password — exactly his birthday. Isabella had never changed it. The screen unlocked.

His thumb hovered over the message icon, hesitant, already aching and dreading for what he might find.

Then he opened it.

The last messages between Matteo and his mother lit the screen.

************** Matteo **************

>> Met Chiesa. No ransom. Handover within two weeks.

<< He kept his words?

>> Yes. He even gave Ricardo a new identity with 50 million in the account, and a ticket to Argentina. He wants him out of the war.

<< Maybe that indeed is the best for Ricco right now.

>> He doesn't want Ricardo to know it's from him. Asked me to say you arranged it and we paid ransom.

<< How much can we trust him?

>> My gut says his care for Ricardo is real. 

>> I don't know their full story. But something's changed. 

>> I spoke to Ricardo. He's recovering well. Said he missed you. Asked you to stay safe.

<< Thank God. My sweet boy.

<< And you too — come back safe.

>> See you soon, Signora. I'll bring the documents.

(An hour later)

<< Where are you, Matteo? Everything goes well?

<< I heard there's a big move today. A hit squad was sent out.

<< Are you safe?

**************

Nothing after that.

Ricardo stared at the screen, hands trembling, vision swimming. The messages faded as the screen dimmed — but the words branded themselves into him.

It wasn't what he'd expected to see.

Alex lied.

He hadn't taken a ransom. He'd given Ricardo an escape. A life. And he'd let Ricardo believe the worst of him — misjudge him, hate him — just so Ricardo could be free of the chain that still bound him to the past.

Ricardo pressed the phone to his forehead, his shoulders shaking.

"You bastard." He whispered, voice cracking. "You absolute bastard. Is this how you planned to settle your debt? Make me owe you so that you can have peace of mind?"

A choked laugh escaped him — broken and bitter. 

"No way."

His jaw clenched. Tears spilled silently. He lowered his head, fists tight around the phone.

And then, very slowly, he smiled — not with joy, but something colder. Sharper.

The war had never ended.

But now, he knew exactly how he should fight it.

At 5 a.m., Salvatore's shoes struck the marble tiles like thunder as he walked in, his coat trailing behind him, reeking of smoke and blood and failure. 

The mansion was silent, wrapped in the hush of early morning. The house looked as if it had never stirred.

His office door was closed and locked. The keys had been returned to the belt of the guard snoring in the hallway armchair. The phone, tucked deep inside the safe behind the false bookshelf, lay exactly where it had been — untouched, seemingly. Everything was… as it should be.

Except for one thing.

The guards.

Two were still asleep on the hallway of the east wing, one with his back against the wall, mouth agape, drooling like a dog. Another lay half-sprawled across a bench near the study, snoring so loud it echoed through the corridor.

Rage shot through Salvatore like fire through dry brush.

"You worthless dogs!" His voice cracked through the silence like a whip, and his hand lashed out before one could fully wake. The slap echoed — a sharp, sick crack of knuckles against flesh. Blood sprayed from the guard's lip as his head hit the wall.

The others flinched, stunned into stillness.

"What the hell happened last night?" Salvatore snarled. "Someone drugged you? Who was here?!"

Blank stares.

"Get up. All of you!" Salvatore bellowed. "Check the security feed! Now!"

They stumbled to obey, fumbling toward the control room, still groggy, adrenaline crashing into the remnants of drugged sleep.

Five minutes later, Salvatore stood in front of the monitors, arms crossed, jaw grinding.

The footage played back with clinical indifference.

Ricardo was seen entering his room at 11:36 p.m., and never leaving again.

Other than that — nothing.

No footsteps. No doors opening. No shadows in the halls. No trespassing, no safe being touched, no lights flickering in the office. Just static hums, empty frames with still background, and silence. Occasionally, the feed glitched — faint flickers that looked more like transmission errors than edits — but revealed nothing.

Salvatore narrowed his eyes, watching the footage loop. Again. And again.

Not a single frame of Ricardo outside his room. Not a breath of evidence that anything had happened.

Salvatore exhaled slowly, lips curling around the bitter taste of doubt.

Was it paranoia again?

Like the kind that had led him to kill Isabella — to wring the life from his wife in a blind, brutal rage, only to find regret blooming too late, like rot after the harvest.

That memory flared in his mind like a match.

His suspicion pulsed, hungry and wild. But this time, he said nothing.

No orders. No further checks. No punishments. No questions.

He turned from the monitors, his face unreadable, and walked away in silence.

Chapter Text

Alex's hearing was set three weeks after his arrest — postponed only until the surgeons confirmed his body could endure hours of sitting upright without risking renewed inflammation. Even then, his movements were limited and stiff with pain. He entered the courtroom under heavy guard, paler and leaner than anyone remembered, his cheekbones stark against skin drawn tight by weeks of suffering and silence. His wrists were cuffed in front of him, and beneath the coarse brown prison shirt, an abdominal binder cinched his torso, holding the fragile seams of him together. As he lowered himself into the defendant's seat, a sharp wince flickered across his face. His fists clenched instinctively, the cuffs biting into his wrists as he braced against the table, steadying himself through the hurt.

Salvatore Garavani, immaculate in a tailored charcoal suit with his serpent pin on the lapel, was already seated in the gallery when Alex was taken in — not out of necessity, but as a humiliating gesture ordered by the court, upon Salvatore's suggestion. Behind him sat his chosen audience: journalists, crooked politicians, high-ranking officers, and bosses who still took his orders — all personally invited. It wasn't just a hearing. It was theater.

Salvatore had formally requested — and easily secured — permission to have the trial publicly broadcast. He claimed it was for the sake of transparency, that the public deserved to witness justice carried out in full. No one dared oppose him.

But behind the polished language and the righteous tone, everyone knew the real reason. The idea had come from Ricardo, and Salvatore had seized it instantly, seeing it for what it truly was: an opportunity. A performance of power. A mirror held up to three months ago, when Alex had turned a screen into a weapon — streaming Ricardo's torture and humiliation to force Salvatore's hand. 

Now, Salvatore would return the gesture. Let the world watch Alex be dissected, not physically, but piece by piece in court — by testimony, accusation, and public judgment. No screams, no blood — this time, violence was the law, sanctioned and civilized.

He would not kill Alex. Not yet. Not in the streets or with a gun. He would destroy him on record, through the very system Alex thought he could manipulate. This was a message, carved in the language of courtrooms and media cycles: 

I am still the king.

Not just of the underworld, but of the legal world, the political stage, and the narrative itself.

Anyone who dared cross Salvatore Garavani — who embarrassed him, wounded his name, threatened his reign — would face consequences that went beyond bullets. And those consequences would be televised, replayed, and burned into memory.

From the defendant's box, Alex didn't speak. His cuffed wrists resting lightly on his lap, his gaze was unreadable, fixed on some distant point past the cameras, past the flashing bulbs, past Salvatore himself. But the tightness of his jaw said everything: he knew exactly what this was.

And still, he sat there. Steady. Calm. Waiting.

The courtroom doors swung open, and every head turned.

Ricardo Garavani entered through the tall double doors at the rear of the courtroom, flanked by two court officers. He walked in not as the broken victim the media had portrayed, but as a prince reclaiming his throne. His ocean blue shirt was tailored to knife-sharp perfection, the Garavani crest glinting silver on his breast pocket. His hair, longer now, fell in dark waves against his collar. His posture was composed, but the quiet storm in his ice-blue eyes was barely contained.

He walked down the aisle with deliberate stiffness among the sea of eyes turning toward him, each step measured, as if his body still remembered the wounds Alex had inflicted. The air thickened with anticipation. Everyone knew who he was: the heir, the victim, the boy from the tapes. But he didn't flinch. His gaze didn't wander.

Until it landed on Alex.

Alex looked up, just for a heartbeat. Amber met blue — electric, burning — and then he dropped his gaze, as if the weight of it was too much. A flicker of pain passed across his face, his shackled hands tightening in his lap.

The cameras zoomed in, hungry for the moment — the victim facing his tormentor.

The courtroom pulsed with restless energy now. Cameras buzzed from their mounts all over the room. Reporters murmured into microphones, their pens scratching frantically across notepads.

The judge entered — a small, commanding woman in her late fifties, black-framed glasses perched low on her nose, her gaze cold and surgical. The chatter faded instantly. Her gavel struck once, crisp and final, echoing through the cavernous chamber like a shot. The hearing had begun.

The prosecution wasted no time.

For the next two hours, the stage belonged to Bellini — Salvatore's star lawyer, smooth as polished obsidian and just as cold. His voice never rose, but each syllable landed with surgical precision. He painted Alex Chiesa as a soulless predator: a cunning manipulator, a ruthless kidnapper, a sadist cloaked in sophistication. Layer by layer, he constructed a portrait of a man with no moral compass, no remorse.

When he played excerpts from the infamous livestream, the courtroom shifted. Jaws clenched. Jurors looked away. One woman bit her lip so hard it bled.

Bellini read Ricardo's original testimony aloud — the one drafted in the early days of his return to Salvatore's control — but polished, twisted, weaponized. He delivered it like scripture, dripping with conviction.

Then came the charges — each one spoken with deliberate weight:

Kidnapping. Torture. Aggravated sexual assault. Extortion. Organized crime. Prime suspect of murder — Matteo Bianco. Accessory to murder — Vito de Sanctis. Indirect culpability — Isabella Riina.

Every accusation fell like a hammer, driving another nail into Alex's coffin.

And through it all, Alex sat motionless, the corner of his mouth twitching only twice — when Matteo and Isabella's names were dragged through the mud.

Salvatore watched from the gallery, arms crossed, a king watching his enemy be fed to the lions. This was the moment he had orchestrated. The grand finale. The livestreamed ruin of Alessandro Chiesa.

The judge adjusted her glasses, the overhead lights glinting off the frames as she turned to Ricardo. "The witness may now testify."

Bellini sat back in his chair with a smile as cold as marble. This, he thought, would be the final nail. The fatal blow. The weak heir turned powerful weapon. Perfect.

Ricardo rose and approached the witness stand, his movements smooth but heavy. Every step echoed. The air grew heavier as he stepped onto it, as if the entire chamber was holding its breath.

Alex exhaled — long and slow. His heart thundered in his chest.

This is it, he thought. This is where it ends.

Ricardo wrapped his fingers around the wooden rail, knuckles pale. For a moment, he didn't speak. Then he raised his head and looked straight at Alex.

His voice was low. Controlled. But it cut through the silence like a razor drawn across skin.

"I'm here to testify," he said, eyes locked with Alex's, "for the defendant."

The courtroom froze. For a heartbeat, no one breathed.

Alex's eyes widened, a flicker of confusion flashing across his face. He blinked once — slow, disbelieving — like the words hadn't fully registered. His lips parted slightly, but no sound came.

Then — chaos.

Reporters scrambled. Whispers swept through the gallery like a whirlwind. One juror dropped his pen. Cameras jerked into motion, zooming in like hounds catching scent of fresh blood.

Bellini sprang to his feet. "Your Honor, this is highly irregular!" He barked. "The witness was listed under the prosecution—"

"Let him speak."

The interruption came from Alex's lawyer Antonio Pittelli — a man in his mid-thirties with an expression carved from cool stone and a smile so sharp it might draw blood. He merely tilted his head, the gleam in his dark eyes bordering on amusement.

The judge's eyes darted between them, narrowing with sharp scrutiny. Her lips pressed into a line as she pushed her glasses with measured precision, peering through the lens at Ricardo as if dissecting every breath he took.

"Mr. Garavani," she said slowly, "explain."

Ricardo didn't glance at her. His eyes stayed locked on Alex as he said the words that would detonate the courtroom:

"Because everything you've heard today..." A deliberate pause. "It's all a lie."

And just like that — the bomb went off.

Ricardo didn't wait for the crowd to find back their breath. He turned to the jury, his voice louder now, level and measured. "Alex Chiesa didn't kidnap me. I went with him willingly." He said. "We planned everything together."

The courtroom exploded. Again.

Reporters fell over each other reaching for their phones. The jury looked stunned. Salvatore, who had been lounging in the gallery like a Roman emperor awaiting a beheading, went rigid in his seat. His fingers dug into the armrests, eyes dark with confusion and growing rage. 

Alex could only stare, his pulse roaring in his ears.

The judge slammed her gavel once, twice, three times. "Order!"

Ricardo continued anyway.

"We staged it. The kidnapping, the livestream, the ransom demands — all of it. We wanted to provoke my father. To make him mad. To make him act. And he did."

Bellini looked like he'd been struck. "This — this is absurd! Your Honor, the witness is clearly traumatized, coerced—"

"Why did you do this, Mr. Garavani?" Antonio cut in, seizing the moment. "Why would you plan something so...drastic?"

Ricardo didn't answer right away. Instead, he stepped down from the stand. The courtroom held its breath as he crossed the space in front of him — three strides, each one echoing like a drumbeat — until he stood before Alex.

The guards stood, uncertain — but the judge took a look at the cameras and raised a hand. Let it happen.

Then, in front of the entire world, Ricardo grabbed Alex by the collar and pulled him into a kiss.

It wasn't gentle. It was possessive, desperate, a kiss that tasted like vengeance and absolution and a declaration of war. His fingers clutched Alex's shirt like he was holding him back from the edge of a cliff — or dragging him over it.

Cameras exploded in flashes. Gasps rippled through the courtroom like a wave tearing through calm water. Some shouted. Some just stared.

Alex didn't move — frozen, stunned — until his eyes fluttered shut. And then, he surrendered. Not because he understood, not because he believed it, but because something inside him broke and bloomed at once.

It meant something.

Perhaps everything.

When Ricardo finally pulled back, his mouth close enough for only Alex to hear, he murmured, "Play along."

Then, louder, for the courtroom: "Because I love him."

The room erupted.

A slow, terrible realization dawned on Salvatore's face. His fingers twitched into fists. When he stood, it wasn't with the measured control of a Don, but with the jerking violence of a man whose world was crumbling.  

"It's Stockholm syndrome!" The accusation tore from his throat, raw and ragged. "My son is mentally unwell — he doesn't know what he's saying!"  

Ricardo turned toward him, his expression unwavering — until it cracked with fire. "I'm not sick." He said, his voice sharp and rising — not with the heat of anger, but the terrible clarity of truth. "And it's not Stockholm syndrome."

He took a step forward. Then another. The distance between father and son narrowed with every word.

"It's revenge." He raised his arm, his finger pointing like a knight's sword. "Against YOU." 

The room tensed, a collective breath held. The cameras zoomed in. Even the judge stilled, her pen frozen mid-stroke.

Ricardo faced the gallery now. "Alex and I," he said, his voice steady, but rising with the force of an incoming tide, "were lovers long before any of this. Even before my father—" his eyes cut to Salvatore "—had his father murdered. Three years ago."

A stunned silence dropped like a curtain. Then it broke — soft murmurs, the scratching of pens, the sudden flurry of reporters raising phones and mics. The judge leaned forward, visibly jolted. Even Antonio, the ever-composed defense attorney, looked frozen in place.

Bellini stretched out his arm and yelled: "Objection, Your Honor! The witness is spewing irrelevant nonsense — this has nothing to do with the charges—"

"No," Antonio interjected coolly, his voice slicing through the room. "It has everything to do with the motive. Let him speak."

The judge's eyes swept around, to the two attorneys, to Salvatore, then to the camera lenses, and finally landed on Ricardo. A long pause stretched as tension coiled through the courtroom. Finally, she lifted her gavel and brought it down with a sharp crack.

"Objection overruled." She said, firm and clear. "Proceed, Mr. Garavani."

Ricardo nodded once and went on. "Yes. My father had Dante Chiesa killed. It wasn't a street altercation with some random thugs. It was an execution. My father ordered it. He was on-site. And maybe—" he paused, his voice tightening, "—he even pulled the trigger himself."

Salvatore's face twisted, shadowed with rage. "You ungrateful, lying little bastard!"

Gasps and shouts fluttered like startled birds around the room.

"Order! Order in the court!" The judge had to struck her gavel again and again.

Ricardo continued, raising his voice above the storm. "But that case was closed. Buried. Because my father controls everything—" his eyes swept the room, "—the police, the courts, the press. Even the memory of what happened." 

His hands clenched. "That's why we planned all this. To bring him here. To this very stage. To make you all look at him. At what he truly is. And now—" he stepped toward the judge, his tone resolute, "Your Honor, I formally request that the murder case of Dante Chiesa be reopened. I am prepared to present a list of witnesses. And testify myself."

A hush fell.

Salvatore sat utterly still, but the fury inside him was unmistakable. He gritted his teeth so hard the veins in his neck bulged, and his hands gripped the edge of the table like he could snap it in two.

This wasn't just betrayal — it was entrapment. Everything was falling into place now: the courtroom, the testimony, the orchestrated theatrics of the live broadcast… even Alex's seemingly convenient surrender to the police. It had all been a trap. A stage built brick by brick to bring him here.

And the one who had set it wasn't some rival. It was his own son.

His blood. His heir.

Ricardo.

Alex was no less shocked. His breath caught, his spine locking straight against the back of his chair. For a moment, the courtroom noise dulled, like he'd been plunged underwater. He stared at Ricardo — at the fire in his voice, the defiance in his posture — as the words sank in. 

For the first time in three years, someone had said his father's name aloud in a courtroom — and demanded justice. And that someone was Ricardo.

He's reopening my father's case — by turning everything that happened between us into a wild, stunning dark fairy tale.

The thought hit like a bullet between the ribs. Three years of dead ends, of bribed witnesses, of evidence that mysteriously vanished. Three years of knowing the truth would never see daylight because Salvatore Garavani owned the daylight.

And now —

Ricardo stood at the epicenter of the storm, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade through silk. No hired guns. No backroom deals. Just the law — flawed, corruptible, but there — and the unshakable conviction in his eyes.

Alex almost laughed.

He'd been born into the shadows, raised on the gospel of blood and vendetta. Justice wasn't handed down by judges in robes; it was paid for in flesh, in bodies buried under vineyards or vanishing in fire. The courtroom had always been just another weapon — a place to manipulate, not to believe in.

Yet here was Ricardo — Salvatore's own blood, standing in the lion's den, weaponizing the system his father had spent a lifetime controlling. Not with a bullet, but with truth. With proof.

Jesus.

It was naive, reckless, suicidal.

It was the most dangerous thing Alex had ever seen.

His throat tightened. He could see it now — the way Ricardo held himself, steady and fierce, the quiet rage in his grips.

Did he really believe it?

Believed that justice didn't have to be carved from flesh and blood? Believed that the law wasn't just another weapon, but something real, something righteous?

Or was it Alex's fault?

Had surrendering himself — a calculated move, actually — planted the idea? Had he unknowingly "taught" Ricardo, as Ricardo once accused, to play this game — his game now — in a way no mafioso ever dared?

The gavel cracked. The room erupted. Salvatore's roar of fury drowned beneath the cacophony of shouting reporters, scrambling bailiffs, the jury's shocked murmurs.

Alex did not move.

His eyes stayed locked on Ricardo as the world burned around them.

Because he knew, it wouldn't end here. It was just the beginning.

And right on cue, Ricardo met his gaze. Steady. Determined. Then he turned back to the court, and when he spoke again, his voice cracked under the weight of it.

"But there were more..." he began, "more murders we never anticipated my father would commit." His voice faltered, his lips trembled, "Especially not... my mother's."

The air collapsed from the room in an instant. A collective silence so loud it pressed against the walls.

Salvatore twitched forward, a twitch that almost became a lunge. "Stop him!" He bellowed, red-faced and shaking. "He's delusional!"

Bellini darted toward the witness stand, but Antonio cut him off with practiced precision. Bailiffs surged between them, erecting a human barricade around Ricardo.

"Order!" The judge's gavel slammed down like an axe. "ORDER!"

Bellini turned to her, breathless and wild. "Call a recess! He's fabricating all of it!"

"Objection!" Antonio said sternly. "You can't silence a witness in front of the entire country who are watching!"

But Ricardo was beyond them now. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small USB drive, holding it aloft as if it were a sword.

"My mother didn't die of a heart attack." He said, voice sharp, shaking. "She was murdered. Brutally beaten. I have the proof. Surveillance footage from our own estate." He stepped forward, arm extended. "Your Honor, I'm asking the court to play this. Let everyone see."

Then Salvatore snapped.

He lunged down the gallery in a blur of fury, snarling like a cornered animal. Bellini tried to stop him. His men stood, yelling over one another. The courtroom teetered on the edge of full-blown riot — but the bailiffs surged in, shouting commands, forcing Salvatore back as a wall of bodies closed in around the judge's bench.

The judge, pale now, extended her hand for the drive. She inserted it herself into the system at her desk.

The screen at the front flickered, hissed.

And then—

There he was. Salvatore Garavani. Caught in perfect, damning clarity. His hands around Isabella's throat. The sharp crack of her skull against the marble statue. The blood. The way he stepped over her body like it was trash.

The courtroom dissolved into bedlam.

Salvatore's face went ghost-pale, the blood draining so fast it looked like he'd aged ten years in a second. Bellini stood frozen, then lurched forward like he'd swallowed broken glass.

"This is inadmissible!" He shouted hoarsely, his voice cracking. "It was obtained illegally!"

But no one was listening.

Reporters were already scrambling to broadcast the unthinkable: Salvatore Garavani — the untouchable king — caught in the act of killing his own wife.

And still, Ricardo wasn't finished.

"You killed Matteo too, didn't you?" He said, voice breaking through the roar. "The USB also contains messages. Between Matteo and my mother. They were talking about the plan to get me out — how Alex never asked for a ransom and even paid for my safety. Matteo was trying to help. He died for it."

All eyes turned to Salvatore.

The king of Calabria's underworld was cornered now. His jaw locked tight. His breathing erratic. His knuckles white. And for a flickering moment, something passed over his face — not guilt, not regret.

Rage.

Raw. Ferocious. Murderous.

The kind of fury that didn't care about cameras, judges, or the eyes of the world. The kind of fury that would kill again, right here, right now — even if the target was his own son.

But it was too late.

The truth was out. The jury's faces were alight with scandal, the reporters drafting their headlines. The footage was already spreading, a wildfire no amount of money or influence could contain.

There was no going back now.

Ricardo stood tall, even as his hands trembled.

"This," he said, "was always a war. And I'm done hiding in someone else's battlefield. This is justice. For Alex. For my mother. For Matteo. And for myself."

Alex stared at him, a dull, spreading ache pulsing from his abdomen to his chest. He didn't know if the kiss had been real. If the confession — I love him — had been truth or strategy. He didn't know what any of it meant anymore.

But in that moment, none of it mattered.

The war was tilting toward its end.

And Salvatore Garavani was losing — not to Alex Chiesa, but to his own son.

To the pawn everyone had spurned — the weak heir, the broken puppet — who now stood at the center of the board, flipping it over, rewriting the rules of the game altogether.

Ricardo wasn't winning. He was dismantling.

And that made all the difference.

Chapter Text

The gavel's final strike had barely faded before the courtroom erupted into chaos. Voices collided — shouting lawyers, panicked jurors, camera flashes popping like gunfire. The judge stood, pale and taut behind the bench, calling for order that no one heard.

Salvatore Garavani was seething as officers surrounded him, cuffing his hands roughly behind his back. His teeth were bared in a silent snarl, but he didn't resist. Not yet. His suit, once pristine, looked crumpled now, as if it too had been cracked by the humiliation. His eyes locked onto Ricardo, venomous, swearing, before he was hauled away.

On the other side of the room, a clerk shouted that the court was dismissed. But no one really left. The gallery had turned into a feeding pit. Reporters trampled over one another, cameras hoisted, recorders shoved forward like weapons. Everyone was screaming for answers.

Alex had been acquitted on the spot. The handcuffs were taken off. He stood slowly, gripping the edge of the defendant's table, the pain slicing through his belly as he forced himself upright. He was free, technically. But he felt no freedom.

Ricardo was already beside him.

"I'm going with you." Ricardo said. No hesitation. No room for refusal.

Alex didn't speak. He didn't need to. His hand reached out, slow and shaky, and Ricardo took it at once. Their fingers threaded together, solid and steady. A lifeline.

Ricardo slipped his other arm gently around Alex's waist, supporting his weight as they moved forward. Alex leaned into him — barely — but Ricardo felt it: that subtle, unconscious trust. Or fatigue. Or surrender.

They hadn't made it three steps before the crowd crashed into them like a wave. Microphones stabbed toward them, cameras flashing white-hot.

"Ricardo! Did you retract all the torture allegations under duress? Did Alex force you to lie?"

"What about the footage? Was it all fake? Was it role play?"

"Or was that the kink all along?"

Ricardo's grip on Alex's arm tightened — knuckles bleaching white. His face was a mask, but his breath came shallow, uneven.

"Ricardo, are you afraid that this will define your legacy? That your name is ruined?"

"Ricardo — Do you blame yourself for your mother's death?"

A journalist shoved forward, lip curled. "Was it worth it? Trading your family for a man who tortured you?"

Alex's free hand twitched toward his waistband — a reflex, the ghost of a pistol that was not there.

Ricardo stepped in front of him, shoulder brushing Alex's chest. "Out of the way." He hissed at the crowd. Not a plea. A threat.

He guided Alex like a shield through the flood of flashbulbs and questions, through the mob that wanted blood and gossip in equal measure.

They passed the courtroom doors and crossed into the polished hallway of the courthouse. Even there, camera crews had formed a gauntlet on either side. The officers formed a loose barrier, barely enough.

Finally, they reached the police car waiting outside — black, armored, discreet. The doors opened, and they were ushered in. Alex first, carefully. Ricardo after.

The doors shut.

Silence.

The car pulled away. The crowd blurred into shadows through the tinted glass. The noise fell behind them like a dying storm.

Inside the vehicle, Alex sat back against the seat, every breath a small war. He closed his eyes, but his hand never let go of Ricardo's. Even now. Especially now.

He should've felt relief.

The charges had been dropped. He was going home. He was alive.

And yet—

His gaze shifted. Ricardo sat beside him, unmoving, his free hand clenched loosely in his lap. The fire that had filled him in court — that trembling, righteous fury — still hadn't dimmed. It was there, simmering under his skin, dancing behind his ice-blue eyes like a secret that hadn't finished being told.

For the first time, Alex looked at him — and felt something he'd never expected to feel.

Fear.

Not of betrayal. Not of pain.

But of the massive, consuming force that Ricardo had become. The boy he had once ruined was gone. In his place was something forged in fire and grief — sharper, brighter, dangerous in its clarity. A force capable of burning everything to ash if it meant finishing what had been started.

And the most terrifying part?

Alex was drawn to it.

Drawn like a stray vessel into a rising storm, powerless against the pull. Something in him leaned into the gravity of it, willingly, helplessly — like he'd been waiting for this reckoning all along.

Neither spoke. Their hands remained entwined. But there was no warmth between them.

Only the silent hum of something vast and irreversible.

The villa was quiet, wrapped in the amber hush of a midsummer sunset. Light poured in through the tall windows, spilling onto the marble floor, and the residual heat filled the room. Outside, cicadas buzzed lazily in the trees, but inside, the silence felt delicate — the kind that could shatter under the weight of a single word.

Alex leaned back carefully into the velvet cushions on the sofa. His shirt hung open at the collar, the top buttons undone, revealing the pale edge of the compression binder wrapped tightly around his torso. The pain was dull now, but insistent — a constant reminder of how close he'd come to death… and how Ricardo had pulled him back from the brink.

He sat with his phone in hand, thumb tapping out silent orders, messages, warnings — business as usual, though nothing was usual anymore. His jaw was tense. The soft light painted shadows along his cheekbones, making the hollows under his eyes seem darker, deeper.

Beside him, Ricardo sat with the same unnatural stillness. They weren't touching, but the space between them felt almost magnetic. He cradled a half-empty glass of water, his fingers slowly tracing the rim, again and again, as if he didn't trust himself to be still without it.

Eventually, Alex moved. The phone slipped from his fingers onto the coffee table with a soft clack. He turned his head slowly, wincing slightly, and let his eyes linger on Ricardo — the slope of his neck, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his lashes cast shadows under his eyes.

He watched him for a few seconds longer, then finally spoke — his voice rough, low, and edged with something softer than pain.

"You were incredible." He murmured, his amber eyes tracing Ricardo's face, gleaming in the fading sunlight. Then, after a pause, the question slipped out like breath. "But… why?"

One word, loaded with everything he couldn't voice. Why twist the truth? Why spare me? Why stand between me and the abyss?

Ricardo turned toward him slowly, his gaze sharp, like he'd been waiting for this question all the time. His lips curved, just slightly. "Because I need allies."

Alex exhaled, a quiet, pained laugh. "And you chose… me?"

Ricardo held his gaze, unyielding, but there was something else beneath it — something raw. "Yes."

"You trust me? After everything?"

Ricardo didn't blink. "Do I have a choice?"

Alex studied him, the lines of pain etched deep into his face. He gave a dry, crooked smile. "So this isn't forgiveness."

Ricardo set the glass down with a quiet clink, then leaned in — close enough for Alex to feel the brush of his breath against his skin. "Not even close." He murmured. His fingers slid along the edge of Alex's open placket, slow and deliberate, his voice a dark whisper. "I'm not done with you yet, Alex."

Alex's heart beat once — hard — before he schooled his expression into something wry. "I know." He shifted, wincing as the movement pulled at his wound. Ricardo's hand twitched, as if to steady him, but he stopped himself.

"So," Alex said, watching him closely, "what do you need me for?"  

Ricardo leaned back slightly, but his gaze didn't stray. "Give me everything you've collected on my father. I know you've been building that arsenal for years."

Alex's eyes narrowed. "And?"

"I'll take it to the court. And you'll come with me to testify."

A beat. Then Alex barked a short laugh, and winced, one hand instinctively pressing his side. "You want me to become a pentito? To collaborate with the state?" His voice grew quiet, bitter. "To betray the mafia world that raised me?"

Ricardo's jaw tightened. "It's not betrayal. It's justice. For your father, too."

"Justice?" Alex repeated, letting the word hang. "Justice doesn't work that way for us, my little angel…" He reached out, slow, giving Ricardo every chance to pull away — while he didn't — and brushed a thumb over the back of his hand. "Guess what? Your father's already issuing death warrants for both of us, even when he's in custody."

Ricardo didn't flinch. "We can enter witness protection."

Alex let out another low laugh, shaking his head. "You want a story about witness protection? I'll tell you one."

Ricardo straightened. "What story?"

"My mother's."

That caught Ricardo's attention. His eyes flickered — curiosity, concern.

Alex leaned back, his voice softening, but no gentler. "After she escaped, she went straight to the police. Gave them everything — names, accounts, deals, evidence. They promised her safety." A humorless smile. "But my father had people inside. The files vanished. The charges never came. And her safehouse wasn't so safe."

Ricardo's brows knit. "He found her?"

"Almost." Alex's tone tightened. "He had men closing in. She got out just in time. She had a degree from Politecnico di Milano — brilliant woman — so she later managed to secure a graduate scholarship in America. That got her across the ocean. Still, she kept moving, changed names, changed cities. Until my father lost her trail."

His eyes darkened. "But after he died… I picked it up and tracked her down." His voice dropped to something low and cold. "I know where she lives, where she works. I know the names of her children — my half-siblings. I know what time they leave for school, what playground they go to on Sundays, which bus they take home when it rains."

Ricardo sat very still. His body went rigid, lips parted in silence, fingers slowly tightening into the upholstery beneath him.

He knew what this meant. It was a mafia tradition that anyone who became a pentito, who betrayed their family by collaborating with the state, had to be eliminated. And the executors should be their fathers, brothers, even sons.

Not to mention Alex's old, unspoken grudge — the wound that never closed — that she had left him behind, abandoned him like a discarded secret when he was just a child.

Ricardo swallowed hard, voice low and tense. "What are you going to do with her… with them?"

Alex looked back at him, slowly. His mouth twitched — not quite a smile, not quite a frown, but something calculated hovering just beneath the surface. "She's my mother." He said, voice deceptively soft, the gravel in it almost too controlled. "What do you think I'm going to do?"

Ricardo's shoulders rose with a long breath, but didn't relax. The unease still clung to him like sweat.

Alex watched him a moment longer, as if waiting to see whether the answer had satisfied him. Then he added, quieter now, "That's the best ending she got. The best you'll get if you go down that road."

His voice was firm again. "That's what it means to be a pentito. You'll run. You'll hide. You'll lose everything. And justice?" He gave a dry laugh. "It won't care what you sacrificed."

He turned to Ricardo fully now, eyes unreadable. "That's why you should go. While you still have the chance."

Ricardo's eyes flashed. "I've said I'm not running. Not until my father pays for what he did. I can't give up before even trying." 

Alex held his gaze. "If you try, you die."

"That's why I need you!"

Alex didn't speak. His breathing was tight, his skin pale, but his eyes glittered gold in the last sunlight.

"So," he said finally, "you don't trust the state after all. If you did, you wouldn't spare me. You could've buried me in a cell as well."

Ricardo stared. "Yes. You're still useful. That's the only reason."

A lie. They both knew it.

Alex smirked weakly. "You want me to protect you? Like this?" He gestured vaguely at himself — fragile, bandaged, wrecked. "Half-dead?"

Ricardo leaned closer again, one hand resting lightly on the back of the sofa, near Alex's shoulder. "I know you have your ways."

A beat. The air between them thickened.

Alex gave a long exhale. "Ricardo, Ricardo… you're making things really complicated."

Ricardo's lips curled — almost a smile. "You started it."

Alex huffed, then winced as pain lanced through him. Ricardo's hand finally moved, pressing gently against his chest to steady him. His palm was warm, his fingers trembling slightly.

Alex closed his eyes for a beat. "You have no idea what trouble you've caused me already." He looked at Ricardo again, weary and amused. "I had to withdraw my most precious asset in your father's circle. I'm losing my eyes and ears inside his fortress. All thanks to you — the footage you showed in the court — your father's paranoia will soon find her."

Ricardo didn't look away. "Her?" A knowing glint. "Clara Ventresca?"

Alex raised an eyebrow. "You knew?"

"I've been working with her."

"What?"

Ricardo's thumb brushed over Alex's collarbone, featherlight. "She helped me get my mother's phone. And see what you lied to me about."

Alex exhaled sharply. "She's the one who crippled my cyber operations, causing me to lose my most lucrative asset to your father."

"A price you paid on purpose to plant her into my father's inner circle." Ricardo tilted his head.

Alex's gaze deepened. "You really are smarter than anyone gave you credit for."

"That's why you lost." Ricardo murmured, fingers caressing Alex's skin.

Alex caught his wrist, his grip firm but not harsh. "Not yet."

Ricardo leaned in just slightly, his breath brushing Alex's cheek, their faces close enough to catch the tremor in each other's exhale. "We'll see."

Their eyes locked. Something charged sparked in the stillness between them.

Ricardo's hand moved again, slow and deliberate, fingertips gliding over Alex's chest, up to his throat. Teasing. Testing.

Alex's breath hitched. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing beneath the touch, pulse thudding hot and fast just under his skin — as if his body hadn't yet decided whether it was bracing for pain, or craving more.

The phone's sudden, strenuous vibration broke the taut air like a hammer. Ricardo's fingers twitched where they had crawled under Alex's collar before he pulled back. The sound made both of them scowl.

Ricardo reached over to pick up the device, his hand brushing Alex's thigh in the process, sending a jolt through both of them — though neither acknowledged it. 

The screen lit up like a taunt: RAMON.

Ricardo's lip curled. His expression twisted into something sour the moment he saw the name. He stared at the screen like it was some kind of disease, his thumb hovering over the decline button. Then, with a scoff and a roll of his eyes, he tossed the phone onto Alex's lap — sharper than necessary.

"Your dog wants to bark." He muttered, standing up as if the device had contaminated him. He stalked a few steps toward the windows, arms folded tight across his chest.

Alex sighed with exhaustion. The warmth of Ricardo's touch still lingering on his skin as he accepted the call. He pressed the phone to his ear with the wary caution of a man handling live explosives.

"Speak."

Ramon's voice blasted through the line, loud enough that Ricardo could hear the grating excitement even from across the room. 

"Holy shit! That courtroom stunt — fucking genius! How the hell did you flip that brat? Blackmail? Drug? Sleep with him? You hypnotized him or what?"

Alex's jaw clenched. His eyes flicked nervously to Ricardo, who stood with his back turned, spine rigid, tension bleeding off of him in waves.

"Cut the bullshit." Alex snapped, voice low but razor-edged. "You don't know what you're talking about."

But Ramon barreled on, oblivious and drunk on his own thrill. "No seriously, I hated that brat. I was ready to blow his head off last time. And now he's throwing his dad into a burning pit for you? Damn, I was wrong. I owe him an apology. I'm coming over tomorrow, I'll say it to his face—"

That did it.

The atmosphere in the room turned glacial. Alex watched in horrified fascination as Ricardo's shoulders going stiff, the set of his jaw like iron. The dark fire returned to his eyes as he turned, slowly, glaring at Alex, burning with something between fury and disgust. 

A silent warning.

Alex held the phone still for a second, looked directly at Ricardo, and bit out the words into the speaker, sharp and clear:

"Stay. The fuck. Away."

Silence on the other end. For a moment, it seemed even Ramon could feel the shift in temperature. Then came a reluctant exhale. "…Alright. But listen — Clara's already en route to the safehouse. She's clean."

"Good." Alex's grip on the phone eased slightly. "Keep her that way. No mistakes."

He ended the call and set the phone down with exaggerated care, watching Ricardo's reflection in the window glass — the way his fingers flexed on his arm, the tight line of his silhouette.  

The tension still hadn't dissolved. His silence was louder than Ramon's whole call.

A beat passed. Then Alex reached for the phone again, dialing Antonio. The call was brief.

"Tomorrow. Come early." He said flatly. "We need to discuss strategy."

He hung up and exhaled, easing himself back into the cushions. A sharp breath caught in his throat as the motion tugged at the wound beneath his shirt.

Ricardo turned fully now, one eyebrow arching in silent inquiry. The lamplight slanted across his face, catching in the shadow of his cheekbone, the firm line of his mouth unreadable.

Alex met his eyes, his voice dropping to something quieter, rougher. "We'll see what we can do with all we've got."

The words hung between them — a concession, an offering, not quite a promise, but something sincere.

Ricardo stood still for a moment longer. Then, slowly, his arms fell from their guarded fold. He stepped forward, one measured movement at a time, the tension in his body not gone, but shifting — from defensive to considering.

Alex tilted his head back against the couch, the golden light catching the flecks of amber in his eyes. His voice, when he spoke again, was stripped of pretense.

"If you want to try..." A breath. "I'll try with you."

It hung there — bare and exposed.

And beneath it, something deeper pulsed, unspoken:

If you're meant to burn, then let the flames take me first.

Chapter Text

The morning sun bled gold over the Calabrian hills, casting long shadows across the ivy-covered tiles of Alex's villa. The air smelled of sun-warmed stone and the faint salt of the distant sea. Cicadas hummed in the olive groves below, their song a steady drone beneath the quiet tension of the house.

Ricardo stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of the meeting room, fingers drumming restlessly against his thigh. He still wore the ocean blue shirt as in the court, with the Garavani crest on his chest gleaming silver — a relic he hadn't yet discarded. His jaw was tight, his eyes rimming in red from too many restless nights.

Antonio Pittelli arrived precisely at nine, his polished Oxfords clicking against the marble floor. At thirty-six, the lawyer had the self-possession of someone having been negotiating life and death since his twenties, someone seasoned in mafia maneuver. He dressed in a slate-gray suit, his dark hair neatly slicked back, his jaw freshly shaved. He carried a black leather briefcase, its contents no doubt meticulously organized — just like his mind.

"Buongiorno." He greeted, his voice smooth, his gaze sharp as it flickered between Alex and Ricardo. "I trust you've both slept well?"

Alex lounged in an armchair beside the conference table, his body arranged with the careful posture of a man still nursing wounds, every movement measured to avoid pain. A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "Like the dead." He murmured. His amber eyes were shadowed, his skin paler than usual against the dark fabric of his shirt.

Ricardo didn't return the pleasantry. "We need a way to bring my father down," he said bluntly, turning from the window. "— the right way. Through the law."

Antonio's smile grew into a professional warmth. "Mr. Garavani. Your deposition was magnificent. Well done, under the circumstances. Very brave. But now—" his tone softened, turning clinical, "—let's be realistic."

He set his briefcase on the table, unclasping it with a quiet snick. 

"I understand the intent. But the law…" he continued, flipping open the case with a rustle of papers, "is not a scalpel. It's a dull blade. And your father?" He looked up at Ricardo, voice steady. "He's made of stone and shadows. He won't be carved easily."

Ricardo stood a few feet away, his back stiff, hands curled into loose fists at his sides. His voice came out rough.

"Then let's start with the obvious. Alex — your father was murdered. Dante Chiesa. We start there."

Alex, seated silently in the armchair, didn't respond right away. His amber eyes, glassy and unreadable, tracked the exchange without a flicker of emotion. He didn't nod. He didn't speak. He just watched — observing, pondering.

Antonio closed the briefcase without looking away from Ricardo. "And you were where, when it happened?" He asked quietly.

Ricardo's mouth opened, then closed. His brow furrowed.

Antonio's voice was gentler now, but firm. "You didn't witness the murder. Your testimony is secondary. Powerful emotionally, yes — but legally? Circumstantial at best."

He took a seat, folded his hands on the table. "That case hinges on the two men who took the fall. The thugs Salvatore used to clean up the mess. If we want to reopen that door—"

"We talk to them." Ricardo cut in, stepping closer. "We offer them protection. Immunity. Relocation — whatever it takes."

Antonio didn't flinch, but his tone cooled. "They've already been paid off. Or threatened. Likely both. If they talk, they die. Their wives, their children — all dead within days. They know that. And fear like that?" He tapped the table once with a finger, deliberate. "It doesn't crack easily."

Ricardo's mouth twisted. He looked away, pacing once with frustrated energy. The weight of it all — the cruelty, the impossibility — settled heavy across his shoulders. He stopped by the edge of the table, his breath shallower as he rose his voice: "There has to be another way."

Sensing his frustration, Alex finally stirred, grimacing as the movement pulled at the healing wound. His voice, when it came, was low but clear — an attempt to help, to ease Ricardo's unraveling grip.

"There is also Matteo." Alex said, turning to Antonio. "You know what Salvatore did to him. That has to count for something."

Antonio, seated with his back straight and his fingers steepled loosely in front of him, gave a faint, professional nod. His dark eyes flicked briefly toward Alex.

"The jury cleared you for Vito and Matteo's murder," he said evenly, "on grounds of insufficient evidence. And yes, they bought the narrative that Matteo killed Vito."

He paused, his expression tightening just slightly as he considered his next words.

"But Matteo's death…" His voice dropped. "That's where the wall rises. None of us witnessed it. No recording, no forensic timeline, no third-party testimony."

He leaned forward slightly. "If Salvatore insists Matteo was already dead when they brought him back to the estate — we have no hard evidence to dispute that. Nothing that would hold up in court."

Another pause. Then, more seriously: "Too much time has passed. The body's degraded. Retesting for time of death would be impossible."

Ricardo's jaw tightened. His fingers curled into fists where they braced on the table, knuckles paling with pressure. The fragile scaffolding of hope he'd walked in with — the idea that justice was just a matter of piecing things together — was unraveling before his eyes.

He turned sharply from the table and walked toward the tall window, the floor cool beneath his restless steps. The morning light had grown harsher, casting hard glare across the hills beyond, where the shimmer of heat blurred the olive groves and distant solar panels. He stared into it, as if the sun itself might offer some answer he hadn't yet found.

"What about my mother?" He asked, voice low but tense, barely held in check. "The video — it shows everything."

Behind him, Antonio gave a single nod, professional and practiced. "It shows her death. Yes." His voice was smooth, quiet, inflected with a kind of cautious finality. "But it doesn't show premeditation. No build-up. No plan. And in court, intent is everything."

Ricardo didn't move, but his shoulders tensed as Antonio continued, calm and grim.

"A good defense lawyer will spin it as a crime of passion. Temporary loss of control. Insanity, even accident. Your father will show remorse. Claim trauma, emotional instability. Bring in psychologists. Medical records. You know the playbook." Antonio's mouth thinned. "With the right judge, he walks with ten years max. Maybe less."

Ricardo spun back around, his eyes blazing now, voice cracking as it shot out.

"He crushed her windpipe with his bare hands. He shoved her to death!"

Antonio didn't look away. His tone didn't change. "And the law will say: prove it was deliberate."

Silence dropped between them, thick and bitter.

Ricardo ran a hand through his hair, fingers dragging roughly through the strands as he paced a step, then stopped again. The frustration radiated off him in waves, filling the elegant villa room with something raw, something hot and hopeless. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, then turned to Alex with a plea in his eyes.

"You told me he killed Enzo. And Silvio. What about those cases? Do we have anything?" His voice broke slightly on the last word — not weakness, but the edge of a man trying not to drown.

Alex shifted back against the chair with a long breath. His amber eyes met Ricardo's with quiet heaviness.

"Not enough." He said simply. "Enzo was incinerated. There's nothing left — not even a bone fragment. "

He paused, gaze falling for a beat before lifting again.

"Silvio…" His jaw flexed. "His body was dissolved in acid. Nothing left of him either. No corpse. No murder charges."

Ricardo stared, breath catching, the weight of those words slamming into his chest. He turned his face away again, hiding the flicker of something — fear, despair, fury — too tangled to name.

"There MUST be something." He said hoarsely. His voice cracked at the edges, threaded with desperation. "Drug trafficking. Arms deals. Extortion rackets. Loan sharking. Financial fraud. Money laundering… I've seen the signs, I know some of those who are in charge—"

Antonio raised a hand. "Were you personally involved in any of these?"

Ricardo hesitated, then slowly shook his head. "Not really."

"Then they are just hints." Antonio shrugged. "Not evidence. Not admissible. Not enough for court."

Ricardo let out a sharp, frustrated breath. He turned to pace a few more agitated steps before spinning back. "Clara!" He barked, as if her name itself might unlock the answer. "Clara Ventresca — She's embedded at the core of it all. She knows everything. Let her testify."

Before the last word had fully left his mouth, Alex answered.

"No."

The single word cracked through the room like a warning shot. Alex sat still, spine stiff despite the way his body ached. His eyes, shadowed and unwavering, met Ricardo's with something more protective than disapproval.

Ricardo rounded on him, voice flaring. "Why not?!"

Alex didn't back down. His voice dropped lower, but the edge in it only sharpened. "Because it'll kill her." He said. "If she testifies, she goes to prison. And Salvatore will send someone — even from behind bars. You've seen what he can do. You think a wall and a jumpsuit will stop him?" He shook his head. "She won't survive a month inside. I won't send her to die like that."

A silence fell for a moment, taut and trembling — then Antonio's voice cut through, steady and clear.

"She's also implicated, Ricardo." He leaned back slightly. "Clara's touched too much. She's helped move money, arms, intel. She's part of the system, even if she didn't want to be."

His gaze didn't waver, calm and cold like the early light slanting through the windows. "Dragging her into court won't just burn her. It'll light a fuse beneath everyone connected — politicians, officers, judges. People who've worked too hard, for too long, to stay clean on the surface. You think they'll let her talk? They'll bury her. And us. Just to keep their secrets safe."

Ricardo's mouth opened, but no words came. Antonio's voice softened, but only just the softness of a scalpel, not sympathy.

"This is the mafia, Ricardo. Nothing is isolated. Everything is entwined — like the roots under every tree on this hill. You pull one thread, the whole damn forest shifts."

He leaned forward again, the leather of the chair creaking faintly beneath him.

"Especially for someone like your father. You can't convict him without stepping on a dozen landmines. You think justice is blind, but here?" Antonio shook his head. "It's bought. Threatened. Twisted by the very men you'd expect to wield it."

Ricardo didn't respond. His fingers gripped the edge of the window frame in front of him, knuckles white. His reflection shimmered in the glass — too young for the grief in his eyes, too rigid for someone not yet broken.

Alex shifted, carefully, bracing his forearms on his thighs, the slow movement drawing a faint wince from deep within. His voice, when it came, was low — almost too soft to break the quiet. "Ricardo… the law isn't built for men like your father."

Ricardo turned toward him like a whip, eyes blazing, his jaw tight with grief and fury. "Then what the hell is the point of any of this?"

Before Alex could answer, Antonio's voice interjected, calm and surgically precise. "The point," he said, setting his clasped hands lightly on the table, "is that Salvatore's real power was never in what he did. It was in what people believed about him."

He paused, eyes narrowing slightly as he looked directly at Ricardo.

"The most devastating blow you dealt wasn't in your testimony. It wasn't legal." Antonio's voice grew colder, flatter. "It was symbolic. You tore the veil. The myth. You made him bleed in front of the world. His status is gone. Now he's not the untouchable don — he's a husband who murdered his wife and couldn't cover it up. A father betrayed by his own son. A mafia boss whose family collapsed from within. That kind of weakness?" He let the words hang. "It's fatal."

Ricardo gave a short, brittle laugh, full of scorn. "So we're back here. That was your plan all along, wasn't it, Alex? Destroy my father by destroying his standing."

A heavy silence followed. Outside, cicadas droned in the dry southern air, their song buzzing faintly through the sunlit windows. Dust floated in the golden shafts of light slanting across the stone floor.

Alex didn't answer right away. He just looked at Ricardo, something unreadable in his expression.

Then, with the faintest lift of his brow, he turned toward Antonio and said, softly, "We can still make progress legally… right, Antonio?" There was a flicker in his eyes — too quick to catch unless you knew to look for it. A silent cue.

Antonio saw it. His smile twitched with professional polish.

"Of course." He said smoothly. "We move in stages. Start with Isabella's case. It's raw, it's emotional, it catches attention. Secure a conviction — however small — and then use that to pry open other doors. Leverage the shift. Tighten the net."

Ricardo's hands curled into fists. He was visibly trembling now, though whether from rage or despair, even he wasn't sure. "He deserves worse than that."

Antonio met his gaze, voice cool and flat. "He will feel worse."

Then he turned to Alex. He said nothing.

But the silence said everything.

Ricardo's eyes darted between them — Antonio's composed stillness, Alex's calm acceptance. The unspoken message twisted in his gut like a knife: there were other ways. There were always other ways.

His breath hitched.

"What do you mean?" He asked, quietly — but the tension in his voice betrayed that he already feared the answer.

Alex pushed himself up from the chair, his movements slow but deliberate. Pain pulsed below his ribs, but he stood straight anyway. He stepped closer to Ricardo, close enough that Ricardo could smell the faint scent of antiseptic and leather on him.  

Then, carefully, he reached out and rested his hand on Ricardo's shoulder — warm, steady, familiar.

"We'll try." He said, barely above a whisper. "Together."

Ricardo's heart thudded once. He looked up at Alex — at the gold-flecked eyes that had once betrayed him, ruined him, and protected him. There was no guarantee in them. No comfort. But there was something else: solidarity, however fragile.

After a long moment, Ricardo gave a slow nod.

"Okay." He said. "Let's try."

The words didn't fall like conviction. They fell like a question — into the silence that followed, thick and hot as the late June air.

Outside, the wind stirred through the olive trees. Inside, the room held its breath.

Ricardo looked down at the hand on his shoulder, then back to Antonio — who was arranging the papers on the table, quiet and steady.

He didn't know where this road would end. But the ground beneath him felt thinner now. Like one wrong step would send them all tumbling into something they couldn't return from.

Still, he took the first step. Because he had no choice.

Salvatore Garavani was bailed out less than twenty-four hours after his arrest.

It happened quietly, efficiently — a whisper behind courthouse walls. An unmarked car waiting, a judge's signature bought, the system bending as it always did for men like him. No cameras caught his exit, no journalists managed to break through the private corridors his legal team had paved for him. One moment he was behind bars, the next, he was back in his mansion overlooking the Ionian Sea, guarded, silent, and untouchable once again.

He made no dramatic moves. No threats. No assassins sent in the dark. Not yet. Not while the spotlight of law still burned uncomfortably close to him. The beast knew better than to roar when the forest was watching.

Ricardo watched it all unfold with tightening fury.

For weeks, he worked with Antonio and Alex to prepare the case — digging through old files, reviewing financials, chasing whispers and ghosts across the criminal empire that had once been his legacy. But time and again, they ran into stone walls. Witnesses disappeared, records were scrubbed, favors were quietly cashed in. And even as Antonio pushed forward, carefully, methodically, he was also holding things back — names, sources, lines he would not cross.

Ricardo saw it. Felt it. That fine thread of hesitation — not out of fear, but out of strategy.

He hated it.

"He's going to slip through." Ricardo had hissed once, slamming a file shut on the long mahogany desk in Alex's villa study, the sound sharp against the quiet hum of cicadas outside. "You're not giving them everything."

Antonio had met his glare with an unreadable calm. "Because giving everything, Ricardo, means giving up people we might need. People we might lose. Justice isn't chess. It's trench warfare. We push when it's safe to push. Otherwise, we get buried alive."

Alex had tried to mediate — gently, at first, then with more steel in his voice. "We're building pressure. You can't detonate the whole mine on the first strike."

So Ricardo had backed down. Resentfully, reluctantly.

Over the next two months, Salvatore appeared in court a handful of times, each appearance more calculated than the last. Gone was the bombastic tyrant who once barked orders across opulent halls. In his place stood a humbled man — a father, a widower, grieving and pale. He wore muted suits, spoke little, and never once looked at his son.

As the hearings went on, his legal team parried every blow, Bellini spinning gold from straw.

Just as Antonio had predicted, they framed Isabella's death as a tragic accident — a moment of mental breakdown, not premeditation. A grievous spiral caused by betrayal and misunderstanding. They produced glossy psychological reports, expert testimonies, and even letters Isabella had once written, twisted out of context to cast doubt on her mental state as well.

When murder charges for other deaths were raised, Bellini dismissed them with clean hands. And always, always, the refrain: No evidence. No witnesses. No case.

Dante Chiesa's murder? A street brawl gone wrong. Matteo's execution? Hearsay. The dozens of other bodies buried in Salvatore's wake? Ghost stories.

By the time the final hearing came, tension gripped the courtroom like a vise. Everyone knew this would be the climax — the final stage for a performance weeks in the making.

Salvatore rose slowly, almost reverently, as if the moment deserved gravity. He cleared his throat and stepped toward the stand. The silence was total.

"I take responsibility," he said, his voice trembling with practiced remorse, "for the death of my beloved wife."

A murmur rippled through the courtroom.

"It was… a mistake. A terrible one. I was not in my right mind. I was angry. I was afraid. Paranoia clouded my judgment. But—" He placed a hand over his heart, shaking his head as if restraining tears. "It came from love — too much love." His other hand gripped the edge of the podium, knuckles whitening. "I could not bear to lose my family. Isabella... Ricco..." His voice broke on Ricardo's name, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I failed them."

Ricardo flinched at his term of endearment. A journalist dabbed at her eyes.

"I loved Isabella. She was my life. But she changed… she turned away from me." His eyes lifted, shining with crocodile tears. "They were all turning away from me. My wife, my son… because of him."

He turned his gaze to Alex, and in an instant, the mask dropped. The sorrow twisted into a quiet, venomous rage.

"Alex Chiesa." The name was a curse spat through clenched teeth. "He infiltrated my family. Poisoned it. Seduced my boy. Manipulated him. Corrupted him. Twisted him! He made my son turn on me! Turn on his own blood! Even turn on himself!"

Alex remained still, face unreadable. But Ricardo's entire body had gone taut.

"You've all seen the footage, the perversion! That man tortured my son. Broke him into pieces. And then… seduced him again." Salvatore's voice was shaking now, not from emotion, but from well-practiced theatrical fury. "And now my wife is dead. My family is shattered. Because of that evil monster!"

Ricardo's breath came fast. His vision blurred at the edges. Alex didn't move, but his fingers twitched — once — against his knee.

Salvatore turned suddenly toward Ricardo, his face crumpling, his voice softening — breaking — like a father humbled by grief. "Ricco," he pleaded, tears streaking down his cheeks, "my sweet boy. Forgive Papà. If love is a crime, then I am guilty. But come home. Come back to me. Please. You are all I have left." His voice cracked. "I love you, son."

Ricardo's mouth opened, just slightly. His whole body shook, not with emotion — but with restraint. He didn't speak. Couldn't.

Beside him, Alex shifted — jaw tight, throat working with suppressed revulsion. Even Antonio looked disturbed, the corner of his mouth twitching in the way only a mafia veteran could recognize — not surprise, but disgust at a performance too familiar and too dangerous.

The judge said nothing for a moment. Then she nodded once. "Thank you, Mr. Garavani."

The trial closed in silence.

Later that afternoon, the sentence was read: Six years. Eligible for house arrest in three.

A slap on the wrist for a man who had orchestrated murders like chess moves.

A muted gasp came from the back row. Someone cursed under their breath. Antonio didn't move. Alex sat like a statue. Ricardo… blinked, once. No expression.

Salvatore didn't smile. But his eyes flicked toward Ricardo as the words hit the air — cold, victorious, as if saying: I'm coming for you now.

Then he was led away, the picture of a broken man.

When the courtroom emptied, Ricardo stood last. His legs felt heavy, like they were filled with lead. He didn't look at Alex.

Instead, his eyes trailed after the guards escorting his father out of the room — not in cuffs, not with violence, just with solemn formality. A monster in mourning's clothing.

Alex's voice was low behind him. "It's not over."

Ricardo didn't answer. He stood frozen, his eyes fixed on the courtroom door long after it had closed behind Salvatore. The echo of that voice still rang in his skull, clinging like smoke.

Come back to Papà.

He knew it for what it was — a calculated performance, a rehearsed plea meant to soften the court, to twist the truth with tears and trembling hands. But knowing didn't stop the words from pounding through his mind, over and over, with the weight of memory and sorrow.

He clenched his jaw, forcing down the heat behind his eyes. It was an illusion. It had always been. And yet, something inside him recoiled, as if a child still lived there, bruised and reaching.

If the law couldn't stop him… If six years was the price for all that blood…

Then what was left?

He didn't want the answer. He feared it.

Because this wasn't justice — it was a ticking clock. And if he didn't make it right before the last second fell…

Someone else would. Using the old rules — the ones he'd tried so hard to break.

Chapter Text

After the trial, the drive to the Garavani estate unfolded in a suffocating hush. The armored black Mercedes slid through the molten haze of late afternoon, its tinted windows sealing in a silence heavier than steel. Ricardo sat rigid in the rare seat, gaze pinned to the blur of scorched roadside flying past. His jaw was clenched so tightly, his temples throbbed. Beside him, Alex shifted with subtle discomfort — his injuries mostly healed but still sore from long sitting. He cast a slow, sidelong glance at Ricardo, reading the tension in his frame, the fury trembling beneath that too-quiet stillness. But he said nothing.

When they reached the black iron gates of the mansion — once so grand, now hollow with ghosts — the car slowed to a stop.

Alex spoke softly. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

Ricardo didn't answer.

He opened the door and stepped out. The sun struck his face, sharp and hot, but he barely felt it. Alex gave a subtle signal to the SUV that followed, and two of his men — dressed in crisp black, weapons discreet but not hidden — fell into step behind Ricardo as he walked.

The gates creaked open, slow and heavy. The guards at the entrance stiffened — not stopping him, not greeting him, just watching with the wary stillness of men caught between loyalties.

Inside, the estate no longer felt like home. The manicured gardens, the white marble fountain — everything dripped with the quiet menace of a place held hostage. Even the flowers had changed — Isabella's roses ripped up, replaced with polished stone planters and trimmed hedges like corporate decor.

When Ricardo stepped into the foyer, the air turned colder.

Valentina Garavani, Salvatore's sister, descended the grand staircase like a vulture in mourning silk — black dress, red lipstick, pearls at her throat, hair in a tight chignon bun. Her sharp cheekbones looked carved from bone, and her eyes — hard and gray, like her brother's — gleamed with venom.

Behind her followed her husband, Giuseppe Costa, stocky and broad-shouldered, his gut barely contained in a cheap linen shirt unbuttoned too far, gold chain bouncing against his hairy chest. His fists were scarred — knuckles tattooed, the sign of a man who preferred his threats up close. He ran the extortion rings in Marigemelli, and his reputation was built on breaking jaws over late payments, and making shop owners disappear.

Valentina's heels clicked on the marble. Her mouth curled into something between a smirk and a sneer.

"Well, well." She drawled, voice syrupy with contempt. "Look what the fuck the cat dragged in."

"You've got some fucking nerve." Giuseppe spat, the words cracking like a slap across the marble. "Coming back here like you didn't just shit all over your blood."

Ricardo's spine stiffened. "I came to take what's mine. My room. My mother's things."

Giuseppe barked a laugh, rolling a toothpick between his teeth. "Shouldn't you be on your knees for Chiesa, puttano? Or did he finally get sick of your ass?"

Valentina lunged a step closer and spat, the glob arcing toward Ricardo's face — but he turned just in time. The main shot missed, yet a fleck of it still caught the edge of his jaw, hot and sour.

"Traitor." She hissed, her voice thick with venom. "Filthy little Judas. What did that bastard promise you? A cock down your throat and a fucking throne up your ass?"

Ricardo's entire body went still. He dragged his hand slowly across his face, wiping off the spit without looking away. Then he stared down at his palm as if it were blood, before his hand dropped, curling into a fist at his side. Behind him, Alex's guards stepped closer, their presence a silent warning.

Valentina's voice only sharpened. "You betrayed your blood, Ricardo. You sold us all out like a dirty little whore." She spat the word with relish. "You don't belong here. Go back to that pervert pimp and film your next fuck videos — that's all you're good for now."

Giuseppe leaned closer, breath foul with cigars and bitterness. "Yeah — maybe we'll see it online. 'Mafia heir turned cum-dump for the enemy.' Bet there's a market for that. You'll be a real porn star."

Ricardo's fists balled so tightly his nails dug into his palms. The guards behind him shifted slightly, sensing tension spike.

"This is my home!" Ricardo snarled, voice cracking with rage. "Mine! I was born here. My mother died here. You don't get to decide who belongs."

"Your house? Oh, principino." Giuseppe's lips peeled back in a grin. "This ain't your house anymore. You threw that away when you spread your legs for that cocksucker Chiesa."

"You think you're still Garavani?" Valentina cut in, voice shrill and sharp. "You're not even a man. You're a whore. A porn star made by that freak who ruined us!"

Giuseppe chuckled, cracking his knuckles. "Fucking disgrace. Your father should've drowned you at birth."

Ricardo stepped forward, eyes blazing. "Fuck you. Both of you."

Valentina didn't flinch. Her smile deepened, cruel and glittering. "Only a bitch like Isabella could raise a spoiled little whore like you."

That was the final blow.

Ricardo lunged, vision gone red, but his guards grabbed him mid-stride — one across the chest, the other holding his arm. He thrashed against them, teeth bared. "Say that about my mother again and I swear to God, I'll bury you next to her!"

"Ooh, the little bitch bites!" Giuseppe roared with laughter. "Careful, or I'll bend you over the banister and show you how real men fuck."

Ricardo spat at his feet. "You're a fucking cockroach, Giuseppe. A nobody. My father only kept you around to lick his boots."

Valentina didn't back away. She leaned in with a venomous smile. "Your mother died because of you, Ricardo. You forced her to choose between her husband and her filthy little traitor son. And she chose wrong. She should've let you rot and stayed loyal to her man — maybe then she'd still have her skull intact."

Ricardo roared. "Zoccola di merda! You ever speak about my mother again—!"

But the guards pushed him back, keeping his trembling body from colliding into the woman who had just poured acid into his veins. One whispered something into his ear — calm, firm, don't get yourself into trouble.

The house guards were already closing in, hands on their weapons.

Giuseppe laughed again, shaking his head. "Go on, get your gay little suitcase. Take your shit and crawl back to your master. This family's done with you."

Valentina tossed her head. "We're restoring order here. Real Garavani order. Without traitors, sluts, or sobbing brats."

Ricardo cursed from gritted teeth. "Rot in this tomb."

He wrenched free, storming up the stairs toward his room. Behind him, Giuseppe's laughter followed, rough and guttural, like gravel dragged across concrete.

"Don't forget your sex toys, little puppy!" He called. "Maybe Chiesa will let you suck his cock as a reward!"

The mansion hallways were sterile now, stripped of warmth. His door was still intact, barely. When he entered, his breath caught. 

The room was a battlefield. Drawers hung open like broken jaws, their contents spilled across Persian rugs that had once cost more than most people's homes. Books lay spine-cracked and wounded. Picture frames stared up from the floor with spider-webbed glass — his father's rage made manifest in shattered memories.

Still, amidst the wreckage, he found the dresser drawer. Inside were a few scattered pieces of jewelry, some faded photos that had escaped the plunder. Isabella's gold necklace lay tangled in a velvet box, and next to it was her vintage watch — still ticking, still counting the seconds since she'd last worn it. He scooped them up, tucking them into his chest pocket, feeling their cool weight pressing against his pounding heart.

Then, a flicker of memory. He knelt, pushing aside a pile of neglected socks in another drawer, his fingers searching for a hidden panel he'd crafted as a boy – his own private vault that had once protected candy and comic books. Now his fingers found something far more precious.

Elena's notebook.

The slim crimson journal felt alive in his hands, warm leather that had once known her touch. He'd smuggled it from Castello Island, a desperate, impulsive act as Alex was dragged away in cuffs. A moment of pure instinct, fueled by a primal need he hadn't understood then. He'd never breathed a word of it to anyone. And now, as his fingers traced the worn leather cover, the truth of that desperate act crystallized.

The poems trapped between these pages weren't just words — they were oxygen. The only breath left that might sustain him through what was coming.

His pulse hammered against his temples as he buried the notebook deep in his suitcase, wrapping it in shirts like swaddling cloth, hiding it beneath layers of fabric.

As he zipped it up, he stood for a moment in the center of the room. The curtains fluttered from the open balcony doors. The wind carried the briny scent of the sea, mixed with the metallic tang of old blood. He drew in one last, ragged breath, a final communion with this haunted place.

When he came down the stairs, dragging two suitcases that felt impossibly heavy, he found Valentina by the grand entrance. She was sipping wine, her posture so rigid she might have been toasting a funeral.

"You'll regret this." She purred, each word dipped in silk and venom. "He's going to chew you up. Just like he did to our family."

Ricardo met her gaze with a tired, icy calm. "I'd rather be destroyed by him… than rot with you."

Then he turned and walked out. The guards, like silent shadows, followed. The heavy door slammed shut behind them, with a final, echoing thud like a tomb sealing closed.

When they stepped out of the wrought-iron gate, Ricardo paused, his fingers clenched around the handles of his suitcases. The weight of it felt insignificant compared to the hollowness in his chest. For the first time since Isabella's death, the silence inside him wasn't just grief. It was something darker — loneliness. Absolute. Unforgiving. It wrapped around his ribs like cold wire, pressing into old wounds. The reality of his isolation crashed over him — no family, no home, no place that didn't reek of blood and betrayal.

And now, he was supposed to fully walk into Alex's world. The man who had once stripped him of everything — dignity, safety, control — now held the keys to his survival. The irony wasn't lost on him. It made his skin prickle with something between resentment and dread.

It felt wrong. In every way.

Alex's black Mercedes idled at the curb, sleek and predatory under the afternoon sun. When Ricardo didn't move, the car door swung open. Alex stepped out, removing his sunglasses slowly. The wind stirred his black shirt, and sunlight caught the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. He looked good — too good. Clean. Polished. Powerful. And maybe that's what stung the most.

He came closer, his gaze fixed on Ricardo. And immediately, he felt it — the shift. The cold wall.

"What's up?" Alex asked, voice soft but probing. "You don't want to come with me?"

Ricardo didn't answer. Not right away. His grip on the suitcase handles tightened.

He could still hear Valentina and Giuseppe's voices in his skull, filthy and shrill: Porn star made by Chiesa. Go back to filming fuck videos. And worse — Only a bitch like Isabella…

He swallowed hard. Something trembled deep in his chest. No. Not now. Breathe.

But the sting of humiliation, of being surrounded and spat on, of carrying his life in suitcases under sneering eyes — it all echoed too close to that day.

The church

The camera.

The man who held the leash.

He thought he was past it. That the torture, the rape, the broken pieces had hardened over — dulled by everything that came after, even Alex. Especially Alex.

But now, with Alex standing beside him in the sunlight — silent, watching — the nightmare slithered back. Not in screams, but in sensations: heat on skin, the burn of judgment, the sickly sheen of being on display.

Ricardo's throat tightened. His skin crawled with invisible hands, phantom memory. When Alex reached out a hand, he took a subtle step sideways — just a few inches. 

Alex's hand froze in mid-air. The space between them yawned, silent and jagged. 

"Do you want to come or not?" His voice had lost a little softness, edged with confusion now. Hurt, maybe, though he didn't show it.

Still silent, Ricardo turned and walked to the back of the car, dragging the suitcases behind him. When Alex gestured toward the trunk, a guard stepped forward to help — but Ricardo cut him off with a sharp look.

"Don't touch it." His voice was low, brittle. Not anger — not exactly. Just the sound of a man holding something in with bleeding teeth.

He hoisted the suitcases into the trunk himself, the heavier one nearly slipping from his grip as the edge clipped his shin. He didn't flinch.

Then he opened the backseat door and slid in without a word. Not a glance to Alex. Not a nod. Just silence.

Alex watched him for a second, brows drawing together. Then, slowly, he joined him in the backseat.

The leather creaked softly as he settled in. Their legs brushed — barely — but Ricardo recoiled almost imperceptibly, angling his body toward the window, putting as much distance between them as possible. 

Alex turned his head toward him, studying him — the way he always did, like Ricardo was a puzzle he couldn't resist solving.

"One day, I'll let you take back everything that belongs to you." He said after a long beat, voice gentle. A comfort. Or an acknowledgement of his debt.

Ricardo didn't look at him. His gaze was fixed out the window, where the olive groves blurred past, sunlit and distant.

The words "everything that belongs to you" echoed in his skull like a cruel joke. 

Not this estate. Not the hollow shell of the Garavani name. Not the blood-soaked empire built on his father's fists. Not the throne of violence he was meant to inherit.

What belonged to him was already gone.

His mother's laughter — soft and warm, now silenced forever. Matteo's steadfast loyalty — extinguished in gunfire and treachery. And his own body — untouched, unbroken — before Alex carved his name into it, before he branded him inside and out for the world to see.

"I don't want it anymore." He said, voice colder than he intended.

The words hit the space between them like broken glass.

Alex didn't reply.

The silence that followed was thick, charged. Alex didn't reach for him, didn't push. Inside the car, neither spoke again. Not for a long time.

When they arrived Alex's villa, dusk hung low over the Calabria hills. The light that streamed through the tall living room windows had turned a burnt amber, casting fractured shadows across the marble floor. Outside, the cicadas had gone quiet, as if the earth itself was preparing to fall asleep.

Ricardo stood near the window, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the horizon as if searching for some kind of meaning in the dying sun. The sharp lines of his profile were cut by the fading light — sculpted, tired, and bruised in ways that had nothing to do with the physical form. His shirt was wrinkled from travel, clinging slightly to his back with sweat, and the weight of everything he'd endured — the trial, the sentence, the humiliation at the mansion — sat heavy on his spine.

He hadn't spoken since they returned. Hadn't looked at Alex.

Alex stood a few feet behind him, his posture hesitant, eyes dark with concern. The guards had told him everything — how Ricardo's aunt had spat at him, how his uncle had called him whore and porn star... the slurs, the degradation, the way Ricardo had walked out of his childhood home with two suitcases and no dignity. And Alex could see it — the way Ricardo held himself, too still, too silent — like a boy trying to keep from shaking.

"Please…" Alex's voice was raw, stripped of its usual control. He stepped closer, boots silent on stone. "Tell me what I can do. What you want. Say it. Or—" his voice caught, "or should I disappear?"

Ricardo didn't move at first. His fingers flexed against the window frame, his throat worked once, then he shook his head — slow, bitter.

"Nothing." The word was ice. "It's just…"

He turned toward Alex then, his eyes shadowed and tired, but there was something hollow burning in them — not anger, not even hate. Just disillusionment.

"I don't feel I'm getting what I paid for."

Alex flinched at the phrasing, but Ricardo pressed on.

"Everything feels wrong. So fucking wrong. What am I even doing here?" His voice cracked on the last word, but he steadied it. "I betrayed my blood. Ruined my own name. Sold myself to the media circus. Lied through my teeth. And for what? Six years? Three on house arrest?"

Alex's jaw tightened. He stepped forward, his voice gentle but pained. "Ricardo... no matter what you want, I'll try my best to give it to you."

"You didn't try your best." Ricardo's voice lashed like a whip. "You held back."

Alex's breath hitched.

Ricardo advanced, each word sharper than the last. "You played it safe — tactical, political — while I stood there tearing myself in half for the world to see. You were always measured. And now he walks free in three fucking years."

"It's not over—" Alex tried to defend.

Ricardo laughed — short, joyless. "Don't give me that again. 'Step by step'. 'We need patience.' I've heard that line every damn day since we started. Do you even hear yourself?"

Alex's face tightened, but he didn't speak.

"You're not going to keep playing by the law, are you?" Ricardo said, stepping closer. His eyes searched Alex's face — the tension in his jaw, the flicker of evasion in his gaze. "What's your real plan?"

"I don't have—"

"Don't lie to me." Ricardo snapped. "You plan to kill him in jail, don't you?"

Alex's lips parted — but the sound caught in his throat.

When he finally muttered, the voice was barely a whisper. "He's too dangerous to be left—" 

"Christ—" Ricardo recoiled. "I've heard exactly the same words before. You know who said them? My father. When he talked about you."

Alex looked away.

Ricardo's voice cracked open with rage and despair. "How long are we going to keep doing this? When we're all just corpses stacking up? Are we just… cursed to live in this cycle forever?"

Alex still said nothing. His silence was heavier than shouting.

Ricardo grabbed his shoulders — not rough, but firm, trembling with urgency. "If you really want to make me feel better, then promise me. Promise me you won't kill my father. Not in prison. Not anywhere. And you are going to make things right MY WAY!"

Alex's composure fractured, a flicker of torment breaking through his guarded mask. "Ricardo, please..." he rasped, voice thick with a plea that bordered on dread. "Don't push me. You don't know what you're asking."

"Swear it!" Ricardo's roar shattered the air, his chest heaving, eyes blazing with a fire that could burn the villa to ash. He shook Alex, fingers digging into muscle like claws, desperate for an unbreakable vow.

Alex stared into his eyes. The dying light behind Ricardo caught the fire in his pupils, making them look like molten glass. Beautiful. Terrifying. Devastated.

And then Alex's expression shifted — a profound weariness settled on his face, a flicker of something almost resigned. He swallowed hard, then a slow, unsettling smile spread across his lips. He stepped closer until their foreheads nearly touched, then cupped Ricardo's cheeks in his hands. His voice, when it came, dropped to a deliberate, chilling whisper, each word a cold shard of ice.

"Fine. I swear to you, Ricardo — on whatever's left of my fucking soul. If I have your father killed, may I burn in hell — and may you stand there, wide-eyed and pretty, enjoying every goddamn second of me screaming your name as the flames eat me alive."

Ricardo staggered back as if struck. His hands fell slack, fingers trembling. A sudden, unexpected wave of sorrow crashed over him. The image Alex had painted blazed behind his eyelids: flames licking at skin, screams echoing through eternity, and himself watching it all with satisfaction. The thought made bile rise in his throat.

No. God, no. He didn't want that. Didn't want to watch Alex burn, no matter what sins stained his hands.

But before he could answer — 

BOOM!

An explosion shattered the night.

Chapter Text

The blast ripped through the evening air, a deafening roar that shook the villa's bones.

Alex moved before the sound even registered.

"Down!" He roared, grabbing Ricardo and throwing him to the marble floor, shielding him with his own body. 

The bulletproof windows rattled violently in their frames, holding firm but humming with the aftershock. Dust shook from the ceiling. Somewhere in the corner, glass cracked. The power went out, and darkness swallowed the house, leaving only the hellish glow of fire pulsing through the windows and emergency lights flickering in the hallways.

Outside, a bloom of flame lit up the waist of the hill where the solar power plant stood. The panels were devoured by a ravenous orange maw, steel and glass turned into a twisted metal graveyard. Flames clawed at the deep indigo sky, staining the low-hanging smoke the color of blood. The air inside the villa grew thick with the scent of smoke and the acrid sting of burning plastic.  

Ricardo lay pinned beneath Alex, breath coming in shallow gasps against Alex's cheek. Their chests pressed together, their faces so close that their lips nearly brushed. He could taste Alex's breath and feel his heart hammering against his own ribs — wild, relentless — an moment of raw, unexpected intimacy born from terror and protection.

"Alex…" Ricardo's voice was a choked murmur with fear and something softer, unspoken. His eyes, wide and terrified, searched Alex's face in the flickering, distant light.

Alex's arms tightened around him, one hand cradling the back of his head, pulling him deeper into the shelter of his embrace.

"Don't worry." Alex breathed, his voice a low gravelly rumble against Ricardo's ear. "You are safe."

Ricardo didn't respond. Not with words. But his hands had gripped Alex's shirt with white knuckles. His shoulders trembled.

He knew.

This was his father's doing. His father's message. The very man Alex had sworn a cruel, self-destructive oath not to kill just minutes before. 

Tears, hot and bitter, welled in Ricardo's eyes, a fresh surge of anguish mixing with the residual fear. Through the window, the fire roared higher, casting jagged shadows across Alex's face. Ricardo's throat constricted as he watched, swallowing down the sob that threatened to tear free.

The intercom on the coffee table suddenly crackled to life.

Alex scrambled up with a grunt while his still-healing wound protested. He snatched the device, thumb pressing the call button.

"Report." His voice was dark, eyes scanning the blaze outside.

"Looks like a bomb at the solar plant, Boss." A guard's voice shot back, tinny and urgent. "Big one. We're heading down there to check—"

"No. Call 112 now." Alex cut him off, his tone brooking no argument. "You guys stay to secure the perimeter. Lock it down. Full sweep."

"Copy that, Boss. On it now." The guard replied, the line cutting to static.

Alex tossed the intercom aside, his breath ragged.

Ricardo had risen slowly, unsteady on his feet. Together, they stepped toward the window, the room dark behind them, firelight flickering in their eyes.

The blaze raged halfway down the slope — panels melted, steel frames collapsing like toy structures. Sparks burst skyward in angry arcs. Technology worth tens of millions of euros dissolved into ash and smoke in minutes.

"He did it…" Ricardo murmured, the words laced with a bleak certainty.

Alex didn't ask who. He didn't need to.

"It's a warning." He said, his gaze fixed on the fiery destruction. "A threat. Your father wants us to live in a cage of fear while he's in his own cell — if we can live that long." His voice was low, with a hint of venomous calm.

Ricardo didn't answer. He just reached out.

Slowly, almost unconsciously, his fingers found Alex's hand in the dark and closed around it, clinging like a drowning man.

Alex's eyes softened. He turned to him, and in the shifting glow, Ricardo's face looked carved in shadow and sorrow. So much pain, wrapped in such beauty.

Alex pulled him closer, releasing his hand only to wrap both arms around his trembling frame, their bodies pressed close. 

"I'll do whatever it takes to protect you, Ricardo." He murmured against his hair. "No one will hurt you again. Not while I'm breathing."

Ricardo leaned back slightly, just enough to look at Alex's face, the firelight catching the unshed tears clinging to his lashes.

"Alex… what you swore back there—" His voice faltered, every syllable shaking with the weight of the promise he had extracted.

"Don't." Alex cut him off, voice gentle but firm, his thumb tracing the line of Ricardo's jaw, his touch reverent in the dim glow. "Don't think about that now."

His gaze lingered on the delicate curve of Ricardo's lips. The pale young man looked so achingly beautiful in the dancing shadows, his vulnerability laid bare. Alex couldn't resist. He leaned in and kissed him. 

It was soft, gentle, almost hesitant, a plea more than a demand, as if testing the fragile boundaries between them, waiting for permission.

Ricardo froze, then melted into it. His lips parted slightly, a silent, trembling invitation. His tongue responded with a quiet surrender, not fierce but yielding, like a man too tired to fight the tide. Their lips moved slowly, breath mingling again, but now heavier, laden with history, damage, and longing.

A spark ignited in Alex. He deepened the kiss, a possessive edge entering his movements as he pushed Ricardo back against the cool window glass, pinning him there with careful intensity. The glass was cold through Ricardo's shirt; Alex's mouth was scorching. The kiss intensified, a desperate merging of mouths, a raw hunger that devoured the fear and chaos around them. 

Alex's hands came up, cupping Ricardo's face, then sliding down his back. Ricardo didn't push him away; instead, his arms wrapped around Alex's waist, pulling him closer.

The room was dark, the only light the terrible, glaring glow down the hill, lighting their silhouettes in golden shadows. Outside, the guards' shouts were faint, swallowed by the wind, and sirens began their distant wail. Inside, the only sound was the rhythm of their heavy breaths, the sucking of wet lips, and the moans of raw desire — a world narrowed to just the two of them.

But when Alex's hand slid from Ricardo's waist to the curve of his hip, something in Ricardo snapped. A jolt, electric and cold, shot through him. He jerked as if burned. 

The touch, gentle as it was, triggered a flash of primal pain – too low, too familiar — and his body remembered those crueler hands that had bruised the same spot.

"No!" He gasped sharply, shoving Alex away with a strength born of pure panic. His palm landed directly on Alex's still-tender abdominal wound.

"Ah—!" Alex stumbled back, and pain shot through his gut. He clutched his abdomen, grimacing. The old wound screamed.

"Fuck..." He hissed, half-doubled over.

Ricardo's eyes widened in alarm, his own panic escalating. "I'm sorry! It still hurts?"

Alex straightened slowly, a pained, bitter smile twisting on his mouth.

"Yeah, still hurts." His gaze raked over Ricardo's trembling hands. "What's wrong? You don't like me touching you?" Confusion flickered across his face. Hurt, too. "But you've touched me. So many times..."

Ricardo's gaze dropped, his hands clenching into fists. "I don't know." He whispered, his voice barely holding together. "I just… I'm not feeling well. I can't—" He shook his head, the words tangling, his mind a blur of shame and fear.

Realization dawned on Alex, a fresh wave of agony hitting him harder than the physical pain.

"Jesus… I'm the one who should apologize." He reached out, then let his hand fall, his voice heavy with guilt. "I'm so sorry, Ricardo. I wasn't thinking. I'm... I'm a bastard."

It was too much. 

Ricardo turned and fled, his footsteps echoing on the marble, a desperate escape from the room, from Alex, from the ghosts clawing at his mind.

Alex was left alone in the fire-painted darkness.

He braced a hand against the window, his reflection fractured in the glass. His body cringed inward, for the ache in his wound, but more for the jagged, searing pain that had just opened in his heart.

He didn't hate Ricardo for running.

He hated himself for still being the one Ricardo had to run from.

Ricardo stumbled into his room, collapsing onto the bed in the oppressive darkness, heart pounding like a caged rabbit struggling frantically for life. The emergency lights in the hallway bled under the door, casting a yellow bar on the floor. The distant blaze painted his walls in flickering, dancing shadows like claws and teeth. Outside, fire engines wailed, their sirens slicing through the night as hoses hissed, battling the inferno devouring the solar plant. The acrid smell of melted plastic and burned metal seeped through the sealed windows, coating the back of his throat with the taste of destruction.

He lay stiff on the bed, fingers clenched in the sheets. He could hear Alex's voice drifting up from below, barking orders to his men, coordinating the damage control, playing the role of the unshakable leader even as his world literally burned around him.

His mind raced, a torrent of images and sensations. The explosion. His father's invisible, menacing hand reaching for them from behind the bars. The chilling oath he had forced Alex to swear. The cold glass of the window against his back. The taste of Alex's mouth. Alex's hand on his hip — the gentle touch that turned into a spark to his buried trauma and burned worse than the fire outside…

Two agonizing hours passed. The fire gradually surrendered to the firefighters' strenuous efforts, and eventually the villa's power flickered back to life, but the air remained thick with the stench of scorched technology, lingering in the room like a warning that refused to leave. Ricardo didn't turn on the light. He remained in darkness, face buried in the pillow.

A soft knock came at the door. "Signor Ricardo? Dinner is here." The maid's voice was cautious and polite. She brought a tray of spaghetti, veal scallopini, roasted potatoes, and a glass of red wine —  Alex's order.

Ricardo turned. The thought of food made his stomach revolt.

"I'm not hungry. Thanks." He said flatly through the wood.

The maid hesitated, "I'll leave it to you." Then she left. The tray sat untouched on a narrow side table outside of the door for the whole night.

More hours crawled by in a hellish limbo. Ricardo lay staring at the ceiling, wide awake, his mind a battlefield of jagged emotions. 

Rage warred with shame, fear danced with longing, and underneath it all, a strange, burgeoning awareness of Alex, the man who was both his tormentor and his improbable protector. He replayed the scene at the window again and again — the sudden intimacy, the warmth of Alex's body, and the instinctive, horrified recoil of his own. He could still feel the phantom weight of Alex's hand, stirring not just horror but a darker, hungrier ache he couldn't name.

Finally, long after midnight, as the last of the distant noises faded into silence, exhaustion dragged him under.

Then came the dreams.

It began as it always did, with grotesque, disjointed fragments, old and new. The cold stone of the church floor. The jeering lines in the livestream chat. The glint of Ramon's belt buckle. His father's icy eyes and cruel smile. Matteo's headless body sitting calmly in a chair. His mother's face, bruised and broken, then transformed into aunt Valentina's sneering visage. He ran, breathless, through endless fields of scorched solar panels, the ground littered with the twisted, charred remains of his past. And then, the images shifted, melting and reforming. The scene coalesced, sharpening with an unnerving clarity.

Alex materialized in his dream-vision again, but this time he was transformed — neither the calculating devil who had orchestrated Ricardo's ruin, nor the possessive lover whose kisses burned like confession. This Alex was something else entirely. 

Stripped bare of menace and mastery, he sprawled beneath Ricardo, naked, vulnerable, beautiful, on silk sheets that felt real enough to touch. His olive skin gleamed with sweat, his dark hair disheveled and wild. His back was arched, his body trembling, not with cold, but with raw, unleashed pleasure. His chest heaved, moans spilling from parted lips — a low, guttural sound that vibrated through Ricardo's own chest.

Just a man, a body. And he was Ricardo's.

"You smell like a croissant." Ricardo heard himself whisper, his voice a low, predatory growl he didn't recognize. He leaned down, inhaling the scent of Alex's skin — a mix of salt, sugar, butter, with something thick and intoxicating. He took a hard swallow, his own mouth watering. "Let me take a bite."

His mouth crashed against Alex's with a fierce, demanding urgency, his tongue plunging deep. He kissed a burning path down the sharp line of Alex's jaw, to the frantic pulse beating in his throat. He nibbled at Alex's collarbone, then moved lower, sucking the bulge of muscle on his chest. He laved at one of Alex's nipples until it was a hard, pebbled bead, and Alex cried out, his hips bucking.

Ricardo's own hips moved instinctively, a slow, sensual grind. The dream surged with erotic force. The heat, the pressure, the wet friction — it all built into a fevered rhythm. Alex writhed beneath him, begging, screaming Ricardo's name over and over, each sound a spark to the wildfire in Ricardo's veins.

The smell of croissant grew stronger, more intoxicating, until it seemed to emanate from Alex's very pores.

"Why do you smell so good?" Ricardo murmured against his skin, his teeth grazing the flesh over Alex's ribs. "So fucking yummy."

He didn't wait for an answer. He took — his mouth closing over Alex's trembling skin, biting, sucking, chewing, devouring him whole. He felt Alex's entire body arch, convulsing beneath him, as his own cock, thick and engorged, ejected a powerful, shuddering release, his heat flooding Alex's insides.

With a sudden, sharp gasp, Ricardo jolted awake to the pale light of dawn, heart thumping.

The dream snapped away like torn silk, leaving only the sound of his own breathing — fast, erratic. Sweat clung to his back. His arms were twisted in the damp blanket, hugging it like a body, his legs tangled within.

He felt something between his thighs. Warm. Wet.

His hand slid down, touching his crotch. His fingers came away slick.

"Fuck." The word came out a breathless curse.

His boxers were sticky. He'd come in his wet dream. Unbidden. Uncontrolled.

"What the hell?" He asked himself, his voice a harsh whisper.

He sat up, pushing the tangled sheets away, heart still pounding from the residue of the dream. Shame and confusion trickled in. Not just from the act, but from who it had been with. Why.

Why was his subconscious conjuring such vivid, obscene fantasies about Alex? The man whom he had just pushed away in panic hours earlier?

He tried to reason it out.

Had Alex's touch triggered it? That single contact — the hand moving lower, the pin against the glass — had unlocked something inside him. Something buried deep, beneath the trauma and rage. Something darker.

His stomach chose that moment to growl loudly, reminding him he'd skipped dinner. 

Hunger, yes — but the hunger twisting in his dream wasn't for food.

It was a gnawing, insistent craving that transcended logic, a desire that was not just for vengeance, but for connection, for dominion, for a visceral claim on the very man who had shattered him.

Fucking Alex, owning him completely, having him broken and moaning beneath him… the thought was disturbing, but it felt like the ultimate defiance. It wasn't just lust. It was unfinished business. The one thing that felt primal, violent, desperate enough to make sense in a world where everything else was warped. If he were going to die soon — and he suspected he might — that act, that domination, would be the last thing he wanted to leave undone.

Then he smelled it.

Croissants.

Not in the dream — here, now. The scent of fresh, sweet pastry drifted into his room, replacing the stench of burning from the night before.

Ricardo blinked.

No.

He slid to the edge of the bed. Sniffed again.

Definitely croissants. Butter, flour, sugar — and faintly, lemon zest. Rich and real. Not imagined.

His head turned toward the bedside clock.

06:02 AM.

He narrowed his eyes.

The scent was a transgression. An anomaly.

They'd never had a proper breakfast in this house. Not once since his arrival.

He and Alex had an unspoken agreement about mornings. No shared meals, no intimacy. Ricardo claimed he didn't like breakfast, opting instead for just a bitter espresso and perhaps a meager piece of dry bread consumed in solitude. Alex did the same, taking his morning coffee in his study like a monk performing penance. They both knew the reason, though neither spoke it aloud — the last breakfast they'd shared had been a prelude to what happened in that church. Breakfast had become a symbol of betrayal, a memory too poisoned to revisit.

And yet now… someone was baking.

Why?

He peeled himself from the sheets, dragged his feet to the bathroom, and stepped into a cold shower. Water cascaded over him like absolution, washing off the shame, the sweat, the stickiness between his legs.

But not the dream. Not Alex's voice moaning his name. Not the strange, unsettling hunger that still coiled in his gut.

When he stepped out and dried himself off, he looked at his reflection in the mirror. Eyes bloodshot. Face pale. Jaw tight.

Still him. Still Ricardo Garavani.

But something was shifting.

He pulled on clean clothes and descended the stairs.

Drawn by the scent of sweetness — and the mystery of who had dared to cook in the haunted hours of betrayal — Ricardo walked toward the kitchen. The marble floor felt cold under his bare feet, his heart beating a slow, steady drum of anticipation and dread.

Chapter Text

The kitchen door was ajar.

Ricardo hesitated for a moment, hand hovering near the frame. A faint golden light spilled out through the crack, and with it came the warm, buttery scent of something baking — rich, sweet, and unexpectedly… comforting.

He pushed the door open.

A wall of hot, fragrant air hit him first, thick with the smell of croissants: the crisp scent of golden pastry, the tang of vanilla and lemon zest, the caramelized sweetness of sugar, all swirling together in the air. His empty stomach clenched. It was the smell from his dream, so potent and real it made his mind spin.

Then he saw him.

Alex.

He was standing in front of a gleaming stainless-steel oven like some Renaissance sculpture coming to life, shirtless except for a pair of black shorts that hung low on his hips, and a light gray apron tied haphazardly around his waist. An oven mitt covered his left hand, the fabric worn and slightly singed. Steam curled in gentle wisps around him like incense in a temple, his broad shoulders catching the ambient kitchen light, muscled back half-shadowed by the flickering range hood. Every sinew was defined, from the sharp blades of his shoulders to the taut curve of his spine disappearing into the waistband of his shorts. He was a study in contradictions: a domestic god in a killer's body.

He turned at the sound of the door.

"Ricardo?" His voice was low and rough with surprise, but not displeasure. His amber eyes — flecked with golden in the morning light — widened briefly before a hesitant smile curved his lips, warm but cautious, like sunlight breaking through clouds. "You're up early."

Ricardo's breath caught in his throat.

For a moment, he couldn't speak — his mind catapulted back to the vivid dream, to the scent, to Alex's body beneath him, slick and trembling, lips parted in ecstasy. The words from the dream echoed in his skull, a ghostly whisper against the roar of his own pulse:

"You smell like a croissant."

Now, in the kitchen's haze of steam and sugar, that line rang absurd and blasphemous. And yet… his eyes locked on Alex's torso — the faint sheen of heat-induced sweat on his neck, the bulge of pecs barely hidden behind the apron, the taut curve of his biceps, the knotted strings emphasizing his narrow waist — and something deep, primal, stirred inside him. Hunger. But not for food.

Ricardo swallowed hard. The kitchen felt too small suddenly. The air too thick, the light too perfect, the scent too intoxicating.

Am I still dreaming?

Alex tilted his head, studying him. He'd noticed the stare — Ricardo could tell by the way his thumb rubbed absently at the oven mitt, the faint pink creeping up his neck. But he didn't push. Just gestured to the oven.

"You came just in time." He murmured, his tone light. "Breakfast is ready in a minute."

Ricardo blinked, the words pulling him back to reality. He glanced around. The kitchen was alive, a stark contrast to the sterile gloom of the villa. The counter was dusted with flour, a fine white veil over dark granite, and a mixing bowl sat abandoned near the sink, eggshells piled neatly on a dish. Evidence of effort. Of skill.

"You... made this?" He asked, voice rougher than he intended. He scanned the kitchen again, half-expecting the maid or nanny to appear. But no one else was here. Just Alex — who commanded an empire of violence, who orchestrated a war with ruthless calculation — standing in a flour-dusted apron making breakfast like an ordinary man.

"I didn't know you could cook." Ricardo mused, a flicker of disbelief cutting through his daze.

Alex shrugged, turning back to the oven with an air of forced nonchalance. "Odd for a gangster?" He quipped, glancing over his shoulder, but the joke didn't quite land — there was something brittle beneath his smile.

Ricardo watched him open the oven door, a fresh wave of heat washing over them. With meticulous care, he pulled out a tray of golden-brown, perfectly puffed croissants, their surfaces gleaming with egg coating and butter. His hands trembled faintly as he set the croissants down on a cooling rack, steam rising in clouds.

"After my mother left, I was on my own a lot." He continued, his voice quieter, more sincere. "I had to learn to keep myself alive. Mostly it was just burnt eggs and frozen pizza." A wry smile. "But I got better. Turns out, I like it." His eyes flicked to Ricardo, searching, a hint of vulnerability breaking through his usual guarded calm.

Ricardo's chest tightened at the admission. The image of a lonely, abandoned boy fumbling with a stove clashed with the man before him. His gaze dropped to the floor, where a stray speck of flour dusted on the tiles, and he swallowed hard, trying to anchor himself. 

"Last night… you didn't sleep, did you?" His voice was softer now, as he remembered the explosion, the fire, Alex's voice barking orders into the darkness.

Alex exhaled, peeling off the mitt, revealing long fingers still rubbed with flour. "I had to stay up anyway. Monitoring security. Coordinating cleanup. Making sure there were no other surprises waiting for us." He leaned against the counter. "Figured I'd make the time count for something. Something... meaningful." His eyes met Ricardo's, steady but soft, like he was offering more than just food.

"But... why?" Ricardo asked, his voice dropped, heavy with a tone somewhere between suspicion and sadness. He stepped further into the kitchen, drawn by a feeling he couldn't name. "Why make breakfast? You know I don't…" He couldn't finish the sentence. 

You know the reason.

"Ricardo." Alex cut in softly. He walked forward, closing the space between them until Ricardo could feel the heat radiating from his skin. His dark eyes held depths Ricardo had never seen before — hope and fear and something desperate. 

"Just sit." With a slight, hopeful tilt of his head, he gestured toward the small cast-iron table on the adjoining patio, where two places had already been set — white plates, folded napkins, gleaming silverware, and a small vase of wildflowers. "Please. Give me this chance."

Ricardo's heart hammered. "A chance for what?"

Alex's gaze was unwavering, his amber eyes holding a plea so sincere it stole the air from Ricardo's lungs.

"A chance to make a different memory for you." His voice was quiet but raw, stripped of pretense. "Something that isn't… tainted. Just this once."

The words hung between them, simple and devastating. An offering. A penitence. A desperate attempt to rewrite the most poisoned moment of their history.

Ricardo looked from Alex's earnest face to the table outside, at the sunlight pooling on an empty plate. Birds trilled in the garden, oblivious to the tension thickening the air. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to reject the gesture and cling to the righteous anger that had become his shield. But his stomach cramped with real, physical hunger. And his body… his body still hummed with the phantom sensations of the dream, a traitorous pull toward the very man who was the source of all his pain.

He hesitated, the war inside him raging. After a long stillness, he gave a faint nod. Then, slowly, deliberately, he walked past Alex — not touching but close enough to catch his scent beneath the pastry sweetness — and slid into the chair beside the table.

Maybe it was just he was truly starving.

Maybe it was the ghost of Alex's voice in his dream, whispering his name.

Or maybe it was the terrifying, thrilling realization that he wanted this, wanted to rewrite the past, wanted to build a different future — however whimsical it was — with this man who was both his undoing and his refuge.

Alex watched him for a heartbeat, something unreadable flashing in his gaze. Then he turned back to the tray, hiding the smile that threatened to break through.

The patio was bathed in the fragile silence of a late summer morning. In the distance, the hills rolled gently, their green slopes marred by the black scar of the ruined solar plant, a grim reminder of last night's violence. The air outside was much cooler than the kitchen. The scent of butter and lemon zest mingled with the faint perfume of wildflowers.

Soon, Alex emerged from the archway, carrying a small wicker basket lined with a white cloth. The croissants nestled inside like little horns, their golden-brown shells dusted with a fine snowfall of powdered sugar. The pastries were still warm, steam rising faintly from their crisp, layered surfaces. He set them down on the iron table with reverence, as if offering something fragile and sacred. Beside it, he placed a pat of pale, creamy butter on a porcelain dish, followed by a small glass jar of fresh apricot jam, its orange contents glowing like trapped sunlight.

He turned back to the kitchen briefly, moving to the espresso machine with practiced ease. The gurgle of the machine and the hiss of milk froth filled the silence.

When he returned to the table, he placed the cappuccino in front of Ricardo with careful grace, the milk foam swirling into delicate patterns that resembled a white rose blooming on the surface.

"You actually prefer cappuccino in the morning, don't you?" Alex said. The statement wasn't a question — it was delivered with quiet certainty. 

He settled into the chair across from Ricardo, a small cup of strong espresso in his hands. The apron was still tied at his back, its hem slightly dusted with flour. The faintest smear of white clung to his right cheek — an unintentional touch of softness that made Ricardo's breath catch. For once, the man looked less like a calculating mafia boss and more like… a family guy.

Ricardo looked at him, then at the cappuccino, eyebrows lifting in mild surprise. He silently marveled at the rose-shaped foam before taking a slow sip. The foam kissed his lips, creamy and light, with a hint of bitter cocoa that melted into the rich espresso beneath. He paused, the taste familiar, comforting, and entirely unexpected.

"How did you know?" His blue eyes widened slightly as he set the cup down, the ceramic clinking softly against the saucer. 

Alex's smile was slow and knowing, transforming his angular features into something almost boyish. "I know everything that happens in your house. Remember?" He said, his voice low and teasing.

Ricardo's lips twitched, not quite a smile, but a softening. He stared at Alex for a long moment. That accusation from himself now rang oddly tender, intimate.

"Try this." Alex nudged the basket closer. "Even just one bite." His voice was soft, almost coaxing.

Ricardo glanced at the basket, then back at Alex. The dream still haunted him — "Let me take a bite" — and warmth crept up the back of his neck. He reached out slowly, fingers brushing the delicate surface of a croissant, the crust flaking at his touch, feather-light and crackling. He tore off a small piece with a crisp sound, revealing a wisp of steam and a creamy, white center. Ricotta. His favorite. 

He brought it to his lips. The texture was light, shattering, melting on his tongue. Butter bloomed in his mouth, rich and savory. The ricotta was a warm contrast — subtly sweet, smooth as silk — laced with vanilla and the faintest whisper of lemon. He hadn't realized he'd closed his eyes until he opened them to find Alex watching him, dark eyes burning with a quiet, almost possessive intensity, as if Ricardo's simple act of eating was a monumental victory.

Ricardo's heart thudded, the taste stirring something deeper — memories of mornings with his mother, of simpler days before the world turned to ash. He broke off another piece, dipped it into the cappuccino's frothy cap, the creamy milk clinging to the pastry before he tasted it again. The combination was divine — sweet, tangy, soft, a fleeting anchor in the chaos. A moan of satisfaction threatened to escape; he bit it back, but not before Alex's smirk deepened. 

Alex took a slow sip of his espresso, saying nothing. He watched Ricardo finishing the croissant, flake by flake, his dark eyes never leaving his face. A different memory was brewing, a silent vow being honored.

When Ricardo's plate was empty, Alex stood. "There's one more thing." He announced, his voice hinting at a playful secret. "A surprise for you."

Ricardo licked a stray crumb from his thumb. "What?"

Alex just smiled as he disappeared into the kitchen again.

A moment later, he returned, carrying a small plate. On it sat a pillowy, golden brioche bun, sliced open and overflowing with generous scoops of artisanal pistachio gelato. Pale green, delicately melting at the edges, tiny flecks of crushed nutlets visible like emerald dust. The aroma of roasted nuts and sugar filled the air.

Ricardo's breath caught.

Brioche con gelato — a Sicilian breakfast tradition, a summer memory baked into his bones. Isabella used to make it for him on blistering hot days. His eyes welled up, a sudden rush of images choking him — his mother's laughter as she pressed the gelato into the warm bread, the way she'd chide him for eating too fast.

His throat tightened.

"You know this?" He asked, his voice faltered, barely above a whisper, as he looked up at Alex, who stood beside the table, his expression soft but guarded, as if bracing for rejection.

"Thought it might bring something back. Something good." Alex said quietly, placing the plate in front of him and sitting back down. Then he added, carefully, "My mother's also Sicilian, and she used to make this for me too when I was little. So I learned to make it myself."

Ricardo looked at him for a long beat without speaking. Then he reached for the brioche. His fingers trembled as he lifted it.

The bread was tender, warm, soaked slightly with melted gelato. He bit in. The sweetness of the brioche met the frozen, nutty cream — lush, dense, fragrant with pistachio and vanilla. The textures danced across his tongue: warm and cold, soft and velvety. The combination was a sensory explosion. It was like biting into nostalgia. Like stepping into a lost moment of happiness.

He swallowed slowly, savoring every bite.

When he was finally done, a tiny smear of the green gelato clung to the corner of his mouth. Alex's gaze dropped to it, lingering.

"You've got a little something." Alex gestured vaguely, his voice a low, intimate hum.

Before Ricardo could reach for a napkin, Alex moved. He leaned forward across the small table, extending his fingers to trace the curve of Ricardo's lower lip, gently scrubbing away the sticky cream. The touch was feather-light, yet it sent a jolt through Ricardo's entire body, a shiver that had nothing to do with the chill of the ice cream.

Then, Alex brought his fingers to his own mouth. His tongue slid out, pink and wet, to lick the sweet residue from his middle finger — slow, indulgent, sinfully deliberate. His tongue curled the tip, his lips glistening as they closed around the digit, his eyes smoldering, never leaving Ricardo's. The motion was too sensual — almost a silent, flagrant act of seduction performed in the bright morning sun.

Ricardo stared, mesmerized. His pulse began to throb low in his belly as a fire ignited deep within.

The dream vision came crashing back in full force — Alex beneath him, naked, writhing, gasping his name, sweet and ruined. That scent, that taste, that bite…

His breath hitched. His heart thumped painfully loud. A wave of heat, sudden and overwhelming, surged through him. His cock, thick and heavy, stirred, then began to swell, hardening insistently against the fabric of his pants, despite the early hour, despite the setting of pure domesticity, despite everything that should have made this moment innocent. The world narrowed, the sounds of the morning fading until all that existed was the man across from him, his lips still wet, his eyes promising a different kind of pleasure altogether.

Ricardo clutched the edge of the table, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as he tried to conceal the bulge growing beneath the heavy iron. But what he couldn't hide was the rising heat in his face, the flush blooming across his cheeks.

Alex sat back slowly, his apron shifting to reveal more of his sculpted chest. He sipped his espresso like nothing had happened, then asked casually, "Is it good?"

Ricardo swallowed, his throat dry, his eyes locked on Alex's lips. "Yeah." He managed, his voice rough, barely holding together. "It's… good." The words felt inadequate, a flimsy shield against the storm of emotions — longing, shame, and a hunger that wasn't for the food before him.

Alex's smile was soft, but his eyes burned with something deeper, a quiet challenge. "I'm glad." He said, his tone gentle yet weighted, as if he sensed the war raging inside Ricardo. 

He leaned in, close enough that Ricardo could count the flecks of gold in his eyes. "There's more, if you like." He murmured with a velvet purr, then stood up and walked to the kitchen counter where the gelato tub rested.

Ricardo stood too, his chair scraping softly against the tile. Compelled by a primal pull he no longer cared to resist, he followed Alex to the kitchen. The hunger in his stomach subsided, but the other, deeper hunger surged with unbearable intensity. Every inch of him ached — his blood roared in his veins, his cock throbbed against the zipper, his fingers twitched with the urge to rip through every barrier between them. 

More. Yes, he wanted more.

Alex's skin exuded a mix of butter and salt, the lingering scent of warmth and effort — rich, human, maddening. It filled Ricardo's lungs, coated his tongue, made his jaw tighten with the raw need to taste, to bite, to consume.

Chapter Text

As Alex reached for the scoop, Ricardo closed the space between them in a single, breathless step. His arms slid around Alex's waist from behind, drawing him in until his chest pressed firmly against the hard planes of Alex's spine. His right hand slipped beneath the apron, gliding over warm skin to find the familiar scar. His fingers traced its ridged path with a reverence so light, it was almost a caress of air.

The sensation tickled. Alex let out a surprised, breathy laugh. "What are you doing?"

"Does it hurt now?" Ricardo whispered, lips grazing the nape of Alex's neck.

Alex shuddered. "Yes." A lie. The touch was too gentle to cause pain — but the ache it stirred was deeper, hotter.

Ricardo's mouth curled into a smirk against Alex's skin. "I'll be gentle with you." The words dripped like honey laced with arsenic, his hot breath fanning Alex's ear. He pressed himself closer, letting the hard ridge of his own erection grind deliberately against the curve of Alex's ass.

Alex's body went rigid, a faint gasp escaping him. He turned his head slightly, his bare torso glistening with a faint sheen of sweat under the apron's loose knots, the gray fabric clinging to his sculpted frame. "What're you going to do with me?" The question dissolved into a tremor of nervous anticipation as Ricardo's teeth grazed his earlobe.

"Making a different memory out of you." Ricardo purred, fingers dancing along the apron ties. With a sharp tug, the fabric slithered to the floor. "You asked for it."

Before Alex could process the words, Ricardo's fingers shot to the waistband of his shorts, untying the drawstring with a practiced ease. His left hand gripped Alex's waist, firm and possessive, pinning him against the the edge of the granite countertop. The impact drew a gasp from Alex — cold stone meeting feverish skin.

Alex's belly clenched instinctively. A shiver ran through him. "Ricardo..." He whispered, unsure if it was a protest or an invitation.

No answer came. Only the slow invasion of Ricardo's hand sliding past the loosened waistband, tracing a scorching path below Alex's navel before dipping lower, pushing into the confines of the last layer of cotton. His fingers threaded through the nest of curly hair and finally closed around Alex's half-awake cock in a warm, firm grip.

"Ah—!" A choked groan tore from Alex's throat. His hips jerked, knees buckled, a jolt of pure electricity shooting from his groin to the base of his skull.

"Don't move." Ricardo commanded, his voice a low, steely growl. His grip on Alex's waist tightened, holding him in place as his other hand began a slow, deliberate stroke. He wrapped his palm around the length, his thumb circling the slick, weeping head until a drop of precum beaded at the tip. He moved down, his hand cupping the heavy weight of Alex's balls, squeezing gently but firmly, eliciting another soft moan from Alex's lips. All the while, his own member stabbed firmly into the cleft of Alex's hips, an insistent, hard pressure that mirrored the rhythm of his hand.

Alex breathed heavily, deep, guttural moans rumbling from his chest, sounds of unadulterated sensation that vibrated in the quiet kitchen. His briefs grew damp as Ricardo worked him to full hardness. His body arched like a live wire, pressing back into Ricardo's embrace as if seeking more of the exquisite torment. He braced his palms flat against the countertop to support his trembling frame, his knuckles turning white. The stone was shockingly cool against his skin, a stark contrast to the fire blooming between his legs.

Ricardo's gaze held steady, blazing with a volatile mix of desire and vengeance. He leaned in, pressing his lips to Alex's shoulder, then to the curve of his neck — kissing, tasting, grazing his teeth just beneath the ear where the skin was most vulnerable. "You feel that?" He whispered, his voice low and dangerous, laced with possession. "You're mine now."

Alex didn't resist, didn't pull away. His body melted into Ricardo's grip, a wave of surrender washing over him, a profound, almost dizzying acceptance. 

Let him. A voice whispered in the depths of his mind. 

He knew, with absolute certainty, that whatever Ricardo chose to do to him now, he deserved it. This was absolution in reverse — not forgiveness taken, but punishment willingly borne. Let Ricardo claim his body as recompense for the dignity that had been so brutally stripped away. Let him mark him to reclaim power in the same flesh that had once betrayed him. Let their story be rewritten not with words, but with bruises, moans, and the surrender of himself.

"Then take me." Alex whispered, a raw invitation hidden beneath the tremor of submission. His head dropped lower toward the cool granite, his dark hair falling messily over his forehead. "Take everything."

Ricardo's jaw tightened, his hand pausing for a moment, the weight of Alex's words anchoring deep in his chest. His grip on Alex's shaft flexed — one last, possessive squeeze — before he leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of Alex's ear.

"I will." He murmured, a low, dangerous promise that vibrated through Alex's entire body, making his pulse leap.

Ricardo's hands became relentless. With a swift, almost brutal motion, he tugged Alex's shorts and briefs down, the fabric pooling around his ankles. The air hit bare skin, and there he was, fully exposed now — his shaft, thick and flushed, straining against his belly; his balls, tight and heavy with arousal; and the magnificent curve of his ass, smooth and firm, the muscular globes clenching under Ricardo's gaze. A faint, silvery scar marred the left cheek, a thin line against the tanned skin, a remnant of some old violence.

Ricardo's breath caught, his eyes darkening as he drank in the sight, the vulnerability and strength laid bare before him. His fingers traced the line of the scar, dragging slowly over the ridge, then lower, palming the firm muscle, squeezing — before slipping between, teasing the deep, shadowed valley with a featherlight caress.

Alex tensed, his hips contracting involuntarily as another helpless, broken gasp escaped his lips. 

"Scared?" Ricardo's voice was a low, taunting smirk.

"Of you?" Alex panted, forcing a strained laugh, trying to relax his body even as it trembled. "Never."

"Then remember that." Ricardo whispered. A soft warning.

His fingertip explored deeper, stroking the sensitive crevice between Alex's buttocks before descending. It ghosted over the tightly puckered ring of his entrance, circling it with a slow, tantalizing pressure that was maddening. A violent, full-body shiver wracked Alex's frame, a wave of sickening thrill and primal fear originating from that single, incendiary point of contact. His heart hammered against his ribs as his cock hardened fully, straining painfully against the cold edge of the countertop.

He knew what Ricardo was trying to do. Every nerve in his body recoiled — instinct screaming no, rejection rising like bile in his throat. He hated being taken, hated the echo of violation that crept at the edges of his mind.

And yet, he did not stop it.

Because this was the price. This was what he owed.

So he forced his body to yield — not out of desire, but out of duty. Out of guilt. Out of love twisted into ruin. His muscles, once locked in resistance, began to uncoil, trembling. Slowly, deliberately, his hips shifted, tilting slightly to grant Ricardo better access — not as a lover, but as an offering. A sacrifice. A penance.

A slow, predatory smile curled Ricardo's lips. His fingertip traced the furled rim of Alex's entrance, teasing the tight resistance before pressing in with deliberate, relentless force. Alex arched beneath him, a choked cry tearing from his throat as Ricardo's finger breached him, stretching him open in one ruthless thrust.

Ricardo leaned down, his breath hot against Alex's ear. "Relax." He murmured, voice rough with command. "You're fighting me. And we both know you don't want to."

Alex gasped, fingers clawing at the counter. "There's… there's lube in my room—"

"No need." Ricardo answered, a sly grin spreading across his face. He reached for the tub of gelato, scooping a generous dollop onto his fingers. The ice cream glistened against his skin, dripping in thick, decadent rivulets down his palm.

Alex's eyes widened. "Damn it! Don't mess with the food—"

Ricardo ignored him. He brought the shockingly cold cream to Alex's ass, pressing it directly against his tight hole. 

"Ah—fuck!" Alex arched, his body seizing, a tremor racing through him as the sudden, biting chill seeped into his core. His hole clenched at the coldness, tight and hot, resisting for only a second before giving in. The sensation was overwhelming, a dizzying feeling of foreignness spreading through his most sensitive nerves. The gelato was icy at first, then slowly gave way to the heat of his own body, melting into a slippery lubricant, easing the way as Ricardo worked him open with twisting thrusts, his finger stroking and circling inside the tight channel, smearing the cool, sugary liquid deeper.

Then, Ricardo's free hand shot to Alex's chest, fingers splaying across the taut, sweat-slick skin, pulling him upright with a commanding grip. His own cock pulsed painfully against the constricting fabric of his boxers, a throbbing ache that begged for release.

"See?" He whispered in Alex's ear, pinching his nipple just enough to sting. "Better than lube."

Alex moaned, head falling back against Ricardo's shoulder, his thighs trembling as Ricardo's fingers scissored inside him, stretching him wider, the sweet cream melting into a filthy glide, dripping down his thighs in sticky rivulets. 

"You're—ah—" Alex gasped as the fingers pushed deeper, his half-hearted protest broken by a raw, breathless groan. "—insufferable."

Ricardo's answering chuckle vibrated against the sweaty skin of Alex's neck, dark and honeyed. "Still not nearly as insufferable as you." He murmured, the false modesty in his voice sending shivers down Alex's spine.

With deliberate precision, Ricardo crooked his fingers just so — finding that sweet spot that made Alex's body sing. The effect was immediate: Alex's back arched beautifully, his earlier resistance crumbling into a wanton moan that echoed through the room. His body had long since surrendered, slick and pliant around Ricardo's fingers, his hole aching with a delicious, agonizing fullness that was both a violation and a benediction. Each elaborate movement of Ricardo's fingers sent electric shocks of pleasure and pain, every inch of him alight with desperate need. It wasn't just penetration — it was possession, and Alex was drowning in it.

After a few more thrusts, Ricardo withdrew his fingers with a slick sound, leaving Alex clenching around emptiness. He shoved his own pants down, just enough to free his cock – thick, hard, a glistening bead at its tip. He positioned himself behind Alex, the warmth of his engorged length brushing against Alex's slick, gelato-smeared entrance, the contact sending a jolt through both of them. The air in the kitchen was heavy with the sweet scent of vanilla and the sharper, muskier smell of their wanting. Ricardo's breath was hot against Alex's neck, a low growl rumbling in his chest as he pressed forward. He couldn't wait any more.

But despite the careful preparation work of his fingers, Alex's virgin hole was still excruciatingly tight, a stubborn, unyielding ring of muscle that resisted intrusion with pure instinct. A sharp pain tore through Alex as Ricardo forced his way in. Alex bit down on his lip, his hips jerking, his knuckles white where he gripped the countertop, his entire frame trembling under the onslaught. 

"Relax." Ricardo growled, hands gripping Alex's hips hard enough to bruise.

Alex braced against the counter, granite cool against his feverish skin. "I'm trying." He clenched his jaw.

But when Ricardo pushed further, his body rebelled even harder, his virgin muscles clamping around Ricardo's glans like a vise.

Ricardo let out a guttural groan, his breath hissing through gritted teeth. The sharp pinch of pain made him draw back instinctively.

"Christ, is your asshole made of steel?" He grumbled, his voice strained with frustration and a rising demand.

A bitter, broken laugh escaped Alex's throat. "You think I'm made for this?" He panted, his voice ragged. "Think again."

"Then I'll remake you." Ricardo answered, his voice a low, dangerous growl, laced with a chilling resolve.

His gaze, hot with frustration, swept the flour-dusted counter until it landed on a sturdy wooden rolling pin lying innocently on the pastry board. A dangerous idea, born of impatience and a desperate need to claim, took root. He grabbed it, the bare, worn maple a stark contrast to the softness of his palm.

"No! Please don't!" Alex's voice cracked, a surge of terror flashing in his eyes as he tried to turn, his hands scrambling against the countertop.

But Ricardo's hand shot to the back of his neck, pressing him down with a firm, unrelenting grip. Alex's chest met the cold granite with a thud, his resistance faltering, his body pinned. Pain bloomed where the pressure strained his healing wound, dull but persistent. His head dropped, forehead resting against the stone as his breath came in ragged, uneven bursts. Strands of damp hair clung to his brow, and his lips parted — trembling, caught somewhere between fear and surrender.

The first press of rounded wood against ravaged flesh made him whimper. Slowly, steadily, Ricardo pushed the blunt end of the rolling pin into him with relentless force, rotating and twisting the coarse, hard wood. His body bucked, his muscles clenching in desperate protest, but the rod continued its brutal invasion. 

This invader was different — impersonal, insensible. The loyal muscle, which had fought out of instinct, now met a brutal, mechanical intrusion it could not reason with. The grain of the wood, unyielding and rough, was an abrasive torment with each deep, inexorable stroke, tearing and swelling the tender flesh along its path.

"How does it feel?" Ricardo murmured, mesmerized by the way Alex's body fought then yielded, how his hole stretched obscenely around the thick invading wood. He pushed deeper, the rod sliding past the halfway point inside him.

Alex answered with a strangled cried, a raw, animalistic sound of pure agony, echoing in the kitchen like a wounded beast. His body bowed under the profound violation. His nails scraped against the granite, leaving faint marks on the scattered flour. Hot tears welled in his eyes, blurring his vision.

It burned – stretched him in ways he'd never allowed before, a searing, tearing fire, and the pain was blinding. But beneath it, a fierce, almost masochistic determination flared. He would suffer this agony. He would be ripped apart, remade by cruelty, rather than let Ricardo down, than deny him his revenge. He would endure. For him. For the sins that bound them.

Ricardo's breath came in short, sharp bursts, a sadistic thrill seizing him as he watched Alex unravel, trembling under the relentless thrusts of the rolling pin. The sight of Alex's submission, his pain, sparked a wicked satisfaction in his chest, a dark mirror to the power he'd lost. 

But as he pulled the wood halfway out, ready to push it in again, he glanced at the cruel instrument – the surface was stained a sickening pink – undoubtedly blood — stark and vivid against the pale grain. Horror crashed over him, shattering the haze of his desire. His hand froze, then yanked the rolling pin free, the motion eliciting another searing cry from Alex as it left him raw and bleeding. Ricardo threw the pin to the floor, the clatter harsh in the quiet kitchen, his eyes wide with panic.

"I'm sorry." He choked, his voice breaking, his hands trembling as he stepped back, the sight of the blood staining his resolve. "Fuck. Alex, I..."

Alex panted, his eyelids fluttering, his body slumped against the countertop, convulsing with the aftershocks of pain. Tears smeared his face, mingling with the sweat on his flushed skin. "Don't... apologize." He rasped, his voice weak but steady, a faint, bitter smile curling his lips. "I deserve it. Deserve worse." His eyes met Ricardo's, raw and unguarded, shimmering with pain and something deeper — acceptance. "This… is not even close to what I did to you."

"No." Ricardo's throat tightened, his hands balling into fists, his heart twisting with guilt and sorrow. "This isn't what I want. Not like this." He stepped closer, his fingers hovering over Alex's trembling shoulder, hesitant to touch, as if afraid to break him further.

Alex's smile softened, a flicker of dark humor breaking through the pain. "My fault." He murmured, his voice strained but laced with a wry edge. "Shouldn't be so tight." He paused, taking a shallow breath, then added, "Just… next time, don't waste the gelato."

Ricardo let out a choked chuckle, half-sob, half-smile, his eyes glistening as he looked at Alex. Even now, even like this, the man who had both tortured him and protected him could still make him laugh.

"You're impossible." He whispered, his voice thick with affection, a fragile thread of connection weaving through the pain. He reached out, his hand brushing Alex's cheek, wiping away a tear with a tenderness that belied the brutality of moments before.

With careful hands, he guided Alex upright. His pulse hammered as fingers threaded through damp hair, tilting Alex's face toward his own. Their lips met in a desperate collision — soft at first, then deepening as tongues tangled with hungry urgency. The taste of salt and something sweeter, undercut by the sharpness of tears, flooded his senses.

His renewed hardness pulsed insistently against Alex's heated skin, pressing and shifting, the thick head catching at that loosened rim — now opened up into a tender, reddened circle, flushed and swollen from the rolling pin's rough passage. The slick contact sent electricity crackling up his spine, his arousal surging, but he froze mid-thrust, tearing his mouth away with a shuddering gasp. His gaze searched Alex's face, breath ragged.

"You're hurt." He murmured, his voice thick with a sudden, overwhelming tenderness.

Alex's eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, lips bruised from the kiss. "I don't care. Do it." His voice came out rough — not with lust, but with the weight of a desperate need for redemption.

Ricardo shook his head, forcing himself to pull back, even as his shaft twitched, aching for release. "No. I can't…" He clenched his jaw, every muscle tense with restraint. The urge to drive forward, to surrender to the raw demand in his blood, nearly broke him.

Alex swayed slightly, his bare torso glistening and trembling under the golden glow of the room. He lifted a hand, fingers tracing the damp fabric clinging to Ricardo's chest. "You have such a soft heart." He murmured, voice edged with something bittersweet. His eyes drifted downward to Ricardo's throbbing erection, and a faint, knowing smile curled his lips. "But there's another way."

Before Ricardo could speak, Alex caught his arms, guiding him backward until his hips met the counter's edge. Then, without a word, Alex dropped to his knees, the motion slow and deliberate, like a man surrendering not just his body, but his soul. The coolness of the tile kissed his skin as he settled, his gaze never leaving Ricardo's, gleaming with a profound, almost devastating resignation.

Then, reverently, Alex reached out. His hands, long-fingered and elegant, wrapped around Ricardo's rigid shaft, stroking once, twice, a slow drag of his palm that had Ricardo biting back a groan. He guided it forward, inch by inch, until his breath hot against the flushed head.

His lips brushed the tip, a featherlight tease that sent a jolt through Ricardo's body. His tongue darted out, tracing the slit with a slow, languid stroke, tasting the salty bead of precum before circling the head, his movements deliberate, worshipful.

A low moan tore from Ricardo's throat, a sound he barely recognized as his own. Alex's lips parted wider before sealing around him, warm and wet, suckling gently, drawing him in with a soft, rhythmic pull.

Ricardo nearly buckled. The sight alone was enough to steal his breath, to make his vision swim — Alex Chiesa, the powerful mafia boss, his father's greatest enemy, the man who had orchestrated his torture, who had broken him beyond recognition, now stripped naked — body still bearing the marks of earlier cruelty, eyes watering and vulnerable — kneeling before him, suckling and pleasing like a supplicant. He was offering himself, completely, utterly, a living sacrifice.

Alex's tongue swirled around the head of Ricardo's cock, teasing, licking, then drawing him deeper, the soft, velvety warmth of his throat engulfing him. 

The first slide of Alex's mouth was sinful. His tongue pressed flat against the underside of the shaft, licking a slow, wet stripe from base to tip before hollowing his cheeks and taking him deeper. The smooth wrapping of Alex's mouth was exquisite. Ricardo could feel the subtle flex of his jaw, the gentle pressure of his teeth, the wet, slick suction that pulled him further into Alex's throat with each deliberate stroke.

Ricardo gasped, his fingers tangling in Alex's dark, damp hair, gripping it, not to guide, just to hold, to anchor himself against the dizzying rush of sensation as Alex swallowed him down to the root in one smooth glide. His throat fluttered around the head, and Ricardo saw stars.

Alex's eyes, wide and intense, never left Ricardo's face, watching him, absorbing every flicker of pleasure, every gasp. His tongue swirled, teasing the sensitive ridge, then dipped lower, lapping at the base before sliding back up, his movements fluid, laced with a raw devotion that felt like a confession.

His hands slid up Ricardo's thighs, gripping them, pulling him closer. He pulled off with a filthy pop, lips swollen and wet, before diving back in, bobbing his head in a relentless rhythm. His tongue worked in sinful strokes, licking, sucking, devouring him like he was starving for it. He hummed around the flesh, the vibration sending sparks up Ricardo's spine.

"Fuck. Alex..." Ricardo panted, his voice raw, his body trembling with need. "You're so fucking good at this."

His breath came in sharp gasps, his head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut as the kitchen faded. The sensation was overwhelming, intoxicating – Alex's mouth was a hot, wet heaven, a place of absolute surrender where Ricardo was the undisputed master.

Ricardo's hips began to pump, rocking forward in shallow thrusts, each one met by the eager pull of Alex's mouth. Mindless at first, then it grew into a savage urgency. He struck out without warning, hitting Alex in the back of the throat. Alex gagged, tears springing to his eyes, but he didn't pull away. His throat opened, accepting every inch, his nose pressed to Ricardo's pelvis, his fingers digging into Ricardo's thighs, as Ricardo fucked his mouth in short, brutal strokes.

"Take it." Ricardo growled, his voice wrecked. "Take all of it."

He gripped Alex's hair tighter, pushing harder and harder, feeling the soft resistance of Alex's throat, the way Alex swallowed, accommodating him completely. He could hear the wet, sucking sounds, Alex's muffled gags, his desperate, broken moans. The power surged through him — the sight of Alex, the formidable Alex, utterly consumed by him, utterly at his mercy.

His hips moved faster, more insistent, each thrust a claim, a reclamation of everything stolen from him. The kitchen echoed with the wet sounds of their connection, the soft slaps of skin, Alex's ragged breaths, and Ricardo's low, guttural groans. 

The coil in Ricardo's core tightened, the pleasure cresting, and with a final, desperate thrust, he came undone. His cock pulsed, spilling hot, thick ropes of cum into Alex's throat, the release shattering through him like a breaking wave. Alex swallowed, his throat working around Ricardo, taking every drop. His Adam's apple bobbed, his lashes fluttering as he milked Ricardo through it, until Ricardo had to yank him off with a gasp.

Ricardo's legs buckled, hands still tangled in Alex's hair as he panted, every nerve buzzing from the aftermath of release. He looked down at the man beneath him – naked, kneeling, face streaked with tears, lips shining with the remnants of his climax.

"You're such a slut." Ricardo breathed out a giggle, the sound half-mirth, half disbelief.

"I am—" Alex whispered hoarsely, voice barely more than air, "—but only for you, my master."

Ricardo's breath caught. Then he laughed again, softer this time, a tremble in the sound, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. Something in his chest — tight and chained for so long — snapped.

A fleeting vision flickered — a different life, one where the blood and betrayal didn't exist, where he and Alex were free, happy, entwined in a world untainted by pain. The image vanished as quickly as it came, but it left behind a fragile, glowing thread of hope. 

Maybe, just maybe, they could burn the past to ashes, rewrite their story, and build something new, something unbroken.

Together.

He sank to his knees, crashing his mouth onto Alex's, pulling him into a fierce, desperate kiss. Alex tasted like salt and musk and gelato, and Ricardo couldn't get enough. He pushed Alex onto the cool tile floor, their bodies tangling, Alex's naked form trembling beneath him, skin hot and flushed. The contrast was stark — One fully clothed, pants open, looming over in total dominion; while the other, exposed and vulnerable, splaying out like an offering, his cock hard and leaking, sitting neglected between them.

A slave. A pet. A cherished possession in this fleeting moment. — All Ricardo's.

Ricardo kissed him like he was starving, like he could devour him whole, his hands roaming over every inch of exposed flesh — his shoulders, his chest, his shaft, his hips — claiming him, marking him. Alex arched into the touch, pressing closer, his breaths ragged against Ricardo's lips, each touch a plea, a surrender, a fragile bridge to something new.

The kitchen lay in ruins around them — melted gelato, abandoned pastries, the crumpled apron tangled with discarded shorts along the bottom of the counter, the stained rolling pin lying where it had fallen. And in the center of it all, two broken men clung to each other — breathless, spent — finding in their shared wreckage something that almost felt like redemption.

Ricardo could have taken Alex right then. Could have flipped him onto his stomach and fucked him into the tiles until neither of them could think straight.

But instead, he just held him.

Because for the first time, he dared to imagine —

Maybe this was indeed the other life.

Maybe they could have it.

Maybe they would.

Chapter Text

The midday sun beat down over the blackened ruins of the solar field. The acrid scent of burned electronics and melted plastic still hung heavily in the air. Twisted metal ribs jutted from the scorched earth like the remains of some prehistoric beast, their reflective surfaces now dull and cracked, shattered photovoltaic glass crunched underfoot like brittle, black bones. A light wind stirred ash and dust, lifting it in lazy spirals before casting it over scuffed leather shoes and ironed slacks.

A small cluster of men stood amidst this wrecked landscape. Flanked by several guards, Antonio Pittelli and two other associates, dressed in sharp, white shirts that looked absurdly out of place, conferred in low, measured tones with a team of grim-faced insurance adjusters and forensic experts. They pointed and gestured, their voices swallowed by the vast, eerie silence of the ruined field.

At the center of it was Alex, a figure of calculated composure despite the devastation surrounding him. His black dress shirt was immaculate, the fabric perfectly tailored to his frame. Dark sunglasses shielded his eyes, rendering his expression unreadable. His posture was ramrod straight, legs planted wide, hands clasped behind his back in a stance that spoke of absolute authority – the unmistakable bearing of a man accustomed to commanding rooms full of dangerous people.

And beside him, a step behind and to the left, stood Ricardo.

He was silent, a quiet shadow following Alex. He watched him from the side, barely listening to the murmured talk of the group — the damage estimates, the investigation plan, the insurance clauses... none of it really registered. 

What he was noticing, with piercing clarity, was him.

The way Alex shifted his weight ever so slightly — a near-invisible adjustment, and the brief tightening of his jaw. It was a flicker of discomfort, a subtle confession of dull pain. Was it his abdomen still aching from the stab wound? Or — and Ricardo's gaze slid lower — was it something else?

Ricardo's mind couldn't help but drift to the kitchen all over again. The memory of the morning was a vivid, searing brand.

Alex's steady hand gestured toward a collapsed support beam, his movements efficient, controlled. But Ricardo saw through it — beneath those pristine layers of fabric, Alex's body still bore the marks of their morning. The faint bruises on his hips where Ricardo's fingers had dug in. The raw tenderness between his legs, the lingering ache of being stretched open, first by Ricardo's fingers, then by the rolling pin —

Christ.

Ricardo's fingers twitched at his side. He could still feel the heat of Alex's skin, the slick glide of gelato, the way his body had trembled when he pinned him to the granite countertop, his muscular ass raised in offering. The way he'd endured, despite the pain, as the cruel instrument penetrated him.

"The preliminary assessment puts the damage at forty-seven million." Antonio's lead attorney was saying, his voice carrying across the wasteland as he pointed to a tablet displaying columns of figures. "That's just the infrastructure. We haven't calculated lost revenue projections yet."

Alex nodded, his response measured and professional. "What's the timeline for—" He paused, clearing his throat with a subtle rasp. His tone clipped but strained, as if every syllable scraped against his tender vocal cords. "—for the insurance payout?"

The attorney didn't seem to notice the slight roughness in Alex's voice, but Ricardo caught it immediately.

His throat.

Ricardo's pulse spiked.

Just hours ago, that very throat had been stretched around his cock — gagging, slick with spit, tears cutting tracks down that flawless face as Ricardo thrust into him with a merciless rhythm. The same mouth that now issued orders majestically had been slack and breathless beneath him, shaped around moaning and retching, whispering "master" with surrender and devotion in his tearful amber eyes.

Now that throat, bruised and reddened from the force of it, was struggling to conceal the damage. Ricardo could hear it — that faint rasp under the smooth baritone, the slightly slower swallow between sentences — each word carrying the faint echo of Ricardo's cock hitting the back of it, of gags and moans swallowed in the quiet kitchen.

This man — Ricardo thought, a slow, secret heat coiling in his gut — this formidable, calculating mafia boss giving orders like a king, commanding every person in this field like they are chess pieces, was on his knees for me, devouring me down like a hungry animal, taking everything I gave to him.

He was my pet. My plaything. — Ricardo's eyes lingered on the strong column of Alex's throat, a possessive fire kindling in his veins. — My beautiful, broken whore.

The contrast was intoxicating, a drug more potent than any Alex's labs could produce.

"Mr. Chiesa," one of the insurance adjusters interrupted, a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses who looked perpetually nervous in Alex's presence, "we'll need detailed documentation of all equipment serial numbers for the claim. Your people were... thorough in their initial reporting, but corporate requires—"

"You'll have everything you need." Alex cut him off smoothly, his tone brooking no argument. The authority in his voice was absolute, the kind that made lesser men step back instinctively. "My team doesn't do anything halfway."

No, Ricardo mused, you certainly don't.

The memory rose unbidden: Alex's complete submission, the way he had offered everything without reservation. There had been no half-measures in that kitchen, no careful political calculations or strategic positioning. Just raw, desperate honesty.

The heat pressed down, oppressive, turning Ricardo's skin clammy beneath his silk shirt, the fabric sticking to his back as sweat beaded along his hairline.

How do you still stand like this? Ricardo thought bitterly. After everything I did to you?

A bead of sweat rolled down the side of Alex's neck, catching a faint flush beneath the collar. Ricardo bit his lip. He had bitten that skin. Marked it. Made Alex shudder and groan in a cracked voice that no one in this professional circle would ever believe belonged to their composed devil of a boss.

His mind slipped again. The kitchen — the heat of the oven still radiating from the walls, gelato melting on the floor, flour smeared over skin, Alex's thighs trembling under his caress, the taste of his mouth, the sounds he made when he was utterly broken, utterly consumed…

"The preliminary investigation suggests the explosion originated from the main transformer station." Antonio's voice cut through, anchoring Ricardo back to the present. He was holding out a tablet, showing Alex a detailed report. "The police suspect sabotage, though the evidence remains… inconclusive."

Alex's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. Ricardo noticed because he was watching for it, cataloging every micro-expression, every tell.

"Inconclusive." Alex echoed, his voice carrying that slight rasp again. He cleared his throat more deliberately this time, probably hoping to hide it. "Do they have any leads on possible perpetrators?"

The irony wasn't lost on Ricardo. They both knew who was responsible, but they also knew the perpetrator would go unpunished, as had happened with all of Salvatore's more serious crimes — unless someone rewrote the rules.

Antonio's brows lifted with mild theatricality. "They're exploring all avenues, I'm sure. But given the… breadth of your business interests, Mr. Chiesa, the list of suspects is likely to be long."

A wry flicker touched Alex's lips. "Occupational hazard."

Ricardo almost laughed. Hazard was a gentle word for it. Their entire existence was built on hazards — the violence, the betrayals, the impossible dance between revenge and forgiveness they'd been performing for months. Even what happened this morning, the intimacy that had scorched them both — that too had teeth. That too could unravel everything.

But perhaps that was what made it so powerful.

As the meeting continued, Ricardo found himself studying the other faces present. They were listening to Alex the way everyone did — with respect, calculation, maybe a little fear. To them, he was the dangerous mafia boss, the cunning businessman, the cold strategist. The man who could order executions with the same flat calm he now brought to property damage assessments.

None of them could see what Ricardo saw — the vulnerability that lurked beneath, the capacity for surrender that existed alongside the need to dominate.

That was a secret no one else in this ruined field could imagine. A secret made in heat and hunger and pain. A secret stitched together with the closest thing either of them had ever known to love — even if neither of them dared to name it yet.

A breeze kicked up, stirring the ash at their feet. Alex turned slightly, his sunglasses glinting in the sunlight as he caught Ricardo's stare. For a moment, their eyes locked through the dark lenses, and Ricardo's breath hitched as he quickly looked away. 

Did Alex feel it too? The weight of their shared history, the kitchen's raw intimacy, now buried under this facade of business? 

Alex's lips twitched, a ghost of a smile, but his voice stayed steady as he turned to address the group.

"Gentlemen," he said, his tone roughened just enough to betray the toll beneath it, "I believe we've covered everything necessary for today. My office will coordinate with your teams regarding documentation."

The group dispersed quickly, murmuring farewells as they headed for their vehicles, eager to escape both the physical heat and the heavy presence of Alex Chiesa. But Ricardo stayed. He stood there, letting the scorched earth speak to him — a testament to the price of the path they'd chosen.

For the first time, that price didn't feel quite so impossible to pay.

They could let it all burn — Alex's empire, Salvatore's poisoned legacy, the whole cursed scaffolding of mafia power. Reduce everything to ash. And from that ruin… maybe they could build something new, something better.

But could he trust him?

Can I love the man who destroyed me? Who gave himself to me this morning like a penitent? Who let me break him because he thinks he deserves it — while I don't even know what I deserve?

A life with him… or a life without this pain?

His heart thudded, torn between vengeance and something infinitely more dangerous: hope. The kind that had taken root in that quiet kitchen, in whispered penance and trembling surrender.

The sun blazed down, relentless, but he felt a chill seeping into his bones. He was standing beside the man who had brutalized him, who had just pleasured him, and who was now walking beside him through the wreckage left by another monster — his own father. 

The lines blurred. The roles shifted. He was no longer just a victim, nor just a lover. He was something new, something fierce and fractured and free, forged in the crucible of their shared, twisted history. And Alex, with all his icy control and quiet unraveling, was caught in it too.

What's ahead? Redemption? Ruin? Heaven? Hell?

He had no idea.

"You okay?" Alex's voice cut gently into his thoughts, dry and husky. It was softer now, like smoke after fire. He had stepped closer, just enough to let his fingers brush Ricardo's elbow — a careful, deliberate touch.

Ricardo blinked.

You're asking me if I'm okay now? After I fucked your throat raw? After I nearly broke you with a rolling pin?

He said nothing. Just nodded, jaw tense, eyes locked on Alex's face.

I should hate you. God, I should. But I want you more than I want revenge. And that terrifies me.

Alex took off his sunglasses slowly, revealing eyes that were too honest, too bare. Something flickered there — not shame, not regret. A challenge. Or a plea. He didn't speak. The silence between them pulsed, taut and breathless.

They began walking back toward the villa. Alone now, save for the distant silhouettes of their guards.

After a long stretch of quiet, Ricardo spoke, hesitantly. "Your voice." He said.

Alex glanced at him, one eyebrow raised in question.

"It's hoarse." Ricardo clarified, his own voice dipping into something almost shy.

For a heartbeat, Alex's facade slipped. Just a breath of vulnerability — a flicker of heat in his cheeks, a pause too long. Then the mask slid back into place, but not without effort.

He cleared his throat deliberately. "Occupational hazard." He repeated. This time the words carried a different weight entirely.

They exchanged a glance, then both let out a chuckle — a sound low and knowing. In that brief smile, something passed between them: a wordless understanding, a private language born of ruin, forged in everything they couldn't say aloud.

To the world, they looked like an odd pair: a rebellious, reckless mafia prince and his devious, manipulative lover.

But they knew better.

They were two broken men, bound by blood, violence, and a desire that defied all reason, standing together on a scorched battlefield, ready to face whatever came next.

When night fell, the villa was quiet again, the chaos of the day fading into a velvet hush. The air in Alex's bedroom was cool and still, a sharp contrast to the afternoon's suffocating heat. Styled in minimalist luxury, the room was a retreat of understated elegance. Soft, muted gray walls absorbed the last rays of daylight, while a massive, low-slung bed dominated the space, its ebony frame carved with subtle geometric patterns, draped in charcoal silk sheets that gleamed faintly under the soft glow of a bronze lamp standing on the polished hardwood floor. A single, abstract painting hung over the headboard, and the scent of sandalwood and old books lingered in the air. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the Calabrian hills, their silhouette painted silver by moonlight. A sleek desk sat in one corner, littered with papers and a half-empty whiskey glass, evidence of Alex's relentless day.

Ricardo had slipped in like a shadow, moving with the same fluid grace that had once made him dangerous in different circumstances. Now he lounged on Alex's pristine bed, shirtless, the low light of the lamp casting golden shadows over the ridges of his abdomen. His navy pajama shorts hung loose on his hips, the fabric thin enough to betray the subtle tension beneath. He leaned back against the headboard, one knee drawn up, absently scrolling through his phone, though his mind was wandering elsewhere.

The day had been a torment of watching and waiting. Alex had barricaded himself in his study since returning from the solar plant, fielding endless calls about damage control and strategic responses. Screens glowed, files flipped, voices demanded answers, and the ghost of Salvatore's empire pressed down on his shoulders like a burden he refused to let Ricardo carry.

Ricardo, meanwhile, found himself adrift like a restless specter. Everything unfolding — this war, this menace, the decisions being made — was about his father and his own future, but somehow he didn't feel the urgency anymore. Not like before. Not after this morning.

Not after Alex had bared himself — body, voice, soul — in ways that still played on repeat in Ricardo's mind.

How has everything shifted so completely? Ricardo wondered, his thumb pausing over his phone screen. Five months ago, I would have killed him with my own hands. Now...

Now all he could think about was the brutal, beautiful surrender in the kitchen, the way that man had looked at him across the scorched solar field, the slight rasp in his voice, the secret knowledge that passed between them like an electric current.

And still, it wasn't enough.

He wanted more. Needed to take him apart again — to unravel him slowly, to claim him thoroughly — until this man was his, without reservation, without escape.

The sound of soft footsteps on hardwood made him look up.

Alex emerged from the adjoining bathroom, steam still clinging to his shoulders, a white towel wrapped low around his waist. The glow of the lamp softened his sharp cheekbones, caught in the tousled wet strands of his dark hair. His collarbones gleamed, and droplets slid lazily down his chest — trailing the dips of muscles, over the faint scars that marked his skin — down to where the towel clung just a little too loosely to his hips. The stab scar on his abdomen faded to a thin, pinkish line just above the towel, a reminder of how close they'd come to losing each other entirely.

Ricardo's breath caught.

Alex froze when he saw him, his fingers tightening instinctively on the towel. A flicker of surprise, a faint nervousness, then something hotter, darker, flashed in his amber eyes. He exhaled, slow and controlled, but Ricardo didn't miss the way his cock twitched under the thin barrier of fabric.

Got you.

"Ricardo…" Alex's voice carried that familiar rasp, more pronounced now in the quiet intimacy of his bedroom. "What are you—"

"I'm not welcome?" Ricardo tilted his head, half-smirking. His tone was teasing, his blue eyes glinting with challenge as he set his phone on the nightstand. He shifted, leaning forward, his bare chest flexing, the lamplight casting shadows across his sharp collarbones.

"Of course you are!" Alex's smile was quick, warm, but edged with something unguarded, his eyes drinking in Ricardo's form.

The air thickened as he crossed the room with careful steps, the towel shifting dangerously low, outlining the sharp line of his pelvis and the elegant sweep of his hipbone. The mattress dipped as he sat beside Ricardo, close enough that Ricardo could feel the heat radiating from his damp skin. 

Alex's hand reached out, fingers skating over Ricardo's knuckles, a slow, deliberate caress that sent a shiver up Ricardo's spine. 

"What do you want?" Alex's voice dropped, a husky purr, his thumb tracing circles over Ricardo's wrist, feeling the rapid pulse beneath.

"You know exactly what I want." Ricardo's smirk was wicked, his eyes darkening with intent. 

In one fluid motion, he seized Alex's arms — his grip firm, possessive — and pushed him down onto the bed. The silk sheets hissed under Alex's weight, his towel loosening as he landed on his back, head sinking into the pillow. Ricardo straddled him, knees bracketing his hips, hands pinning his wrists above his head. Their faces were inches apart, Ricardo's breath hot against Alex's cheek, his gaze molten, hungry.

You were mine this morning, and I'm not done with you.

Alex's chest heaved, his lips parting as he stared up at Ricardo. "Don't tell me you've been thinking about this since the solar plant." Amusement flickered in his eyes, but beneath it, something darker trembled — anticipation.

Ricardo leaned down, his own breath coming faster now. "How did you know?" His rumbled.

Alex's laugh was soft, breathy. "How could I not? You kept staring at me like... like I was something to be conquered — then kept looking away."

His fingers flexed in Ricardo's grasp, not resisting — just testing, his body already yielding. "You know what? It reminded me of those early days… across your father's negotiation table. You used to stare like that, too. I just never understood what it meant."

Ricardo's grip tightened.

"I thought it was aversion. Contempt." Alex's voice cracked with something tender, something wounded. "But now I know better. I see it."

Ricardo released one wrist, his hand sliding down Alex's arm, tracing the hard curve of his bicep, the skin still warm from the shower, the muscle taut, alive.

"You were an idiot." Ricardo murmured, half-scolding, half-adoring.

"I was blind." Alex caught Ricardo's hand and brought it to his lips, kissing each finger with aching softness. His eyes searched Ricardo's face. "What were you thinking back then, when you looked at me like that?"

Ricardo's smirk returned, dark and slow. He dipped his head until his nose brushed Alex's jawline, breathing him in — soap, steam, skin, and something unmistakably him. "You really want to know?"

Alex's only answer was a sharp inhale.

"I was thinking about…" Ricardo paused, his tongue flicking out, trailing a slow, deliberate line along the pulse in Alex's neck, "every possible way…"

He breathed against damp skin, lips grazing Alex's collarbone, teeth scraping lightly. His hand glided lower, dragging fingernails lightly across Alex's chest, teasing over his nipple until it pebbled beneath his touch. Alex let out a soft gasp, his back arching.

"Of fucking me?" Alex finished for him, a bold, teasing whisper, as his breath caught, hips twitching upward, the towel slipping further, revealing the dark trail of hair below his navel, the thick line of his cock straining against the fabric. His hand slid into Ricardo's hair, tugging gently, urging him closer.

A blush crept up Ricardo's neck, visible even in the dim lighting. "I won't tell you." He said, grinning — feral and sweet.

Alex laughed, low and throaty. "Then show me."

Ricardo's hand moved lower, sliding beneath the towel's edge until it hit the heat of skin. "You're so fucking shameless." He breathed, his voice a mixture of awe and desire.

Alex arched into the touch, a soft gasp escaping him. A silent invitation, a wanton plea. "No. You were just too careful. Too controlled. You should've let me know."

"You mean I should've harassed you during gang meetings?" Ricardo's fingers closed around Alex's hard-on, a squeeze just shy of cruel. "Like this?"

Alex's body jolted. His moan came raw, dragged from the base of his throat. "I would've been flattered."

"Yeah?" Ricardo paused, taking a moment to peer closely into Alex's flushed face — sharp cheekbones, wild lashes, and the rare, exposed softness that made him look ruinable. "How about this for flattery?"

With a deft flick, Ricardo loosened the towel's knot. The fabric unraveled in silence, cascading from Alex's hips to the floor. Alex was magnificent, his body a masterpiece of muscle and sinew laid bare for Ricardo's eyes, his cock heavy and flushed, glistening against the plane of his abdomen.

A shiver ran through him as Ricardo's hands mapped the contours of his body from chest to groin with a possessive claim, cataloging every scar, every sensitive spot, every place that made Alex's breath hitch.

"You were sitting across from me," Ricardo rasped, the words a raw confession, "arguing about money and drugs and guns... and this..." his fingers brushing the thick length on Alex's stomach, "this was what came into my mind."

Alex laughed, breathless, aroused. "Madonna mia... what have I missed!"

Ricardo silenced him with a kiss — hard and hungry. Mouths colliding, breath shared, tongues tangled, the taste of mint flooding their senses. The air cracked with tension as Ricardo pinned Alex's one wrist down, his other hand sliding along Alex's cock, stroking him in slow, devastating rhythm. Alex moaned into the kiss, trembling beneath him.

"I should've kidnapped you." Ricardo muttered against his lips, heat and bitterness tangled in his voice. "Not the other way around. I knew what I wanted. You didn't even know yourself."

"Then take what you want now." Alex gasped, his voice breaking. His fingers clutched Ricardo's shoulder like a man on the edge of drowning. "Take what's meant to be yours. It's not too late."

He arched to the kiss — unguarded, aching — offering himself without pride or shame.

All that venom, all that calculation, all that power — laid bare beneath the trembling hands of the boy he once ruined.

Chapter Text

Ricardo didn't hesitate. With one powerful motion, he flipped Alex onto his stomach. The scraping of flesh against silk echoed through the bedroom as he spread Alex open, his strong hands kneading the firm globes of his ass with possessive hunger.

"You said I should've let you know." Ricardo purred, his voice dripping with dark promise as he knelt between Alex's muscular thighs. His palms slid up the sculpted valley of Alex's back in slow, claiming strokes, fingertips tracing each ridge of vertebrae before digging into the tense muscles of his shoulders. "Consider this... a late declaration."

Alex answered with a low groan, the sound vibrating through his chest as his back arched beautifully, his body moving instinctively to present himself. The golden lamplight gilded his olive skin, highlighting the faint sheen of perspiration that made his body gleam like polished bronze.

Ricardo's hands roamed with deliberate intent, one broad palm squeezing the plump flesh of Alex's ass while the other brushed feather-light over his tender entrance. The pink, swollen pucker twitched at the first touch, still sensitive from the morning, the delicate skin slightly inflamed and deliciously vulnerable.

He bent to press an open-mouthed kiss to the elegant curve of Alex's spine, his tongue darting out to taste the salt on his skin. Lower he moved, his lips blazing a trail of fire down the dimpled small of Alex's back, his teeth grazing the sharp crest of hipbones that jutted temptingly above the swell of his ass. His fingers never stopped their exploration, circling the tight furl of muscle with teasing pressure, feeling it flutter and clench in response.

When he finally pressed a fingertip against that heated entrance, Alex shuddered — his body jolting forward on instinct, a flicker of resistance, of flight — but then he stilled. Breathed. And slowly, deliberately, pushed back to meet the touch, letting it in.

"Tell me if it hurts." Ricardo murmured, his voice softer now, laced with concern as he watched Alex's face, half-buried in the pillow, for any sign of pain.

Alex's lashes fluttered against flushed skin, his lips parting on a shaky breath. "It won't. Not from you." A faint, crooked smile played at his mouth despite the strain in his voice, his fingers curling hard into the sheets as though to anchor himself.

Ricardo's breath left him in a slow, controlled exhale, his fingers tightening on Alex's hip. "Where's your lube?"

"Top drawer." Alex managed, jerking his chin toward the nightstand.

Ricardo leaned over, his bare chest dragging against Alex's back, the contact electric as he opened the drawer, retrieving a small tube of lubricant. He flicked the cap open, squeezing a generous amount onto his fingers, the cool, slick liquid a stark contrast to Alex's hot skin.

He returned, settling behind Alex with a steadying breath. One hand slipped between his buttocks, spreading him open gently, revealing the tender, flushed entrance. His lubed fingers found the tight ring of muscle and began to trace slow, deliberate circles around it.

The teasing touch sent a ripple through Alex's body. His breath hitched, hips shifting toward the sensation, his cock stiffening where it pressed against the sheets, aching with anticipation.

"Relax for me." Ricardo murmured, pressing a kiss to the small of his back, before poking one finger tentatively against the sensitive entrance. 

Alex's body tensed, but he didn't pull away, a low moan escaping his lips. "Ah… Ricardo."

Ricardo kept pushing, slowly, relentlessly, until his second knuckle was buried completely in. Alex's body clenched around him, hot and impossibly tight, a choked moan tearing from his throat. "Fuck—" He gasped, his hips jerking.

"Still so tight." Ricardo breathed, frustration and awe mixing in his tone. "Are you sure about this?"

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life." Alex said with a slow grin, his voice bold and unapologetic. "The question is for you." His ass shifted deliberately, brushing back against Ricardo's straining cock, still trapped in his pajama shorts. "You think you can handle me this time, or you're gonna mess it up again, and I'll have to use my mouth once more?"

Ricardo's palm struck Alex's ass with a sharp smack, the sound echoing as flushed skin bloomed red beneath his hand. "Shut up, you cocky bastard." He huffed, voice cracking with embarrassment. "You're the one who made it a damn obstacle course."

Alex grunted — more surprise than pain — then turned his head slowly, a provoking gleam in his eyes as he smirked over his shoulder. "If you're too clumsy to find your way in," he drawled, "that's your problem… not mine."

"You are so fucking annoying." Heat flared in Ricardo's cheeks, irritation and desire tangling until his patience snapped. He pushed his finger deeper with a sudden, decisive thrust, drawing a sharp hiss from Alex's lips.

Ricardo didn't let up. He found his rhythm — slow, deliberate, unyielding — each movement coaxing and stretching Alex open. The tight ring of muscle began to relent, less rigid than it had been that morning. It still carried the faint ache from the rolling pin's assault, but pliant now beneath the slick glide of lube.

Ricardo moved with precision, his finger sinking in and curling gently, stroking the warm, velvety walls. Every subtle twist drew a tremble from Alex's body, as if Ricardo were plucking strings inside him, playing him from within.

Alex bit down on his pillow, a muffled whimper escaping him. He pushed back slightly against Ricardo's hand, a mix of protest and craving. The pain was there, a constantly burning fire, but beneath it, a delicious, agonizing fullness was beginning to build.

"Good?" Ricardo asked, his voice a husky whisper. He leaned down, his lips grazing Alex's ear, his free hand splaying across Alex's back, anchoring him.

"Fuck… yes." Alex panted, his throat rasping, his eyes squeezing shut as Ricardo added a second finger — the stretch wider now, fuller, the lube easing the way with a slick, wet glide that made Alex groan.

His hips arched higher, a guttural sound ripping from his chest as the two fingers worked their way into him, twisting and scissoring, stroking him open with sinful grace. He clawed at the bed sheets, his moans grew louder, broken, his cock grinding against the mattress, leaking heavily on the silk, every pass of the fabric against his tip a fresh torment.

"Ricardo…" He gasped, his face pressed into the pillow, muffling the sound. "I'm… I'm getting so wet for you."

Ricardo's answer was to push a third finger in, breaching him harder, deeper. Alex screamed, a sharp, choked sound, his body convulsing in a violent shiver as he stretched around the trio of fingers. Ricardo rotated them with careful cruelty, curling into a half-fist, prying him open, tearing at the resistance. Every inch burned. Every second consumed him. The sensation was overwhelming, pain melding with pleasure in a dizzying haze.

"Fuck—" Alex's voice broke, cracked wide open. His hips twitched, caught in a rhythm between retreat and submission.

"No more smart mouth?" Ricardo murmured, his tone velvet and taunting. He leaned forward, his shaft hard and pulsing against the curve of Alex's ass. "You're gonna take me right this time."

Alex turned his head, cheek smeared against the pillow, breath coming in jagged gasps. His eyes burned, dark with challenge even through the haze of lust and pain. "Then stop fucking teasing." He hissed. "Put it in."

Ricardo's smirk was slow, dangerous. "Beg." His fingers plunged deeper. "Beg me to give it to you."

Alex's laugh came fractured, half-amusement, half-defiance. "Revenge…"

Ricardo twisted his fingers, pressing hard against that spot inside him, and Alex's back bowed off the bed like he'd been electrocuted, a raw, filthy moan ripping from his throat.

"Say it." Ricardo growled.

Alex shuddered, throat raw, hips canting upward. "Fuck me. Please." He gasped. "Fuck me hard, my master. Rip my filthy hole with that gorgeous dick of yours."

He lay there, wrecked and offering, his body trembling, slick with sweat and lube. His legs spread wider, his surrender total — raw, vulnerable, ready.

Ricardo's blood roared. He bent low, brushing his lips along the shell of Alex's ear. "I'm gonna make you scream my name. I'm gonna fuck you until your voice is gone and your legs forget how to stand, you shameless slut."

And then he crooked his fingers again, his other hand sliding under Alex's belly, finding his swollen, aching cock. He began to stroke, slow and merciless, matching the rhythm of his hand inside.

Alex writhed beneath him, every nerve lit, his moans raw and rising. "Fuck, yes — make me scream." He panted, hips jerking, cock pulsing in Ricardo's grip. "Come on… show me how much you want me. Ruin me."

It wasn't just a taunt. It was a prayer.

Ricardo kissed down the curve of his hips, teeth sinking possessively into the taut flesh where he'd just spanked red — marking him with a bruise that would bloom purple by morning. His left hand worked Alex's cock with practiced strokes, smearing precum across the throbbing length, slick and hot, while his right hand twisted deep inside, claiming every shuddering inch.

Then — cruel tease — he withdrew completely, leaving Alex panting into the sheets, wide open and aching, his hole fluttering obscenely wet and empty, his body laid out like a feast for Ricardo.

The tented fabric of Ricardo's pajama shorts strained painfully against his erection, the damp spot at the front growing as precum soaked through. With a low growl, he shoved them down, kicking them aside hastily. His cock sprang free — thick, flushed red at the tip, veins standing proud along the shaft. The cool air kissed his heated skin as a pearl of moisture gathered at the slit.

He reached for the lube again. The cool gel dripped onto his fingers as he slathered it over his aching length, stroking himself with fevered urgency. His eyes, dark with raw hunger, fixed on Alex's exposed ass. "Gonna fuck you so thoroughly." He growled, his voice gaining heat, thick with promise. "You'll feel me for days."

He aligned himself against Alex, the burning head of his cock nudging the tender, lubed rim. "Ready?" He breathed, voice raw, dripping with barely-leashed hunger.

Alex buried his face in the pillow, his back arching in a perfect curve, muscles taut like a drawn bowstring. "Can't wait." He rasped, voice cracking at the edges. Beneath the lustful words, his body tightened instinctively, bracing for that primal dread — the fear of being split open again.

The initial breach was exquisite torture — the tight ring of muscle yielding millimeter by millimeter to Ricardo's relentless push, the hot clench of Alex's body fighting with a soft, wet resistance.

"Fuck—!" Alex cried out, a sharp, choked sound of pure pain. His body shook uncontrollably, his hole clamping around Ricardo's glans, the stretch a searing, blinding agony.

It was even thicker than the rolling pin, a brutal, undeniable invasion. He didn't like it. Not at all. He never liked being invaded, having things forced into him.

He was not that kind of man.

But for Ricardo, he could pretend, even learn to like it. As long as it made Ricardo happy, as long as it made him whole again. He would let Ricardo take back the power, let him reclaim what had been stolen in that church — even just a shadow of it.

His fingers clawed the silk sheets, nails biting fabric as he arched back, forcing himself to take Ricardo deeper, the slick lube easing the brutal stretch, though every inch was still a battle.

"God, you're huge." He panted, the words half-strangled. His knuckles whitened in the sheets. "Keep going, don't you fucking back off this time." 

Ricardo groaned at the tight heat, a sound of pure, animalistic pleasure, as if agreeing. His hips trembled as he sank in, inch by agonizing inch, the velvet vise of Alex's flesh sending sparks up his spine. "You feel fucking perfect." He rasped, the words punched out between panting breaths, his heart pounding in time with Alex's moans.

He gritted his teeth, pushing deeper, the intense stimulation driving him wild. When he finally bottomed out, they both stilled, trembling with the overwhelming fullness. Ricardo could feel Alex's pulse fluttering around him, the delicate inner walls quivering in adjustment. That moment of surrender — the mighty Alex Chiesa spread open and taken — sent a surge of dark possession through Ricardo's veins.

Then he moved.

The first thrust was slow, deliberate, dragging almost all the way out before pushing back in with steady pressure. The second came harder, punching a hoarse moan from Alex's throat. By the third, Ricardo found his rhythm — deep, punishing strokes that made the bed frame creak, each snap of his hips driving Alex further into the mattress.

The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, mingling with their ragged breathing. Ricardo's hands gripped Alex's groin hard enough to bruise, holding him in place as he fucked into that tight, clenching heat with single-minded intensity. Every drive forward buried him to the hilt, deepening the stretch. Each piston-like stroke was a reclamation, an exorcism of the horrors he'd endured. He fucked with a fury that was tangled with a desperate, aching desire. He wanted to break Alex, to make him feel a fraction of the helplessness he had felt. 

Alex's groans turned into wanton whimpers, his mind a haze of sensation. The pain was still there, a stinging, insistent burn, but it was now a thin edge to a vast ocean of dawning pleasure. Ricardo's cock was thick, hot, filling him completely, stretching him to his limits. Each thrust sent jolts of exquisite agony and blinding euphoria through his prostate, making his legs tremble uncontrollably. He clung to the sheets, his ass pushing back to meet each thrust, his cock leaking untouched between his thighs, the silk soaked with his arousal. He was being used, utterly and completely, and a part of him, the broken, remorseful part, reveled in the absolute submission.

"Harder, Ricardo." He moaned, his voice a hoarse plea. "Fuck me like you hate me. Make me scream." He turned his head, lips parted, eyes blazing, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple.

Ricardo's heart hammered against his ribs, his fingers digging crescent moons into the sweat-slick skin of Alex's hips. "I do hate you, you filthy, slutty bastard!" He snarled, voice cracking with venom and hunger. He leaned forward, gripping Alex's waist, chest grinding against his back, his breath a searing brand on the nape of Alex's neck.

Alex grunted as Ricardo's teeth found the curve of his shoulder, a sharp, possessive bite that was just shy of drawing blood, the sudden pain a perfect counterpoint to the coiling pleasure that was tightening in his gut. 

"Scream for me, then." Ricardo demanded, his voice a rough whisper against Alex's skin. He slammed in harder, rocking his hips with a ferocious force, each thrust faster, deeper, more aggressive than the last. His cock struck the sweet spot inside Alex that made his body convulse, a choked cry tearing from his throat.

I'm inside you, Alex — and you're loving every fucking second. You're mine. Mine to break, mine to destroy, mine to stain with my revenge.

"Fuck, yes — Ricardo!" Alex's voice broke, his moans loud and unfiltered, his body trembling as Ricardo fucked him deep, the bed groaning under their relentless rhythm. His hole clenched, hot and slick, the lube dripping down his thighs, mixing with sweat and precum. "Harder. Rougher. Fucking ruin me." He gasped, his hands scrambling for purchase, fingers tangling in the sheets.

Ricardo's cock throbbed, the tight heat of Alex's body driving him wild, his own arousal rising like a storm. "You're such a greedy whore." He panted, his voice thick with lust, a deep flush coloring his cheeks. He reached under Alex, his hand wrapping around Alex's leaking cock, stroking in time with his thrusts, the dual assault drawing a string of curses and desperate pleas from Alex's lips.

His fingers were slick, milking Alex with rough, deliberate pumps, feeling the twitch of his erection. I'm gonna make you come undone, Alex. Gonna fuck you till you're nothing but mine. He leaned down, his mouth closing over the biting mark on Alex's shoulder, sucking, his teeth grazing the skin, tasting the salt and heat.

"Ricardo…" Alex gasped, his head thrown back, his body trembling on the verge of collapse. The pain gave way to a strange, crashing pleasure, the fullness stretching him, filling him in a way that made his head spin. His prostate was being abused, his cock trapped in Ricardo's grip, leaking steadily now. Each snap of Ricardo's hips sent sparks racing up his spine, each merciless stroke sent jolts of agonizing pleasure through his nerves. He was close, so close.

"Look at you." Ricardo's free hand grabbed Alex's hair, yanking his head back to expose the long, vulnerable line of his throat. "You weren't made for this, but I've remade you." He growled in his ear, his voice rough with exertion. "Beg me. Beg me to let you come." He tightened his grip, pausing his strokes, twisting his wrist just so—

"Please... Don't stop..." Alex choked out, the word torn from him, a raw plea with desperate craving. "Fuck… Ricardo… please…"

It was all Ricardo needed. His pace quickened, relentless, his own climax building as he drove deeper into Alex's core. The friction was maddening, the sensation overwhelming, and with another brutal thrust, Alex's body seized. A strangled roar ripped from his throat as he came, his orgasm a raw, messy explosion, his cock spilling hot and thick into Ricardo's hand. Ricardo didn't stop, milking him through it, feeling the violent spasms of Alex's hole clenching around him.

The sensation pushed Ricardo over the edge, his pumps erratic as he buried himself deep. With a final, guttural sound, his own climax tore through him, his teeth sinking into the sweat-damp skin of Alex's shoulder once more. His cock pulsed frantically, flooding Alex's inside with hot cum, the release shattering through him like a breaking wave. 

"Fuck, Alex." He groaned, his voice raw, his hips stuttering as he rode out the orgasm, his hands gripping Alex's chest, holding him close. 

You're mine, and I'm never letting go.

They collapsed in a tangled heap, muscles quivering, lungs dragging in ragged breaths. Ricardo's chest rose and fell against Alex's slick back, the heat between them almost suffocating, their mingled sweat and release a sticky testament to what had just passed. For a long moment, they simply existed in the quiet aftermath, breaths gradually slowing to match each other's rhythm.

Ricardo eased out slowly, the withdrawal marked by a wet, obscene sound. A soft, broken moan escaped Alex as his hole twitched, lube and cum sliding down to the sheets. 

Ricardo's grip softened, his hands tracing the curve of Alex's sides, soothing in contrast to the earlier brutality. His lips brushed Alex's neck, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "You okay?" The question was gentle now, tinged with a concern he couldn't hide, his fingertips grazing the fresh marks he'd claimed.

Alex turned his head slightly, flushed and wrecked, amber eyes hazy under heavy lids. His lips — swollen and bitten — pulled into a crooked smirk. "Okay?" His voice was hoarse, but amusement danced through the roughness. "Sweetheart, you fucked me so good I'm not sure I can walk tomorrow."

Reaching back, he cupped Ricardo's cheek, thumb tracing the damp curve of skin. "Everything I am is yours now, Ricardo." He whispered, voice raw. "This body, this broken soul... whatever scraps of dignity remaining after all my sins. Do with them as you please."

Ricardo swallowed hard, something hot and dangerous curling in his chest. His fingers tangled in Alex's damp hair, the touch gentler than his words. "And if I grow weary of you?"

In one fluid motion, Alex turned and caught Ricardo's hand, pressing a lingering kiss to each knuckle before meeting his gaze. "Then put a bullet through my heart," he said quietly, "before you walk away."

The words hung between them, too raw, too final. Ricardo shoved him back onto the mattress with a growl. "Madman."

Alex's smile was bittersweet as he reached up to trace Ricardo's jaw. "Yes." He admitted. "But never again at your expense."

Chapter Text

Morning light spilled through the sheer curtains of the vast windows, soft and golden, painting the charcoal sheets in a haze of buttery warmth. The room, once a space of pristine order, was now a beautiful, chaotic mess. Pillows abandoned at the bed's foot, fabrics in careless heaps. The sheets were crumpled and stained, cradling two sculpted bodies locked in an intimate sprawl.

Ricardo and Alex lay entwined, their limbs a puzzle of flesh and heat. The scent of sandalwood mingled with the musky aroma of sweat, lube, and cum. The night had been a storm of untamed passion, leaving them both raw and spent.

Ricardo woke slowly, his consciousness surfacing from a deep, dreamless sleep. The first thing he noticed was the warmth.

Not the suffocating heat of summer pressing against the windows, nor the feverish burn of tangled limbs in the aftermath of release — but something softer. A slow, steady warmth, breathing, flowing, full of life. His lashes lifted into the pale gold wash of dawn, and found himself staring at the slope of Alex's bare shoulder.

Ricardo lay on his back, Alex draped half across him in a loose sprawl, one arm slung over his waist as though it had always belonged there. Their legs knotted under the covers, a hard, hot object propped against his thigh. Alex's face nestled in the crook of Ricardo's neck, his breathing deep, even, warm against Ricardo's skin, the rise and fall of his chest pressing in a quiet rhythm against Ricardo's ribs. 

His dark hair, usually so meticulously styled, was a mess of unruly waves, sticking up in sleep-mussed tufts. Without those sharp and calculated expressions, he looked younger, softer, yet utterly exhausted — his lips, swollen from kisses, were parted in a gentle pout, long lashes casting delicate shadows over the faint bruise-dark circles beneath his eyes. 

His body, usually a coiled spring of tension and authority, was completely lax in Ricardo's hold, pliant and boneless. His skin was a map of conquests — red and purple marks scattered over his shoulders, hips, and the ridges of his back, each a place Ricardo had claimed with teeth, tongue, and hands.

Ricardo's arm wrapped around his back, fingers splayed across his shoulder blades. He could still feel the soreness in his own muscles from how many times he had taken him, until they had both been too wrecked to move.

A hot rush of raw, possessive triumph shot through Ricardo. But just as quickly, a familiar chill of dread followed. He closed his eyes, the memory of another morning flooding his mind.

The morning in that stark, dim room of the church. The first dawn they'd woken up together like this — limbs tangled, skin still humming from the night before.

He'd been naive enough to believe it was real then. That their connection could somehow transcend the blood feud. That the warmth in Alex's touch, the way his lips had lingered on his throat, had meant something. He remembered the dizzying hope, the feeling of standing on the edge of a new life.

And then he remembered the cold dismissal. The guards. The church. The agonizing realization that Alex had been a predator wearing the mask of a lover, a monster who had given him a single, stolen taste of affection before handing him over to the slaughter. He had been nothing but a pawn, a toy to be used and discarded. The quiet morning had been a beautifully crafted lie, a stage set to make the betrayal even sharper.

But since yesterday morning, Ricardo had been drowning in honey again. The breakfast had been too perfect, the heat in the kitchen too intoxicating. For an entire day, he'd forgotten that other morning, forgotten the church, forgotten the reason he'd ended up here in the first place.

Only now, with desire spent and the haze of passion burned away, did clarity seep back in, cold and unwelcome. The déjà vu was unmistakable.

— This was exactly how that first morning had begun.

Had it been the same trick again? Was everything from yesterday morning until now — with the mingled sweat and tenderness, the breathless confessions, the shared pulse of pleasure — just another elaborate setup to the same inevitable betrayal? Would he wake in another hour, or another day, to find himself alone again, broken and betrayed, his hope crushed by another brutal reality?

And yet… last night was different, wasn't it? Alex had been the one who surrendered, the one marked by bruises and pain. Ricardo had been the aggressor, the one who took with rough, demanding hands. He was no longer a victim. He was a lover, a master, a vengeful god.

Or was he?

After all, Alex had offered all of this on his own initiative — and there was nothing he couldn't calculate, couldn't manipulate. The most terrifying part? It was working. Ricardo could feel himself slipping, falling for him all over again.

His stomach twisted.

He shifted slightly, testing the weight of Alex's body against his. The man let out a quiet, protesting noise — not the growl of a predator disturbed, but something almost whiny, like a child clinging to a stolen blanket.

"Don't..." He mumbled, voice thick with sleep. His fingers flexed against Ricardo's hip, gripping tighter, as if afraid he'd slip away. "Don't leave me. I'll be a good boy. I'll be good..."

Ricardo's breath caught, a reluctant tenderness unfurling in his chest.

"Alex." His voice was cautious as he gave the man's shoulder a gentle pat. The bedside clock read past nine — far too late for the meticulous mafia boss who lived by staying a step ahead. "Time to get up." He whispered.

Alex stirred, releasing a low, pained groan — a lingering echo of the night's bruising passion. His eyes cracked open, heavy-lidded and unfocused, lashes trembling as he tried to steady his gaze.

Ricardo's pulse quickened, that familiar anxiety creeping in. 

This is when it ends. This is when he remembers who we are.

But Alex only blinked lazily, like a cat in a sunbeam, then shut his eyes again, his face burrowing deeper into Ricardo's shoulder.

"Mmmph… no..." He grunted, hooking a leg over Ricardo's hip, drawing closer until their bodies fit like two pieces of a puzzle. Ricardo could feel the faint, damp heat seeping against his thigh.

"Five minutes." Alex mumbled, slurred and boyish.

Ricardo went still.

This was Alex — the ruthless, dangerous mafiaso — being soft and childish. This was the man who had been a cold, indifferent wall in the aftermath of their first night. Now he was a needy, yielding presence, his body aching, his throat sore, holding Ricardo to him like a shipwreck survivor clinging to a piece of driftwood.

"You're warm." Alex murmured, lips brushing Ricardo's collarbone, a sleepy smile curving his mouth. "Feels nice." His fingers traced slow, aimless circles on Ricardo's chest, his breath slowing as he drifted back toward sleep.

Ricardo's throat constricted. He wanted to sink into this, to let the tenderness wrap around him, to believe in the way Alex's body molded to his, the way his voice cracked with unguarded affection. But fear gnawed at him, a cold whisper telling him that this was another Fata Morgana, a mirage ready to dissolve at the slightest shift.

Is he playing me again?

Will this shatter, like last time, and leave me bleeding all over the debris?

Since yesterday's breakfast, the warmth in the kitchen, and the dizzying closeness of the night, everything had felt too good, too sudden. Unreal.

Carefully, he lifted a hand, brushing a stray lock of hair from Alex's forehead. The man sighed, leaning into the touch, lashes fluttering but not opening. The face was still beautiful even with exhaustion softening its lines, still dangerous in how much it could draw him in. His fingers traced the fine curve of Alex's cheekbone, the faint scratch of stubble along his jaw. He looked vulnerable like this. Human.

But wasn't that the most dangerous illusion of all?

Because Alex wasn't just a man. He was a storm — relentless, unpredictable. And storms never stayed gentle forever.

Ricardo's chest tightened.

Maybe they should stay this way. Maybe he should never let the storm wake.

But Alex finally blinked awake, eyes clearer this time. For a heartbeat, he just stared, amber pools slowly focusing on Ricardo's face. Then, a lazy, lopsided smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"My ass hurts." He murmured in a small, petulant voice, his gaze almost pitiful. "Five times, Ricardo. Did you really need to prove your point that many times in one night?"

The bluntness hit Ricardo like a shove. He almost laughed at the absurdity of it. At the same time, tenderness rose hot and uninvited, colliding with the lingering bitterness in his chest.

He leaned in until his breath brushed Alex's cheek. "Good." He whispered against his skin. "Means my point landed well."

A soft chuckle escaped Alex, breaking into a wince halfway. "You're a monster, Ricardo."

"You made me one." Ricardo said, his fingers tracing the length of Alex's spine, feeling the subtle quiver that ran through him.

Alex's hand drifted lower, brushing the faint hair of Ricardo's belly. "Worth it, though, you greedy bastard." He purred, his voice regaining a sliver of its usual brazenness. "Every agonizing, beautiful inch. But I think my ass is going to mutiny by noon."

He stretched languidly, hips rolling in a slow, sensual arc until the sore curve of his ass pressed against Ricardo's already stirring cock. "Don't I get a good morning kiss as a consolation?" He added with mock-innocence, lips in a slight pout.

God.

Ricardo's mind reeled. The formidable Alex Chiesa, reduced to a sore, clinging, sex-drunk kitten. The contrast was breathtaking.

He still remembered the first day after his capture. He had been bound, stripped, his own body betraying him with unwanted arousal, his spirit clinging to defiance as Alex tortured him like a predator savoring the fear of his prey. He remembered Alex's cold taunts, his detached cruelty, the chilling precision with which he had prepared him for violation. He remembered the icy terror that had gripped him, the profound sense of being utterly helpless, a plaything in Alex's merciless hands.

Now the roles were reversed. Alex was vulnerable, his body warm and pliant against Ricardo, his breath soft, his pleas tinged with childish dependency. Ricardo was the one unbound, the one in control, his cock hardening against Alex's hip, a triumphant throb. The sensation was intoxicating, a sweet, dark inversion of their history. He could almost see himself pinning Alex again, taking him for a sixth time before the day had even started.

Almost.

But the warning voice swirled in his mind like smoke: 

Don't believe it. It's too perfect. Too easy. Too much like that other life — a phantom city in the air, beautiful from a distance, but destined to dissolve upon approach, leaving you to plummet into abyss.

Alex's fingers stilled against Ricardo's skin, sensing the sudden tension in his body. "Ricardo?" His voice was sleep-rough, but alert. "What is it, my little monster?"

Ricardo's jaw tightened. "Nothing."

"Liar." The word carried no teeth, only a drowsy fondness. Alex tilted his head, amber eyes still hazy from exhaustion. "Tell me."

Nothing. Everything. Words jammed in Ricardo's throat.

"Just thinking about... the explosion." He said instead. "The solar plant, the insurance claims—"

"Bullshit." Alex's tone was quiet, but it cut clean. He pushed up on one elbow, wincing at the pull in his side, yet his gaze was sharp now. "Try again."

The irony wasn't lost on Ricardo — Alex demanding honesty while he instinctively reached for lies. It should have been the other way around. Alex was the one who'd built an empire on deception, who'd turned manipulation into an art.

But looking at him now — hair mussed, skin flushed, eyes open and innocent in a way Ricardo had never seen before — it was impossible to reconcile this person with that monster.

"I keep waiting for you to change back." Ricardo finally admitted, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Alex went very still. "Change back into what?"

"Into him. The man who—" Ricardo's throat tightened. "The man from before."

"Before what?"

"Before all of this." Ricardo gestured vaguely between them — the bed, the mess, the closeness. "Before last night, before the kitchen, before… I keep thinking I'll wake up and you'll be looking at me again like I'm just a toy, a tool, a problem to solve—"

"Ricardo—" Alex moved over him, caging him gently between his arms. His breath ghosted across Ricardo's lips. "Look at me."

Ricardo met his eyes. In it, he saw his own fear mirrored back, tangled with the dark history between them, unspoken and heavy. Alex's hand rose, thumb tracing the line of Ricardo's cheekbone, so tender it hurt.

"That morning," Alex said quietly, "when you woke up in my arms… before the church. Do you know what I was thinking?"

Ricardo's breath caught. He slowly shook his head.

"I was thinking I could get used to it. Having you there. Seeing you first thing in the morning. Every day." Alex drew a slow breath. "Terrified the hell out of me. I'd spent so long seeing you as Salvatore's son, as the enemy, as this thing I had to control and destroy. And then you just... you just stole my heart. Tore my composure into shreds. You made me lose control. Completely."

Ricardo's pulse jumped. "So you decided to break me instead."

"I decided to break myself — the softer part." Alex's voice thinned, raw at the edges. "Because wanting you that much, caring about you that much… It was the most vulnerable thing I've ever felt. And vulnerability—"

"—is weakness." Ricardo finished for him, his mouth twisting into a bitter smile. His father's gospel, echoed in Alex's confession.

Alex shook his head. "Not anymore."

"Why?" Ricardo challenged with a hint of sarcasm. "What's different now?"

Alex was quiet for a long moment, his thumb still tracing slow, absent patterns on Ricardo's face as though mapping something only he could see. His gaze lingered on their joined skin before lifting, and when he finally spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper.

"My softer self survived… because you carried it for me."

He leaned in until their foreheads almost touched, the warmth of his breath mingling with Ricardo's. "You've always had a soft heart, Ricardo. You care, even when it costs you everything. But you were never weak. Everyone else was wrong about you. You're the strongest man I've ever known." 

His hand slid down to cup Ricardo's jaw, as if to anchor himself. "You made me see my own weakness. You saw through me — I was a coward. Afraid to love. Afraid to risk. But now… now I'm trying. Trying to be strong. Trying to make it all up to you."

Something tight in Ricardo's chest loosened just enough to sting, but the fear clung stubbornly. Trust was a luxury he had long since learned not to afford. His voice came out low, cautious.

"How do I know this is real?" His eyes searched Alex's. "How do I know you won't wake up tomorrow and decide this was all a mistake?"

Alex flinched as if struck. For a heartbeat, the only sound was their mingled breathing. Then slowly, deliberately, Alex ran his fingers up, brushing into Ricardo's hair, holding him as if afraid he'd disappear. 

"I know I don't deserve your trust." He murmured into the strands. "I know I have to earn it back — every second of every day for the rest of whatever life we have left. But this, Ricardo…" he pulled back just enough so Ricardo could see the unwavering, almost fevered gleam in his eyes, "…this is real."

His voice dropped, thick with urgency. "Every drop of blood in me is yours to claim." He grabbed Ricardo's hand, pressing it flat over the frantic beat of his heart. "I am yours, Ricardo. In any way you want me. As your lover, your weapon, your shield… or your whore. Whatever you demand, I'll give. I swear to you, Ricardo — I'd burn before I hurt you again."

A tremor caught in his throat before he could stop it. "And I'm afraid, too." He admitted, his voice breaking. "Afraid you'll wake up one day and realize you hate me more than you want me. Afraid there's nothing I can do to stop it."

They stared at each other, two fractured men acknowledging the fragility of whatever this was between them. It should have been terrifying — this mutual vulnerability, this admission that neither of them had guarantees.

Instead, it felt like the first honest thing either of them had said in months.

Alex cradled the back of Ricardo's neck, drawing him close enough to press a soft, almost reverent kiss to his forehead. "But maybe," he whispered, "we could try trusting each other anyway. Just for today. One sunrise where we pretend we're not damned."

Ricardo closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of Alex's lips against his skin. He could hear the distant sounds of the estate waking up beyond their walls — guards changing shifts, staff beginning their daily routines, the machinery of their dangerous world grinding forward.

Every sound was a reminder: Salvatore. Enemies. The predators waiting in the shadows. The darkness that permeated their very existence. All of it pressed like a phantom hand to Ricardo's throat.

This fragile bubble of peace, this unexpected tenderness, felt utterly surreal, too precious to be real. It was a dream, beautiful and brittle, that could splinter at any moment, leaving him even more broken than before.

The only question is: how? Would it be shattered by the threats outside their door, or by the inescapable history coiled between their ribs?

Ricardo opened his eyes and blinked slowly, the hesitation heavy in his movement. Then, with the care of someone reaching for something that might vanish at the slightest disturbance, he lifted a hand and brushed away a tear trembling at the corner of Alex's eye.

"Just for today." He echoed softly.

And every day after.  

He added silently, feeling the ache bloom in his chest with the terrible, desperate hope that — this time — it might be true.

Chapter Text

The late summer morning bathed the villa's patio in a golden haze, the sun already climbing high. The air was crisp with the scent of blooming oleander and the sweetness of freshly baked croissants. The cast-iron table sat beneath a trellis draped with ivy, its shadows dappled across the white porcelain plates and a crystal bowl of grapes, their skins gleaming like amethyst in the sunlight. Cicadas sang lazily from the olive trees beyond the patio, their rhythm like a slow heartbeat.

Alex emerged from the kitchen with a cup of espresso, moving with the stiffness of someone whose body had been thoroughly and exquisitely used. His tailored black shirt clung to his broad shoulders, the fabric taut against the faint sheen of sweat on his skin. His thighs trembled slightly with each step, jaw tightening as he lowered himself into the chair with a barely suppressed wince. The moment his ass made contact with the unforgiving metal seat, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth. His knuckles went white where they gripped the chair's armrests.

Ricardo, already seated across from him, took a sip of his cappuccino and allowed himself a faint teasing smirk. "Hurts that much, capo?" He drawled, his mock concern dripping with delicious amusement. His blue eyes glinted with mischief, catching the sunlight like polished sapphires.

Alex shot him a look — half glare, half coquet — before plucking a grape from the bowl. His fingers, usually so precise, fumbled slightly as he reached across the table to offer it. 

"Here." He murmured, his thumb rubbing the smooth skin of the purple orb. "Shut up and eat."

Ricardo's smirk didn't falter. He leaned forward, holding Alex's gaze, and caught the grape between his teeth, his lips brushing against Alex's fingers with a soft, warm touch. 

But he didn't pull back to chew. Instead, he stood slowly, his movements fluid and predatory. Alex's breath caught as he rounded the small table, the grape still held between his teeth like an offering.

"Ricardo..." Alex's voice was barely a whisper, part warning, part invitation.

Instead of sitting in a nearby chair, Ricardo pulled the table back and lowered himself directly onto Alex's lap, his knees bracketing Alex's thighs. 

Alex let out a sharp gasp, a mix of pain and surprise, his hands instinctively gripping Ricardo's hips. The sudden pressure against his tender ass made him arch forward. "Fuck—you're cruel." He breathed, but his pupils were already dilating, dark with want.

Ricardo ignored him, leaning in so close that their nose almost touched. Slowly, teasingly, he used his tongue to push the grape forward until it pressed against Alex's lips.

Alex's eyes fluttered closed as he opened his mouth, accepting the fruit. Their lips barely brushed as the grape passed between them, but it was enough to send electricity shooting down both their spines. Alex's teeth sank into the grape, splitting it, the sweet-tart juice spilling over their tongues.

He swallowed his half with a soft groan, then chased the taste with his lips, allowing Ricardo to invade him with the lingering heat of the night before.

The kiss was hot, hungry. Ricardo's tongue plunging into Alex's mouth, tangling with his, demanding, taking. Alex moaned again into the kiss, his hips jerking as the pressure on his sore ass, the warmth of Ricardo's body, intensified the ache, turning it into an agonizing pleasure. He tightened his grip on Ricardo's hips, losing himself in the taste and feel of him.

"Mmm..." Alex whimpered as Ricardo pulled back slightly, breath ragged. "You... you little fiend. That hurts like hell." His voice was breathless, but his eyes were wide and burning with raw lust.

"But you love it." Ricardo purred, his fingers digging possessively into Alex's hair. He was the one in control now. This was a new world, a new Alex, remade and utterly his. "And you'll remember it."

Just as Ricardo leaned in for another hungry kiss, a polite cough shattered the intimate bubble.

They jerked apart, both breathing hard, grape juice still glistening on their lips.

A guard stood awkwardly at the edge of the patio, shifting his weight. "Eh… Boss." He stammered, eyes flicking away as if unsure where to look. "Ramon's here. He's bringing the mercenaries."

The words struck Ricardo like a fist to the gut. He went rigid, frozen mid-breath.

Ramon.

The name itself was a blade. And mercenaries — sharp, merciless — dragged him back in an instant. The déjà vu surged like a black tide, monstrous and unrelenting, sweeping him under. The church. The pain. The humiliation. That endless, airless terror.

Alex saw it happen — saw the light leave Ricardo's eyes. The warmth bled out of his skin, leaving him cold, ashen. His hand, still tangled in Alex's hair, curled into a trembling fist. His body locked. His heart hammered so violently Alex felt it through the thin press of their closeness.

"Ricardo?" Alex's voice broke, sharper than he intended.

But Ricardo wasn't here anymore. He was drowning. His breath fractured, shallow, ragged. The sweetness of grape and kiss twisted on his tongue into bitterness, his throat working against bile. His world shrank to panic, and Alex felt the violent shudder tear through him, uncontrolled, radiating outward as if terror itself were burning in his blood.

"No… not again…" The words slipped out in a rasp, broken and breathless, barely more than air.

Alex's chest tightened, harder than any wound he had taken. He had sworn — sworn to himself — that he would never let Ricardo fall back into that darkness. Not again. Not because of him.

"Ricardo—" His voice dropped, urgent, pleading now. He caught Ricardo's arms, gripping tight, willing him to feel the anchor of his touch. Then, with a steel edge that brooked no delay, he snapped at the guard: "Leave us. Tell him to wait."

The guard hesitated only for a fraction before bowing his head and retreating, leaving them alone again.

"Ricardo, look at me." Alex's voice came low but firmer now. His hand slid up to cup Ricardo's jaw, tilting his face upward until their eyes locked. "You're here. With me. No one will touch you. You're safe."

His thumb stroked Ricardo's cheek, a steady, reassuring touch, but the younger man's body still shook, his blue eyes wide and unseeing, glazed with panic.

Then — like a storm breaking — the panic curdled into wary distrust, then sharpened into fury. With a sudden jerk, Ricardo shoved himself off Alex's lap, the iron chair legs screeching against the patio stones. He stumbled backward, chest heaving,  as if Alex's touch had burned him. 

"Liar!" His voice cracked like glass. "You're doing it again!"

Alex's chest constricted. "It's not what you think—"

"Then why is he here?" Ricardo's voice climbed, edged with hysteria. "Why the mercenaries?"

"They are..." Alex tried to rise, but his legs buckled with pain and weakness, and he collapsed back into the chair with a hiss. Jaw tight, he gripped the armrests for support, and forced himself upright on the second attempt. "They're reinforcements. For security. To protect us." He took a halting step forward, his voice rough and earnest. "Ricardo, please. Trust me. You'll be fine."

Ricardo didn't answer. He just stood frozen, palms damp, trembling, every muscle taut with the instinct to run and hide.

In a sudden, desperate motion, Alex lunged and caught his shoulders, pulling him close, holding on tight. "Listen to me." He whispered, his forehead almost touching Ricardo's. "I am not handing you over to anyone. Not this time. You're with me, and I'll protect you. Ramon is nothing. You hear me? Nothing."

Little by little, the rigid terror in Ricardo's shoulders began to melt under his hands. His breath evened out from ragged gasps to shallow, shaky pulls of air. He blinked, his gaze slowly moved to Alex's face as if seeing him for the first time, though his eyes still carried that distant glaze — half caught between nightmare and waking. 

For a moment, he didn't know which world he stood in. Both felt unreal.

Then Alex spoke again, his voice softening into a plea. "Can you wait for me here? I'll deal with this and come back to you soon."

"No!" The panic surged back, instant, visceral. Ricardo's fists clutched at Alex's shirt like a lifeline. "Don't leave me alone. Don't leave me to them—"

"You'll be fine, Ricardo." Alex's hand smoothed over his back in slow circles, steadying him. "Nothing will happen to you. Stay here, finish your breakfast, walk in the garden if you want. And I'll be back before you know it."

But Ricardo's grip only tightened, his forehead dropping to rest against Alex's collarbone. "Don't go… I just… I'm so scared. I can't control it." The admission was a trembling whisper torn from his throat.

"I know… I know… I'm sorry." Alex murmured, his lips pressing against Ricardo's forehead. "I'll stay. Just breathe. Breathe with me." 

And slowly, Ricardo did. Alex guided him carefully back to the table, ignoring the ache in his own body as he sat beside him, their knees touching. He watched as Ricardo mechanically picked up his cappuccino, his hands still shaking so badly the porcelain cup chattered against the saucer. Alex reached over, stilling his hands with his own, and helped him lift the cup to his lips. He buttered a piece of croissant and held it out, and Ricardo ate from his fingers, his eyes never leaving Alex's face, as if he were the only solid thing in a dissolving world.

The silence stretched, filled only by the chirping of birds and the distant hum of the estate. The rage and fear slowly receded from Ricardo's eyes, leaving behind a deep, unsettling calm. 

Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet but clear, cutting through the morning air. "Call him here."

Alex paused, a grape halfway to his own mouth. "What?"

"Ramon. Summon him to this patio. I want to see him."

Alex frowned. "Ricardo…" His voice was cautious, laced with concern. "You just… are you sure that's wise? You were just—"

"What?" Ricardo cut in, his tone shifting, gaining a sharp, cold edge. "You want me to scurry away like a rat from a cat? Am I supposed to cower while he walks free?" He looked at Alex, his voice shaking but resolute. "Shouldn't it be the other way around?"

The accusation hung in the air. Alex felt it land like a blow. "I... I just don't want him to upset you." He studied Ricardo, uncertain. "And if you see him… what do you want?"

Ricardo leaned forward, his voice flat, absolute. "I want you to punish him. For me."

Alex went utterly still. The world seemed to narrow to the cold resolve in Ricardo's blue eyes. "Ricardo…" The name was a breath, a plea.

"You said you'd do anything for me." Ricardo pressed, his voice breaking with anger and grief. "You want me to trust you, don't you? Then prove it. Take my side. Make him pay."

"No, Ricardo... The blame is mine." The words burst from Alex, raw and anguished. "My orders! My sin! He was just a weapon in my hand. If you want revenge, take it from me. Any punishment you want, Ricardo, I'll take it. I'll welcome it. But do not ask me to punish a loyal man for my own mistake."

Ricardo let out a strangled laugh, a bitter, cutting sound. "Loyal? Don't make me laugh. He didn't just follow orders!" His voice cracked, rising and burning. "In that church, he reveled in it. He enjoyed breaking me! You told him to stop — I heard you, Alex, I knew — but he ignored you. And on that Island, he almost killed me! He was going to drown me because he wanted to, not because you told him to. He is a sadist, and you know it. Don't you dare tell me he's innocent!"

Alex drew a long, broken breath, dragging a hand over his face, the weight of the truth pressing down on him. "Well… what," he asked, his voice hollow, "what do you want me to do?"

Ricardo's expression darkened, not with cruelty but with the ache of someone desperate for his suffering to mean something.

"Castrate him." His voice dropped to a venomous whisper.

The air left Alex's lungs. He stared, disbelief and horror dawning on his face. "You… you can't be serious."

"I'm not asking you to kill him. I'm asking you to make him remember what he's done to me, and to make sure he can never do it again." The demand was grotesque, but Ricardo's voice was terrifyingly calm, as if he were asking for a second cup of coffee. "I just want to feel safe being with you, since you're keeping him around."

Alex shook his head slowly, agony twisting in his chest, his own hands beginning to tremble. "No. I can't. Not like that."

Ricardo surged to his feet, fury erupting anew. "You promised me ANYTHING. You begged me to trust you for one day. And before the sun has even reached its peak, you're breaking it. Was that just another lie? Or does your 'anything' have limits when it comes to the very man who ruined me for you?"

"Then do it to me." The words tore from Alex, desperate and reckless, his voice shaking. "If you have to punish someone… do it to me. Not him. I'll take it."

Ricardo stilled, his eyes narrowing as if the air itself had frozen around him. For a long moment he didn't speak, only studied Alex with a silence that was more brutal than any reply. Then, slowly, he tilted his head, a hollow, dry laugh scraped out of his throat.

"You'd offer yourself to me like that?" He murmured, each syllable dragging with disbelief and something darker. His shoulders shifted, a restless tension running through him, as though restraining an impulse. The flicker in his gaze deepened, unreadable — mockery or menace, Alex couldn't tell.

Finally, Ricardo curved his mouth, his smile sharp and empty. "Fine." He said, the word like a blade turning. "That's the deal."

He moved closer, slow and deliberate, until Alex could feel the heat of his body. His hand rose, fingertips brushing along Alex's jaw with a lover's tenderness, forcing his chin upward. His gaze smoldered, dark with a hunger that was both desperate and carnal. He bent down, his breath tickling Alex's temple.

"Wait for me tonight, then." He whispered, the words sliding into Alex's ear like a velvet promise. His eyes darted down — bold and ominous — toward Alex's crotch. "And pray I only take what you offered. Because I could take more. Much more."

He turned away abruptly, each step a steady drumbeat of doom against the stone floor.

Alex's blood ran cold. His lips parted, but no words came. The ghost of Ricardo's touch burned like fire on his skin.

"Ricardo…" He managed at last, his voice shredded.

But Ricardo didn't look back. He kept walking, leaving Alex amid the wreckage of the breakfast table, body throbbing with pain, heart knotted in dread. The golden morning light mocked him — no longer a promise of peace but another prelude to an execution.

Only this time, the blade was meant for Alex himself.

The villa's main courtyard buzzed with the sound of boots, the metallic click of rifles being checked, the guttural hum of men speaking in half a dozen accents. Sunlight flashed across gunmetal as the mercenaries moved in practiced formation, two hundred of them — hard-eyed, scarred, clad in tactical vests and camo, their presence turning Alex's villa into a fortress.

Alex descended the stone steps slowly, his face an impassive mask behind dark sunglasses. His movements were precise, controlled, betraying no hint of the raw, aching tenderness between his thighs. He was the picture of a formidable mafia boss, powerful and unyielding. But beneath that composure, a cold dread coiled in his gut, a constant, gnawing reminder of Ricardo's chilling parting words:

"Wait for me tonight... and pray I only take what you offered."

The memory of those blue eyes, threatening and hungry as they'd lingered on his crotch, made his blood turn to icy water. Had it been a bluff, a cruel taunt to keep him on edge, or had Ricardo meant every silken word of that velvet threat? The terrifying truth was that Alex couldn't tell. Ricardo's face had been a mask of beautiful, terrible resolve — and Alex had seen that look before, in moments when Ricardo had surprised him with his rock-hard determination.

Christ, what have I got myself into?

The thought of it — of Ricardo's warm hands, of a cold blade — made his groin tighten with a sickening mix of fear and arousal. He forced the thought down, clamping a lid on it with practiced control. He had a role to play now.

Ramon, blunt and confident as usual, strode to his side, speaking in the casual tone of someone who considered himself indispensable. "Look at this, Boss! A real army, eh? Nobody will get within a kilometer of this place now!"

Alex only nodded, jaw set, his gaze flicking briefly toward Ramon before turning back to the soldiers. There was agitation stirring in him — resentment, something sharp and restless — but Ramon didn't see it, or perhaps didn't care to.

He introduced Alex to the leader, a tall, burly man with a clean-shaven head and eyes like chips of granite. "Boss, this is Captain Mason." Ramon said, a note of respect in his voice. "Top of his class."

Mason stepped forward and offered a mechanical, neutral salute, his English crisp but tinged with a Northeastern American accent. "Mr. Chiesa. General Carter sends his regards. He's very pleased with the last shipment. Said it was some of the best kit he's seen in years."

Alex forced himself to focus, to be the man he was supposed to be. He offered his hand, masking the stiffness in his movements. Mason's grip was firm, professional, not deferential — these weren't men who bowed easily.

"I'm glad to hear it, Captain Mason." Alex replied smoothly, though he felt the dryness in his throat. "And tell your boss there will be more. Not just rifles. Precision weapons. Higher caliber. Armor-piercing rounds. Whatever you need. He won't regret keeping this channel open."

Mason gave a quick, appreciative smile. "That is excellent news. As a token of his appreciation and his desire for a continued partnership, we are yours to command for the duration of this... localized conflict." He swept a hand toward the assembled mercenaries. "Two hundred men, highly experienced. We will handle all outer perimeter security. A full tactical net. Drones, motion sensors, patrols. No one approaches unseen. Your own men can focus on inner security, close protection details."

"That's... very generous of General Carter." Alex said, his voice distant. He was already mentally retreating, the tactical discussion feeling trivial against the specter of the night to come. "Coordinate with my security chief, Sergio. He has the layouts and rotation schedules."

"Understood, Mr. Chiesa." Mason replied with a sharp nod. His gaze strayed for a moment toward the blackened slope with the relic of the solar plant — a reason for this arrangement. "With our detail on the perimeter, your property and your men will be fully covered."

Alex gave the faintest of nods, his expression unreadable. "Good. I'll hold you to that."

As Mason barked orders and the mercenaries moved to their assigned positions, melting into the landscape with ghost-like efficiency, Alex glimpsed Ramon beside him, who now puffed his chest as though the arrangement were his triumph. The sight only stirred Alex's unease further. He wanted to snap, to cut Ramon down with words — but his mind was elsewhere, dragged back again and again to Ricardo.

And tonight, because of this bastard, Ricardo might...

Alex forced the thought away, but his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

The courtyard gradually emptied, until only the drone of cicadas filled the air. Alex walked with Ramon toward a secluded corner, behind a stone fountain where running water would shroud their conversation from unwanted ears.

Alex removed his sunglasses with a deliberate motion, pinching the bridge of his nose as though the gesture itself hurt. Ramon's gaze caught on the bruised shadows beneath his eyes.

"You look like hell." Ramon remarked with a crooked grin, half-teasing. "That pretty boy wearing you down already?"

The joke struck like a slap. Alex's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing with an intensity that made Ramon instinctively take a half step back.

"None of your business." Alex bit out, voice tight, dangerous.

Ramon shrugged in a mock show of surrender, a thin, awkward smile tugging at his lips. "Alright, alright. Then back to my business." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial murmur. "It's done. The guard's inside. Our man's already transferred to the prison. He's blending in, waiting. Salvatore's got his own private cell, high security, but…" His eyes gleamed faintly with pride. "Our man is experienced — three clean kills under similar circumstances. He's identified the weak seams in their routine. Give him a week, maybe two, and it's over. Quick, clean, untraceable. Salvatore will simply cease to exist."

Alex's stomach twisted, the dread now a cold, heavy stone.

The plan was solid. He had calculated it carefully, taking advantage of the door opened by Ricardo himself. But that was before the vow. The thought of Salvatore's death, once burned as a righteous goal, now felt like a betrayal of the fragile trust he was struggling to piece back together with Ricardo — even if it demanded more of him than he thought he could bear.

"Hold off." Alex said at last, his voice firm but strained.

Ramon blinked. "What?"

"No action." Alex repeated, his tone harder. "No kill without my direct order. Salvatore lives until I say otherwise. Is that clear?"

Ramon's triumphant expression instantly faltered, his brow furrowed in utter confusion. "What? Alex, we've been planning this for weeks. It's a rare shot here. You know how slippery that bastard is. If we wait, security will tighten, routines will change, he may even get himself transferred—"

"I don't want to kill him." Alex cut in. Flat, final.

Silence followed like a taut wire. The color drained from Ramon's face, then rushed back in a wave of angry red. Understanding — or a bitter, twisted version of it — dawned on his face. His features darkened with a scornful disbelief.

"It's because of that Garavani brat, isn't it?" He spat, the words a mix of revelation and disgust. "I knew it! You're being played, Alex! His whole performance in court… it was an act! He flipped on his own blood just to get in your head, to worm his way into your bed, and now you're sparing his daddy? Salvatore's lounging in a private cell, serving a cushy three-year sentence like it's a fucking vacation, and you're letting it slide because of that little devil?"

Alex felt something cold and deadly unfurl in his chest. "Careful, Ramon. You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" Ramon took a step closer, his voice dropping into a harsh, accusing whisper. "Look at you! You've gone soft. He's made you less of a man. You walk around like a lovesick puppy, exhausted from a night with him, while the real enemy sits comfortably, protected by your weakness!"

The words cut deep, striking directly at the heart of Alex's own fears. A hot flush of shame and anger tore through him. "Shut your mouth."

But Ramon was beyond stopping, years of grief and a sense of betrayal boiling over. "Have you forgotten, Alex? Have you forgotten what Salvatore did? He didn't just kill your father. He slaughtered my son! My Leo! He tortured him for three days. Three days, Alex! He gutted him like a fish, cut him into pieces, and left him in a ditch for the dogs."

His voice cracked at the edges, raw anguish eclipsing his anger for a moment. "You and Leo grew up together. You were like brothers! HE is the one you should care about, the one you should avenge for! Not the murderer's spoiled, manipulative son!"

The memory stabbed Alex like a knife to the heart — Leo's smiles, his eager face as he'd begged to come on training, the way he'd looked up to Alex like a role model. The funeral with a closed casket because there hadn't been enough left for an open one.

"And it wasn't just Leo." Ramon continued, his eyes glistening with unshed tears of rage. "Your uncle Franco and his whole family. Your cousin Roberto. Your aunt Maria... Salvatore butchered them all, and you want to let him live because you're besotted with his son?" 

He jabbed a finger toward the villa, shouting now. "You have no right, Alex. No right to stop us from getting justice for all of them, just to please your pretty little whore!"

The last word detonated in Alex's chest. His hand lashed out before he could stop it, the crack of palm against flesh echoing across the courtyard. Ramon staggered, clutching his reddened cheek, shock and pain etched into his scarred face.

Alex's breath came heavy, his own hand burning. Everything inside him tore in opposite directions, pulling him apart — the dread for the night ahead, the fierce, twisted love that chained him to Ricardo, the shame, the guilt, the fear — all collided into a white-hot rage toward the man who had dared to voice this agony he buried deep inside.

He stepped into Ramon's space, his voice a low, deadly whisper that trembled with barely contained violence. "You will never speak of him that way again. Not a word. Not a thought. If you do…" His eyes blazed, each syllable a blade. "I'll make you pay in ways you can't even imagine."

For a heartbeat, neither man moved. The fountain's gentle splash seemed unnaturally loud in the sudden silence.

Then, Ramon lowered his hand slowly, his bloodshot eyes full of disbelief, and something that might have been fear. In all their years — through wars, blood, and the darkest moments of their shared history — Alex had never struck him. Never looked at him with such cold, lethal intent. The only time anything close to this moment had ever happened was on the beach at Castello Island – and Alex did it for the same guy.

"You're choosing him over us. Over your father. Over Leo. Over your own clan." Ramon rasped, voice hoarse with hurt. "Alex... what has he done to you?"

Alex's chest heaved, his pulse hammering in his throat. Ramon's accusation pierced deep, stirring memories of Leo's mangled corpse, of the blood feud that had defined their lives, and the weight of loyalty carved into their veins. But then came Ricardo — his defiance, his will to rise from the ashes, his desperate pursuit not of vengeance, but true justice. Alex couldn't let him slip away. Not again.

"You don't understand." Alex said, his voice taut, Ricardo's gaze flashing through his mind. "I'm not giving up justice. I'm trying to find a better way."

Ramon's scoff stung like shattered glass. "Better? Tell that to Leo's ghost." He spun on his heel, boots scraping against the cobblestones as he stalked away, leaving the words hanging like smoke.

Alex remained frozen by the fountain, sunlight blazing off the water like flames. The weight of every choice pressed down, cutting deep into his bones.

Tonight.

The phantom echo of Ricardo's whisper slithered in again, dread tightening his gut. He felt the ground shift beneath him — his entire world starting to fall apart.

On the balcony above, Ricardo leaned against the railing, whiskey glass glinting like molten amber, his silhouette watching everything below. Silent. Unreadable. A ghost in the flesh.

And Alex did not look up.

Chapter Text

The night was a shroud of deep indigo, heavy and silent, broken only by the frantic rhythm of Alex's own heart. He paced restlessly by the grand windows of his bedroom, a caged panther in silk pajamas. Each step was a battle against the aching tenderness between his thighs, a lingering reminder of Ricardo's relentless claiming the night before.

The room was dimly lit by a single bronze floor lamp, the cool moonlight painting silver streaks across the polished floor, but Alex felt only a cold sweat on the back of his neck. His fingers trembled as he ran them through his already disheveled hair, his eyes darting anxiously towards the door. Every minute that ticked by was an agony of anticipation. 

Will he come? Will he really do it?

The soft click of the door opening froze him mid-pace. 

He turned, breath catching, and there he was. Ricardo.

The younger man stood in the doorway, backlit by the yellow hall light, his form a silhouette of the avenging angel — beautiful, cold, and terrifying. He was dressed in a simple purple silk robe, tied loosely at the waist. In his arms, he carried a bundle wrapped in white towels, coils of thick nylon rope, and a heavy, sleek steel box that gleamed with a sinister, clinical light under the lamp's glow. His blue eyes, usually so bright, were dark pools of intent, fixed on Alex.

The sight made the air leave Alex's lungs in a silent rush.

"You came." Alex's voice was a hoarse whisper, the words scraping against his dry throat. He wanted to fall to his knees, to plead, to take it all back. A last, fragile thread of hope, that this was merely an elaborate, cruel jest, still clung to his mind. 

Ricardo stepped inside, pushing the door shut with his heel. The sound was final. 

"You asked me to." He placed the items on a low chaise lounge with a deliberate thud. He straightened up, his gaze sweeping over Alex's trembling form. A ghost of a chilling smile touched his lips. "You begged."

The words landed like a blade cutting through skin. Alex's heart, which had been hammering against his ribs, seemed to plummet into his stomach. He could see it in the set of Ricardo's jaw, the devastating purpose in his posture — he wasn't joking.

"Ricardo…" Alex whispered the name, his voice cracking, his eyes wide and pleading. He took a half-step forward, a silent supplicant.

Ricardo didn't answer. His expression remained an impassive mask. He brushed past Alex without a glance, crossing to the windows. With a swift tug, the heavy curtains fell shut, drowning the room in obscuration. Then — click, click — the lamps flared to life one by one.

Alex winced, his vision burning. The brilliance was harsh, sterile, almost surgical. It wasn't a bedroom anymore. It was an operating theater. And he would be the "patient" laid bare.

"Take off your clothes." Ricardo's command was quiet, flat, devoid of anger or passion. It was simply an instruction, and that made it all the more terrifying. "All of them."

"Ricardo..." Alex's breath stuttered, his words rasping out broken. "Do we... do we really have to do this?"

Ricardo's gaze didn't flicker. He didn't blink.

"Strip." The single word fell like a verdict. Then, colder, sharper, ripping through Alex's last vestiges of denial: "Now."

Alex's insides screamed. Every instinct shrieked at him to run, to fight, to refuse. But his love for this man, his bottomless guilt, and the dark, twisted part of himself that craved this absolution held him rooted. 

His hands, shaking, went to the buttons of his pajamas. His eyes never left Ricardo's as he fumbled them open, letting the dark silk slither down his arms to pool on the floor. The cool air kissed the bruises and bite marks Ricardo had left across his chest. His fingers then hooked into the waistband of his bottoms, slowly and reluctantly pushing them and his briefs down his hips. He stepped out of the puddle of fabric, standing completely naked in the glaring light. The vulnerability was a physical pain, a cold flush of shame that spread from his chest down to his trembling thighs.

Ricardo's gaze raked over him, clinical and assessing, lingering for a heartbeat on Alex's already half-hard cock — a humiliating, involuntary response to the sheer intensity. Without a word, he unfolded a large waterproof pad, its crinkling plastic rustling loudly in the tense silence. He spread it across the charcoal bed sheets, smoothing it with meticulous care. A thick, white towel followed, laid precisely in the center. The preparations were stark, unambiguous. 

This was no game.

"Lie down. On your back. Hips centered on the towel." Ricardo's voice was a low thrum, brooking no argument.

Swallowing hard, Alex obeyed. His legs carried him to the bed like they no longer belonged to him, each step unsteady, hollow. The towel's cotton felt too cold against his fevered skin, sending a shiver through him. He lowered his head onto the pillow, eyes fixed on the sterile white ceiling, heart battering his ribs like a caged bird desperate to break free.

Hours ago, he had just secured a small army, walls of steel and men sworn to protect him. Yet the imminent threat pressing down on him wasn't outside those walls. It was right here, inches away, in the intimacy of this room — a distorted love that had curdled into a demand for blood.

Ricardo approached him, ropes in hand. He caught Alex's wrist and began looping the rope around it.

"No… don't tie me up." Alex's voice cracked, his instinct pulling him back, muscles tightening as he tried to jerk his hand away. But Ricardo's grip was unyielding, forged in cold resolve.

"This is for your own safety." Ricardo's tone was detached — the voice of a surgeon about to cut. "You need to be completely still during the operation, otherwise there might be… unwanted injuries."

"Ricardo…" Alex's eyes searched his face desperately, as if searching for some fragment of the man he had once known. But the features above him were carved from ice, unreadable, a stranger wearing that tender boy's skin. "Please…"

Ricardo's gaze never wavered. "Changing your mind already? Admit everything you said was a lie?" His voice was a scalpel, cold and sharp.

Alex froze, breath catching in his throat. The silence stretched between them, unbearably taut, before he whispered in resignation, "No…"

Ricardo nodded once and resumed. His movements were maddeningly slow, almost ritualistic. He bound Alex's right wrist first, the nylon rasping across fevered skin, leaving angry red indentations as he tightened the knot with meticulous care. He tethered it to the carved bedpost, then moved to the left, his touch firm, deliberate, stripping Alex of choice with every pull.

The rope dug in deeper as Ricardo spread Alex's arms wide, pinning him against the mattress like a crucifixion. Then he moved lower, binding first one ankle to the bed's corner, then the other, stretching Alex's body spread-eagle. By the time Ricardo straightened, Alex was fully exposed — helplessly, humiliatingly bare, his cock betraying him with an involuntary twitch. Shame and fear twisted together inside him, burning his gut, but arousal flickered traitorously through his veins, unstoppable.

Ricardo tugged once on each restraint, testing. The ropes held. The bed frame creaked under the tension, but there was no give. Alex let out a broken sound — half sob, half gasp — as he realized there would be no escape, no chance of changing his mind anymore. He was abysmally trapped, a living sacrifice laid out on his own altar.

"Comfortable?" Ricardo asked, his tone chillingly polite, almost mocking in its civility.

Alex shook his head, the movement small and pitiful. His lashes trembled with unshed tears, his lips parted as if he wanted to beg but couldn't.

"Make it quick… please." He whispered finally, voice shattering into a plea.

Ricardo's lips curved into a slow, cruel smile. He reached down, brushing his fingers across Alex's cock with deliberate teasing, drawing another spontaneous twitch. Alex sucked in a sharp breath, the sound shamefully needy.

"This," Ricardo murmured, voice like velvet over steel, "is my revenge. And I will decide how it's taken."

He turned without hurry, his movements deliberate, controlled, as though each gesture were part of a ritual only he understood. He carried the medical box to the bedside and set it down just at Alex's waist, so close that the chill of the steel casing seemed to seep directly into Alex's flesh.

Then came the sound — click. The latches sprang free sharply, like bones snapping. Alex's flinched at it, the hairs on his arms prickling.

Ricardo lifted the lid with a steady hand. Inside, a chilling array of instruments gleamed: scalpels, scissors, hemostats, clamps... all polished to a terrifying brilliance.

Alex couldn't see them from where he lay, but the heavy stench of disinfectant seeped into his lungs, acrid and undeniable. His chest seized, breath faltering, eyes widening with horror.

This is real.

But Ricardo didn't reach for the scalpels. Not yet.

Instead, he lowered himself between Alex's parted thighs, the heat of his body flooding into the vulnerable space. His breath ghosted over Alex's crotch, warm and steady. "First," he murmured, his tone flat, almost bored, "we make you clean." From the box, he retrieved a small razor and a can of shaving cream, ordinary kit suddenly obscene in their purpose.

Alex's lungs caught when the cool cream spread over his pubic hair, a strange contradiction — soothing and tender, yet laced with unspeakable threat.

"Still." Ricardo's voice was sharper this time. The chill of metal kissed Alex's groin, making him flinch instinctively. Ricardo's palm pressed firmly into his abdomen, pinning him to the bed. "I said, be still. It's only preparation."

He grasped Alex's cock, tugging it taut, and brought the razor down in careful strokes. Each scrape of steel against skin was magnified in Alex's ears, echoing like a blade across bone. His thighs trembled, his breath came in shallow bursts, shame and terror tangling inside him.

Hair fell away in delicate curls, leaving his most secret flesh bare under Ricardo's precise hand. The razor slid with exquisite slowness, shaving him smooth, exposing him utterly. Humiliation burned through him hotter than fear, as his cock betrayed him, throbbing in Ricardo's grip, leaking helplessly.

Ricardo worked as if sculpting, stripping him of every defense, every shadow, every last shred of dignity. When at last he set the razor aside, he took a damp cloth, wiping with maddening care. His fingers lingered, not just cleaning but caressing, tracing the smooth planes he had revealed, feeling the slight tremor that ran through Alex's body at the touch.

Alex's pubic mound was now completely bare, a landscape of raw, flawless skin, flushed a deep, rosy pink, looking incredibly smooth and tender. His balls lay fully exposed, skin taut and delicate, the faintest tremor passing through them as Ricardo's fingers hovered too close. At its center stood his cock, already half-lifted from the unnerving intimacy of the process. It was a stunning sight — long and thick, a proud, veined length of flesh that lay against the starkness of the newly bared base, both powerful and utterly defenseless.

"Dio mio." Ricardo breathed out, the words full of awed reverence. "So beautiful." Satisfaction coiled in the softness of his voice, laced with something darker, more possessive. "Now I can see all of you. Every inch. Perfectly." His fingertips skimmed down the shaft, lingering at the crown, smearing away a trace of shaving cream as though it were dust from a statue.

Alex shuddered, his eyes squeezing shut against the compliment that felt like a condemnation. A flicker of arousal, hot and unwelcome, coiled low in his stomach — a treacherous instinct immediately smothered by the crushing weight of his fear and shame. "Ricardo…" He whispered, the word a broken plea against the inevitable.

"Shhh." Ricardo soothed, but it was not a comfort. It was a command to be still and accept what was coming. Next, he retrieved a small glass bottle, uncorking it with a soft pop, then poured a generous amount of clear oil into his palm, rubbing his hands together. The sharp tang of bergamot spilled into the air, bright and cutting.

The first touch of that slippery, warm oil on his oversensitive skin made Alex gasp. It burned, not with pain, but with an intensity that was almost too much to bear, every nerve ending screaming awake.

Then Ricardo's slick fingers closed around him. His grip was firm and knowing, a familiar claim that made Alex's stomach clench with a sickening mix of dread and unwanted recognition.

"I'm going to allow you the pleasure of this." Ricardo said, his voice a low, hypnotic murmur as he began to stroke him, a slow, torturous glide from root to tip. "One last taste. Savor it. Before you lose it forever."

One last taste.

Alex whimpered, a broken, pathetic sound muffled by his own ragged breath as dread sank in deeper. "I don't… I don't want it…"

"Don't you?" Ricardo challenged softly, his rhythm never faltering. His other hand came up to gently cup and roll his balls, the touch somehow both tender and proprietary. "Your body tells a different story, Alex. It always responds to me."

Fear clenched icy in Alex's gut, but Ricardo's skilled hand was relentless, stroking, rolling, coaxing. His fingers teased the desperately sensitive head, circling the slit until a fresh bead of precum welled up, mingling with the scented oil.

"Come on, my precious pet." Ricardo whispered, his breath hot against Alex's inner thigh. He leaned down, his lips a hair's breadth from Alex's straining flesh. "Get hard for me. One last time. Let me feel you come alive in my hand."

The words were a cruel echo of their past, of the church, of Ricardo's own helpless agony under Alex's hands. The memory sent a bolt of pure, searing guilt through Alex's chest, and yet, his cock began to fill, a traitorous, visceral response. It thickened and lengthened, becoming fully, achingly hard in Ricardo's possessive grip, the veins prominent under the purple skin, glistening with the fragrant oil. It was a brutal paradox — a pathetic flag of surrender raised by the very hand that was about to take everything away.

Ricardo's eyes darkened, enthralled. He watched the transformation with something between fascination and cruelty, his thumb smearing oil over the flushed head, drawing another twitch from Alex's hips. "There we are." He crooned, voice low and sinfully tender. "Now you remember. Now you know exactly who this belongs to."

Then his hand dipped into the box and emerged with a long, slender rod of polished steel — a sound — its tip glinting wickedly with hunger.

"An old friend." He smirked, holding it up for Alex to see, his voice dropping to a intimate, horrific whisper.

Alex's eyes, wide and white-rimmed, tracked the instrument. His breath hitched as he strained against the ropes. "No, Ricardo—don't—"

Ricardo ignored him. He coated the rod with a thick layer of the same slick oil, and pressed the icy tip against the slit of Alex's cock.

Alex let out a strangled moan, half-protest, half-shock, his whole body convulsing as the steel pierced inward. The invasion was merciless, the burn of stretching nerves blooming into something unbearable, and yet — betrayingly — something electric, something darkly, shamefully alive.

"You remember this, don't you?" Ricardo's voice was a caress sharpened to a knife, his eyes burning into Alex's. "You remember how it felt to have me like this. Helpless. Stretched open. At your absolute mercy."

Alex's throat worked. Tears shone. "I'm sorry… Ricardo, I'm sorry—!" The words tore from him, apology and plea fused together.

Ricardo's mouth ghosted into something like pity, only twisted. "No. This isn't for an apology." He murmured, a flicker of sarcasm in his gaze. "It's my mercy. I'm returning a favor. It would be a shame to take this away…" his hand gave Alex's trembling cock a maddening squeeze, "…without letting you feel the same devastating pleasure you once forced on me."

Alex gasped, his mind spinning. The words dripped with mockery, absurd on the surface yet carrying a marrow-deep horror.

Ricardo pushed the rod further, slowly, deliberately. The hard, unyielding metal slid deeper into the soft, intimate channel, past the crown, down the shaft, each inch biting fire into Alex's core. His hips gave a helpless, aborted buck, a raw, animalistic groan tearing from his throat as the rod nudged the deepest, most sensitive part of him — his prostate. The sensation was excruciating, a lightning strike of undiluted agony, yet beneath it, a perverse, dizzying arousal began to bloom like a poisonous flower.

Ricardo's eyes gleamed with dark triumph. "Feel that?" He leaned close, his hot breath brushing Alex's face. "Every millimeter, stretching you open, just like you did to me." He twisted the rod, grazing the gland again, and Alex's cock throbbed, a wanton moan ripping free.

Ricardo began to thrust the sound in a slow, torturous rhythm. Out. In. Out. A slick, obscene slide. "You shackled me and did this." He breathed, his own composure starting to fray, a sheen of sweat appearing on his brow. "You watched me fall apart. You told me I was cute like this." His thrusts became less controlled, faster, driven by a rising tide of shared, dark memory. "And look at you now. Do you feel cute for me, Alex?"

Alex couldn't speak. His body answered for him — hips jerking, back arching, a moan tearing from his throat. Each drag of the metal was an electric current of pleasure-pain, a punishment and a caress. His world narrowed to the feeling of being filled, stretched, and played. The coil of pleasure tightened, white-hot and terrifying in its intensity. He panted helplessly, his knuckles bone-white where he gripped the ropes. He was close, so close, the orgasm building like a storm — a humiliating, forced climax under the watchful eyes of his tormentor.

"Please… I'm going to… " His voice broke, desperate. "Ricardo, please let me…"

And just as he was about to tip over the edge, Ricardo stopped. He held the sound deep, motionless, a solid, unyielding barrier lodged in the heart of his pleasure. The orgasm crashed against the obstruction, leaving Alex gasping and shaking, his body convulsing with the agony of thwarted release. A perfect, exquisite hell.

"Ah—! Please…!" Alex begged, thrashing, his body screaming for completion.

Ricardo watched, his own chest heaving, a faint, cruel smile on his lips. "Not yet." He taunted, his voice a velvet promise of more torment. "You don't get to come until I say." 

Then he did it again. And again. Building Alex to the very brink with the torturous motion, watching the frantic plea in Alex's eyes, feeling the wild pulse around the metal — only to pause, to leave him stranded, sweating and trembling on the edge. Each aborted orgasm left Alex weaker, his body shivering, his vision blurred with tears, his cock red and weeping with unbearable sensitivity. His sobs turned wordless, animal.

Finally, on the fourth agonizing edge, as Alex's cock spasmed, a violent tremor running through his entire body, Ricardo, with a brutal twist, pulled the sound out in one swift motion.

The dam broke. The release was instantaneous and cataclysmic. Alex's body bowed off the bed, a wordless shout ripped from his soul as ropes of thick, white cum shot from his ravaged cock, splattering across his stomach, his chest, even his throat. The orgasm wracked through him too intense for his body, leaving him shuddering, choking, utterly undone.

"Enjoy it." Ricardo said, his voice cold as he watched the final pulses subside. "That was the last ejaculation of your life."

Before Alex could even come down from the dizzying peak, before the shame could fully crash over him, Ricardo was moving again. Alex's brain, still hazy with pleasure-pain, could only process the sight of Ricardo picking up a new instrument — a thin, flexible tube that glinted under the lights.

He barely had time to register before Ricardo used the slick, pearlescent fluid of his own orgasm to coat the tip. There was no gentleness, only a terrifying, clinical purpose. A choked sound of protest died in Alex's throat as the cold, plastic tip pressed against his oversensitive slit, and with a relentless, steady pressure, it began to invade his abused urethra.

The catheter slid in like a slick worm, threading deeper, deeper than the sound, until a sharp, burning sting shot through him. His hips clenched, a strange, full pressure swelling in his bladder. 

Then came the warmth. A hot, shameful stream of his own urine, utterly beyond his control, flowed through the transparent tube and into the clear collection bag Ricardo had hung from the bed frame.

The sight broke him. Tears, hot and silent, finally spilled from his eyes, carving paths through the sweat on his temples. Humiliation didn't just burn — it drowned him, filling every vein with a shame so total it left him trembling, unable to breathe.

"I remember this..." He choked out, the words a raw confession ripped from a place of utter brokenness. "The helplessness. The shame. God, Ricardo… I remember. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry I did this to you."

Ricardo's jaw tightened. For a fleeting second, something raw — almost pain — flickered in his eyes before fading into the deep blue.

"It's not about revenge." He stated, his voice detached once more, as if trying to convince himself as much as Alex. "It's preparation. I need a clear field. Can't have you leaking during the procedure."

Then, without warning, he yanked the catheter free.

Alex's cry broke loose, a guttural gasp tearing from his chest.

The cold, technical reason was a thousand times more horrifying than just revenge. Revenge still carried heat, passion, something human to bargain with. But Ricardo had already chosen. There was no anger left to burn through, no mercy left to reach. Only process. Only inevitability.

Chapter Text

Ricardo turned back to the medical box and drew out a white sterile tray, setting it neatly between Alex's thighs. With unnerving patience, he began arranging the instruments one by one. Each piece struck the enamel with a faint, clinical chime, a sound too small to carry so much threat.

The scalpel came first — its razor edge catching the overhead light like a sliver of trapped lightning. Ricardo lingered on it, holding it aloft just long enough for Alex's eyes to follow the gleam before lowering it into place. Scissors followed, long and thin, their pointed tips snapping together with a cruel, decisive click. Then the curved hemostats, their serrated teeth glinting like the jaws of predators poised to bite. Finally, the surgical retractor, a wicked frame of steel built to split a body open and keep it exposed, merciless, unrelenting.

Under the harsh glare, the tools radiated menace, their reflections stabbing white across Alex's vision. These were not tools of healing, but a tormentor's arsenal, sharpened for precision in cruelty.

Ricardo's voice slipped into the silence, calm, almost casual, as if mocking the horror he had so carefully staged. "Gathered them from the medical unit." His fingers brushed the tray's edge, caressing it as if it were a lover's thigh. "Hopefully, they've been properly disinfected."

The words seeped into Alex's skin like a slow injection. His chest heaved, sweat beading across his brow. His flaccid cock shivered as fear iced his veins, as if that place had already been hollowed by the blade. Shame burned hotter, pooling thick and molten in his gut, twisting with the cold until the contradiction became insufferable. His whole body quaked, the ropes biting deeper into his skin, holding him taut and defenseless in that exquisite purgatory where dread and humiliation collided into one suffocating tsunami.

Ricardo didn't need to glance at him. He could feel Alex's reaction, heavy in the air, tasting like smoke on his tongue.

And Alex knew then, gutted to the core by certainty: Ricardo would truly go through with it.

Ricardo took his time. He picked up Alex's phone from the nightstand, then held it up above Alex's face.

"Smile." He teased.

The phone's facial recognition scanner activated, unlocking with a soft chime. 

"Wh—what are you doing?" Alex stammered, confusion and a fresh wave of panic washing over him.

In answer, Ricardo grabbed Alex's discarded briefs from the floor and shoved them deep into his mouth, gagging him effectively. 

"Quiet now." Ricardo whispered, his voice a dangerous caress. "We are about to begin."

The taste of his own scent, mixed with the cotton, choked Alex, muting his confused protests into desperate, muffled grunts.

Ricardo lifted the phone and angled it carefully, as if documenting evidence rather than a man. The flash burst, blinding Alex in a wash of white. By the time his vision cleared, another had gone off, and another — each one capturing him like a specimen pinned to glass.

Ricardo framed every detail, leaving nothing hidden. Alex's body lay splayed open, ropes pulling his limbs into helpless display. The black cloth brutally gagged him, leaving only his amber eyes to speak — wet with tears, wide with terror, pupils blown dark with dread. Across his chest and stomach, streaks of drying semen clung tacky to flushed skin. Between his spread thighs gleamed the cruel array of instruments, cold steel waiting. And at the center, the most humiliating sight of all — his cock, shaved smooth, stripped of every shadow, stained and spent, soft and flushed, a fragile, abused remnant lying limp against the white towel. A perfect portrait of devastation, immortalized in Ricardo's lens.

Alex's eyes widened, horror tearing through him as the realization crystallized — this was it. The core of Ricardo's vengeance. The mirror image of his own cruelty. He had broadcast Ricardo's degradation to the world; now Ricardo was poised to repay him in kind.

Is he going to send it out? Will the world see?

No. No! 

That would annihilate him. Not only his body, but his name, his power — everything he had ever built. The mere thought hollowed him out with terror. Death would be mercy compared to this.

He thrashed wildly, muscles straining, a muffled scream tearing against the gag. Futile. Hopeless.

Ricardo didn't even flinch. He simply leveled him with a cold, unblinking gaze while his thumbs moved swiftly across the screen. Contact found. File attached. A single photo — the most obscene, damning one. Then, without hesitation, he clicked.

WHOOPSH—

The sound of a message sent sliced straight through Alex's chest. He froze, blood draining, mind blank.

Who was Ricardo sending it to? One person? Or to everyone?

The phone began to ring almost instantly, vibrating in Ricardo's hand. He answered the call, put it on speaker, and placed the device directly onto the cum-slicked skin of Alex's stomach, right over the frantic jump of a muscle.

"ALEX?!" Ramon's voice exploded into the room, raw with panic and fury. The phone thrummed against Alex's belly. "WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?! ANSWER ME!" A torrent of curses poured out, jagged, rabid. "RICARDO? IS THAT YOUR FOUL BREATHING I HEAR? YOU PIECE OF SHIT! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING TO HIM? ALEX! BOSS! TALK TO ME! PLEASE!"

A low, icy laugh escaped Ricardo's lips, a sound that belonged in a freezer. "He can't answer you, idiot. Can't you see how perfectly still he's being for me? How obedient?" He dragged his fingertips, almost lovingly, down Alex's inner thigh. Alex flinched, a full-body shudder of pure dread. 

"Soon," Ricardo purred, his voice dropping to an intimate, terrifying whisper aimed at the phone, "your mighty boss won't even be a man anymore — because he chose to offer himself up for your sins. Feeling grateful?"

"FUCK YOU! YOU FILTHY LITTLE BASTARD!" Ramon's roar rattled the phone. "IF YOU TOUCH HIM I SWEAR I'LL SKIN YOU ALIVE! I'LL CARVE YOU INTO PIECES! I'LL HUNT YOU DOWN AND FUCKING END YOU!"

Alex squeezed his eyes shut, fresh tears of utter humiliation rolling down his temples. To be heard — seen — like this by his most trusted lieutenant — naked, spread, gagged, prepared for the most devastating ruin — was agony beyond pain. He writhed, a wild, useless arch of his spine, his head thrashing side to side violently against the gag, muffled cries choking in his throat — a silent, desperate plea for Ramon to stop, to not hear this, to not witness this utter degradation of the man he once followed without question.

Ricardo watched with a dark gleam, savoring the torment in Alex's eyes. He bent low, lips ghosting over Alex's trembling stomach, close enough that Alex could feel his breath. Ramon's shouting still spilled from the phone, feral and desperate.

"Listen up, Ramon." Ricardo whispered, his voice a silk-covered threat meant for both of them. "Stay on the line. Do nothing else. No tricks, no calls, no telling. If you hang up, or if I hear a knock on the door — your boss dies. Right here. Right now. And it will be your fault."

The line erupted into a broken, chaotic cacophony of rage — Ramon, screaming and gasping, promises of violence intertwining with ragged, helpless pleas. "DON'T! RICARDO, FOR GOD'S SAKE! DON'T YOU DARE! ALEX, FUCKING FIGHT BACK! BREAK FREE! GODDAMNIT!"

But Alex couldn't. His tear-drenched eyes, wide with a terror that bordered on madness, locked onto Ricardo's. They were pools of pure, undiluted pleading. This was the church livestream inverted, refined, perfected. This was the ultimate payback. And in those eyes, Ricardo saw not just fear, but the complete and beautiful annihilation of Alessandro Chiesa.

And Ricardo's expression didn't flicker. It remained a flawless, chilling mask of absolute victory.

He straightened, his shadow moving over Alex, and reached into the medical box. When he drew out a black silk blindfold, Alex's body convulsed against the ropes.

His muffled protests erupted into a frantic mooing. He tossed his head from side to side, breath dragging through his nose in short, panicked gasps.

No, not this. Please. Don't take my sight. Don't leave me in the dark.

But Ricardo was a statue of cold intent. Cool silk pressed onto Alex's face, thick and suffocating. Knotted tight at the back of his skull, the blindfold drowned him in absolute blackness.

The loss of sight was catastrophic. 

His hearing sharpened to a painful acuity. He could hear the faint, ragged pull of his own breath through his nostrils, the frenzied thrum of his pulse hammering in his ears like a war drum. From the surface of this belly, Ramon's voice was a distorted, desperate symphony of curses and pleas, each word a shard of glass in Alex's brain. The rustle of Ricardo's silk robe as he moved was like a serpent slithering across dry leaves.

His skin became a map of every torment. The ropes carved deeper into his wrists and ankles, every strand of fiber biting his skin raw. The cold air of the room, which he hadn't even noticed before, now washed over his naked body like a glacial wave, raising gooseflesh and making every hair stand on end. It was especially cruel on his completely exposed genitals, the vulnerable flesh tightening and shrinking in the sudden, shocking awareness.

Then came the smells, amplified to a nauseating degree. The salty tang of his own fear-sweat. The musky scent of his spilled release on his torso. The sterile, metallic odor of the surgical steel instruments waiting on the tray. And underneath it all, his own primal smell, the scent of a creature getting ready for slaughter.

Then a new sound cut through — SNAP! Crisp and sharp. Latex gloves being pulled taut. Alex's gut lurched.

A glass bottle clinked next, followed by a piercing, pungent smell that clawed at his nostrils. Medicinal alcohol.

The mattress dipped beneath Ricardo's weight, his warmth pressing in, radiating across the spread of Alex's thighs.

"Now the castration begins." Ricardo's voice cut through the darkness, calm and didactic, as if addressing a lecture hall. "First, we disinfect the area."

Alex's whole body locked. Then came the first icy shock, saturated cotton dragging over the soft mound of hairless skin above his cock. He jerked violently, gagged breath rasping against the briefs stuffed in his mouth.

The cold soaked in, a deep, biting chill searing his very soul. 

Then it moved lower.

When the alcohol-soaked cotton swabbed over his scrotum, Alex saw white-hot stars explode behind the blindfold. The delicate skin there, stretched taut and incredibly sensitive, screamed in protest. The cold wasn't just on the surface; it felt like it was leaching deep into the sac itself, freezing the very core of him.

But the cold was merely the herald. As the liquid began to evaporate, the true agony ignited.

A burning sensation erupted, so sudden and vicious it stole what little breath he had left. It was no longer cold; it was a corrosive, spreading fire that ate into his skin. It felt like he was being doused in gasoline and set alight. The burn raced up the shaft of his penis as Ricardo methodically applied the alcohol from base to tip, a wave of pure, unadulterated chemical agony. 

The worst was yet to come.

With a terrible, precise deliberation, Ricardo pressed the soaked cotton against the very head of his cock, focusing on the slit.

A white-hot spike of pain lanced directly up into his groin, so sharp and invasive that Alex's back arched clear off the bed, a silent, breathless scream locked in his throat. The alcohol had seeped inside, a minuscule, burning flood invading the most sensitive part of his body. It was a pain unlike any other — a deep, internal, liquid fire that felt like it was scouring him out from the inside. His hips jerked uselessly against the ropes, cock twitching in shameful reflex as it shriveled away from the invasion.

This was the final preparation. But it was not a man's body being prepared, not a patient, not a person. It was a surface. A thing. A lifeless object sterilized before being dismantled.

"Oh, by the way." Ricardo's voice came again, conversational, almost casual, as he discarded the used cotton. "There won't be any anesthesia. I wouldn't know how anyway."

"Besides…" He leaned closer, his voice soft as velvet over the screaming fire. "I want you to feel everything. Every single step. Every bit of the pain."

A guttural roar erupted from the phone. "RICARDO! IF YOU HURT HIM, I SWEAR TO FUCKING GOD—!"

"Ah, ah, ah." Ricardo chided softly. Alex heard the clean, metallic snick of something being picked up from the tray, and then a cool, smooth touch traced a line from his navel down to the base of his cock — the flat of the scalpel. 

"He's taking punishment for you, Ramon. The least you can do is bear witness." Ricardo's voice was a low, venomous purr. "Remember the rules. You're gonna listen to every second of it. You don't hang up. If you do, the next cut will be on his throat."

Ramon's shout escalated with raw rage. "YOU SICK FUCK! YOU'RE A GODDAMN PERVERT! STOP THIS, YOU TWISTED LITTLE DEMON!" His voice cracked, desperation bleeding through. "DON'T DO THIS TO HIM!"

But to Alex, they were just distant echoes. All that existed was the blinding, all-consuming darkness and the lingering, fiery hell burning between his legs — a brutal preview of the torment yet to come. He knew, with a certainty that was absolute and terrifying, that he was completely and irrevocably doomed.

Ricardo's voice cut through the curses, a macabre narration. "Shh... quiet. We're starting now."

Alex's body tensed, every nerve screaming as Ricardo's fingers grabbed the base of his balls. His breath fractured, a muffled whimper escaping as fear and shame crashed over him, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might burst.

"I'm starting with his scrotum." Ricardo said, his tone chillingly calm. "The sac is surprisingly tough. I have to pinch the skin just so, pulling it taut." Alex felt a sharp squeeze, a pressure that made him gasp against the gag, then the sensation of cold metal pressing lightly against the stretched skin. "The scalpel's kissing the skin now. It's so smooth, so delicate after I shaved him clean. Now I'm making the first incision. A vertical cut, right down the median raphe."

A searing, white-hot line of pain exploded between Alex's legs. It was sharp and clean, a brilliant agony that made him arch off the bed with a choked scream. The sound of his own muffled agony was almost as terrifying as the pain.

"There." Ricardo continued. "One slow slice, and the skin parts like silk — red, wet, glistening. Just enough to open the sac, not too deep to damage the treasures inside."

"NO! NO! STOP!" Ramon roared, his curses fading into desperate pleas, his voice shaking with terror. "Don't! Please! He doesn't deserve this! STOP IT!" His words dissolved into a choked sob, the sound of his fist slamming against something in futile rage.

"Shut up and listen." Ricardo snapped, his voice a whip-crack. "Alex is taking this for you, Ramon. Every cut, every drop of blood — because you're the sadist who enjoyed breaking me and he wants to take the responsibility. Now I'm going to open the incision with a retractor. Hear him scream." 

Alex arched again, his muffled cries rising in pitch, raw and desperate. The pain was a living thing, clawing through his groin, radiating outward in waves that left him trembling, sweat pouring down his temples.

"He's arching off the bed." Ricardo narrated, his voice devoid of any emotion. "It hurts a lot, doesn't it, Alex? But it's just the beginning. I can see the layers now. Dartos fascia, just beneath the skin. It's a thin, white membrane. I'm using the tip of the blade to tease it apart."

Alex felt a new kind of sensation — a tugging, a probing separation that was somehow worse than the clean cut. It was a violation of his very structure. He could feel the cool air of the room on parts of himself that had never felt air before. A low, continuous moan of sheer terror and pain vibrated in his throat.

Ricardo's voice continued, relentless. "It's separated now, Ramon. I'm peeling it open — slowly, so you can picture it. The testes are right there, pink and slick eggs, quivering with pulsing veins. So lovely. Let me feel them."

Ramon's voice was a strangled scream. "SHUT UP! STOP TALKING! You disgusting creature! Stop this madness! I'll kill you for this, I swear!" His words were punctuated by a retching sound, his horror palpable even through the phone's tinny speaker. 

Alex felt a pressure, a gentle, probing touch on something deep and internal. A wave of nausea rolled over him, so intense he thought he would vomit around the gag. 

His testicle. He was touching his testicle.

"I'm using a clamp now." Ricardo continued, his voice focused. "A curved hemostat. I'm sliding it underneath the spermatic cord. The cord is thick, a bundle of nerves, arteries, and the vas deferens. It's the lifeline. Now, I'm shutting the clamp. Blood's oozing, thick and dark, staining the towel red. He's shaking, Ramon, moaning like a whore. You hear that?"

Alex's moans were a constant, broken rhythm. He felt a cold, hard pressure clamp down high in his groin, a deep, sickening compression that stole his breath. A profound, aching wrongness bloomed inside him, along with guilt — Ricardo's words echoing his own sins. The church, the livestream, his betrayal. 

I deserve this, don't I?

Ramon's voice was shattered, a broken thing of pure panic. "Oh, God... stop talking. Just stop describing it, you fucking psycho!"

"I have it isolated." Ricardo kept speaking, as if he hadn't heard him. "Now I'm taking the suture. I'm tying it off, tightly, twice. Ensuring there will be no catastrophic bleeding when I sever it."

Sever it.

The words echoed in the blackness. Alex began to shake uncontrollably, a full-body tremor of primal dread. He heard the snip of scissors, close to his ear. Then nothing.

"The cord is ligated. Secure. Now for the separation." Ricardo's voice was a whisper of intense concentration. "I'm using the scalpel again. A clean, quick cut..."

"FUCK! NO!" The phone exploded. "STOP IT! YOU FUCKING LUNATIC!"

The pain was not a slice. It was a snap. A deep, internal severing that echoed through Alex's entire pelvis, a shockwave of agony so profound it was almost silent. It was a feeling of something being unmade. A part of his fundamental self, gone. A high, thin whine escaped him, his body drenched in cold sweat.

"Now the first testicle's coming off." Ricardo announced, his voice cold, deliberate. "I've sliced through the cord — clean, precise. The scalpel's so sharp, it's like cutting butter. The ball pops free, dangling in my hand, still warm, slick with blood. It's on the towel now, Ramon, a perfect little trophy. One down."

Alex's mind fractured, shame and terror colliding with a strange, distant hope that this sacrifice might somehow redeem him in Ricardo's eyes.

"NO! NO! YOU MONSTER! YOU FUCKING SICKO! Alex, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry!" Ramon was weeping now, his screams turning into ragged, hysterical sobs.

"Your apologies are worthless." Ricardo said coldly. "He's paying for your sins and his own. You wanted justice? This is it. Now, for the second one. The process is identical. Pinch, cut, isolate, clamp, tie, sever."

Alex could only brace himself, his entire world reduced to the anticipation of that same deep, unmaking snap. He felt the same series of sensations: the pinch, the cut, the cold clamp, the deep pressure, the tying tug, the snip. He held his breath.

Another internal snap. Another wave of nauseating, soul-deep agony. Another piece of him, gone. The wet sound of flesh parting filled his ears, a sickening counterpoint to Ricardo's steady narration.

He was empty. He was less than he had been.

"Both testes are removed." Ricardo stated, as if giving a medical report. "The sac's empty now, just a flap of skin. But we're not finished. The main event remains."

Alex's mind, fogged with pain and shock, couldn't process it. Main event? What is left?

"The penis must be removed next." Ricardo explained, as if reading his mind. "To complete the punishment. To make sure he can never fuck anyone again. To make him the perfect, loyal pet."

A new, different terror seized Alex. No. No, not that. Please, not that.

He felt Ricardo's hand wrap around his shaft. The touch was possessive, final.

"I'm making the circumferential incision now." Ricardo's voice was a soft, deadly whisper right next to the phone. "I'm cutting around the base, slow and steady. The skin parts easily, blood's pouring out. A dark, crimson well. It's pooling on the towel, soaking between his legs."

Alex felt it. The burning circle of pain, deeper and hotter than the first cut, his mind teetering on the edge of blackout. The warm, shocking flow of his own blood spilling over his skin. He could smell it — thick, metallic, and vital, the alcohol's sting a faint memory against the overwhelming coppery reek.

Ramon's voice was a shattered wail. "STOP IT! YOU FUCKING BUTCHER! YOU'RE KILLING HIM! YOU PATHETIC, MONSTROUS... urgh... CUNT!" His words dissolved into incoherent curses, then a retching sound, as if he could no longer stomach the horror. "Alex, WHY? Why are you letting him do this?"

Ricardo's laugh was cold, triumphant. "He's doing it for you, Ramon. Because he thinks he can save you by taking your punishment. Hear that moan? That's your boss, broken and bleeding, all for you." 

The pain was beyond comprehension, a white-hot inferno that consumed every nerve. Alex's body convulsed, his muffled sobs a desperate plea for it to end. His mind clung to Ricardo's voice, to the hope that this unmaking might finally earn his forgiveness, even as shame and terror tore him apart.

"I can see the corpora cavernosa now. The two main chambers. They're a dense, fibrous tissue. I have to cut through them. This will take more pressure."

The sensation changed. The sharp slice became a grinding, tearing pressure. A brutal, crushing agony that made Alex's vision flash white behind the blindfold. He screamed into the gag, his body straining against the ropes with a strength born of pure, animalistic terror. The sound was one of utter, final despair.

"He's screaming so beautifully for me, Ramon." Ricardo murmured. "Almost through — just a few more slices… one side… now the other…"

Two more sickening, grinding tears of pain. Alex felt something give way, a profound structural failure. A part of him was hanging by a thread.

"The urethra is the last connection. It's tougher, a rubbery tube. I have to be careful not to pull it out. There… a clean cut."

The final sensation was a pop. A release. A lightness. A nothingness where there had been weight and presence for his entire life.

A profound and absolute silence filled the room, broken only by Alex's shallow, hitched breathing and the drip of liquid.

"It's done." Ricardo said, his voice flat. "It's all done."

Alex heard a soft, wet, thudding sound as something was dropped into a metal plate. 

Ramon's voice ruptured into broken sobs, every word splintering into jagged fragments. "You… you didn't… you actually did it… you fucking mutilated him… You're a fucking disease, Ricardo! A plague! This is who you really are — a devil, pure evil! Just like your father! NO — WORSE THAN HIM! Alex… I'm sorry, I can't—" His words were cut off by a string of strangled whimper.

"Don't hang up yet." Ricardo warned. "I have one last gift for you, Ramon."

A faint click of the phone's camera.

"I'm sending you a picture." He said, his voice dripping with malice. "His cock and balls, fresh on a plate, blood still wet. Look at what your boss gave up for you."

A moment of silence. Then, a hideous, gurgling retch tore through from the speaker, followed by the splatter of vomit hitting the floor. The sound went on and on, raw, helpless, until it broke into shaky, rasping breaths.

When Ramon finally spoke again, his voice was unrecognizable — a choked, despairing cry. "You… idiot, Alex…" He rasped, each word a struggle. "You weak, lovesick fool… You did this to yourself… for that… that pretty little devil… You let him! You're your own fucking undoing!"

A sob cracked the last word in half. Then the line went dead.

The silence that followed was heavier than the darkness. Alex lay in the wreckage of his own body, the copper stench of blood choking his breath, the phantom agony of his missing parts screaming into the void. Alone. Broken. Unmade.

And the last voice he had heard — his most loyal man's — was not mercy, not comfort, but blame for his own foolishness.

Are you satisfied now, Ricardo? Is this horror enough for your forgiveness? Is my obliteration the redemption you were looking for?

Chapter Text

Alex heard movement beside him. A faint sigh. Then, the mattress dipped, warmth pressing against his side. Fingers, shockingly gentle, hooked into the sodden cotton of the briefs still crammed in his mouth, and carefully pulled them free.

He gasped, drawing in a ragged, shuddering breath that tasted of salt and fabric. Every nerve braced for cruelty, for Ricardo's voice sharp with triumph, some gloating remark to seal his humiliation.

Instead, a thumb, warm and steady, pressed to his damp forehead, brushing back the strands of sweat-plastered hair. The tenderness was dissonant, jarring, almost unbearable against the brutality of the last hour. Alex flinched hard, a fresh wave of terrified confusion washing over him. From beneath the blindfold, tears spilled anew, hot and helpless.

"It's over." Ricardo's voice was a velvet whisper. It held no triumph, only a strange, soft certainty, as if calming a child after a nightmare.

A broken sob wrenched itself from Alex's chest. The pain was real — his groin throbbed, a raw ache where he was certain nothing remained. Worse was the humiliation, the soul-deep shame of being exposed, photographed, broadcast to Ramon, who saw him now as the cause of his own ruin.

He wasn't a man anymore. He was a shell, gutted, hollow, emptied of pride, emptied of self. He had surrendered everything. He was nothing.

And yet… there was no anger. No defiance left to give. Only the desperation of a man already shattered beyond repair.

"I'm… I'm sorry." He choked out, the apology automatic, born from a depth of shame and submission he never knew he possessed. "Please… please forgive me." He murmured, lips trembling. His throat worked as if the words themselves cut him. "I… I deserved it. I've paid this debt... willingly. Just… please… don't hate me. Don't abandon me. I'm yours, Ricardo... forever yours..." He was babbling, hoarse and frantic, like a heart-rending prayer. He pleaded for forgiveness from the very man who had just unmade him, because that man was all he had left now.

"Alex." Ricardo's voice was low, coaxing, almost melodic — the same voice from the kitchen, from the bed after their lovemaking. Gentle. Familiar. Disarming.

His fingertips skimmed Alex's cheek, lingering at the tremor of his jaw before tracing down to the quivering edge of his chin. "Shh… relax. It's over now."

He reached forward and untied the knot at the back of Alex's skull. The black silk blindfold, thoroughly soaked through with tears and sweat, loosened and fell away.

Alex's eyes, red-rimmed and swollen, blinked open with a wince, the sudden intrusion of light sharp and merciless. The world bled in at once — the blur of the room, the harshness of the ceiling light, and Ricardo's face hovering above him.

His chest constricted. Ricardo looked… serene. The cool, impassive mask from before was gone, replaced by a gentle smile. His eyes, no longer chips of ice, were pools of warm, brilliant blue, glinting with a soft, almost playful light. The boyish ease struck Alex like a blade, jarring against the humiliation still burning in his body.

He wanted to turn away, to shield himself — but his neck wouldn't obey. His vision swam, hot tears clinging to his lashes as shock and shame tangled into a crushing weight. Every breath felt stolen, raw. And yet, despite himself, his gaze clung to Ricardo's, trembling between fear, confusion, and something far more dangerous: the desperate pull of recognition.

A soft chuckle, light as air, burst out of Ricardo's lips. "Oh, Alex. What a mess you are."

A chill of pure dread shot through Alex's heart. He was being mocked. Even now, after it was all done.

Ricardo's thumb stroked his cheek, wiping away a tear. He smiled again, his tone light, almost teasing. "Go on. Look at yourself."

Alex's breath hitched. His eyes screwed shut, head turning as if he could escape the demand. His voice splintered on the edge of panic.

"No… I can't. Don't… please… don't make me." His body trembled, every muscle taut with dread. He couldn't bear it — couldn't face the emptiness he knew awaited him, the physical proof that he had been unmade.

But Ricardo's voice pressed against him, low, steady, inexorable.

"Yes, you can." His thumb lingered at Alex's jaw, grounding him. "Trust me." A pause, deliberate yet reassuring. "Just look."

Alex drew in a slow, shuddering breath, his chest straining as though every beat of his heart fought against him. With a fear greater than anything that had tormented him through the night, he forced his eyes open. His throat bobbed, dry and tight, as he raised his head from the pillow, pulse thundering in his ears. Every nerve screamed as he dragged his gaze downward — toward the epicenter of all his pain, the place he was certain had gone forever.

His stomach clenched. His vision blurred with tears. Then—

He froze.

The sight before him was wrong. Impossible.

His cock and balls were still there. Intact.

Alex blinked rapidly, his mind refusing to believe what his eyes insisted was true. Once. Twice. Each time the image remained, mocking the certainty of his destruction. His lips parted, quivering around a sound that never fully came, only a strangled gasp that broke against the back of his throat.

They were there. His cock, though still soft, lay nestled against his body, looking pale and abused, but whole. His scrotum, though reddened and puffy, was still a single, unbroken sac. There was no gaping wound, no bleeding stump, no mangled absence he had braced for. Just… strings.

Thin dark threads were looped and knotted with surgical precision at the root of his shaft and around each testicle, constricted tight enough to make them swell and ache with pressure. Where the threads cut deepest, there were faint traces of blood, but just like scratches, nothing more.

His gaze jerked sideways. The metal tray gleamed taintless and cold. No butchered pieces of him. No severed remains. Only shiny, clean instruments, and a roll of damp cloth, laid out like props. Beside his thigh sat a bowl, half-filled with blood, the sharp metallic tang rising thick in the air. He understood now: the smell that had haunted him, the liquid he thought was his own.

The world tilted on its axis. The phantom agonies, so vivid and real, suddenly had no anchor. They were… lies. Illusions. His brain, convinced by Ricardo's detailed narration, the sounds, the smells, the precise touches, had manufactured the entire horrific experience — the searing pain of the "incision"; the deep, internal snap he had felt not once, but twice; the grinding pressure; the wet, final pop of separation...

None of it had truly happened. And yet the fear, the pain, the humiliation… it was all real. His body still remembered, shaking, sweating, sobbing from a wound that didn't exist.

His head fell back against the pillow with a dull thud, breath leaving him in a shudder. His eyes lifted, blown wide, glazed with a confusion so raw it teetered on the edge of madness — and locked onto Ricardo's gaze.

"You…" He croaked, disbelief choking him. "You didn't…"

Ricardo tilted his head, watching the shock dawn across Alex's face. His lips curved, soft amusement playing at the corners. "Did you really think I'd cut them off?" He asked lightly, his voice a musical murmur. "That I'd butcher you like I'm some monster?"

His smile finally broke through fully, transforming his face into something warm and dazzling. "The look on your face." He reached out and gently tapped Alex's cheek. "You believed it, didn't you? Every cut. Every snap. You felt it all."

A laugh slipped from him, soft and breathless, almost giddy. "It was all a trick, mio amore." He said, the endearment rolling off his tongue with effortless affection. 

Alex could only stare, lips parted, his mind lurching, frantically trying to overwrite the nightmare of the last hour with this impossible truth.

With calm, deliberate movements, Ricardo began clearing the stage of his performance. He moved the medical box, then the tray of instruments, the steel glinting under the light. "I used them," he admitted, "but only just to trace the story on your skin." He held up a single, empty hypodermic needle. "Most of the pain came from this."

Next, he picked up the bowl that had held the terrifying pool of blood. "I found this in the medical fridge. A blood bag, past its date. The perfect prop." He set it aside with a quiet clink.

He reached down again, a pair of fine surgical scissors in his grasp. Alex flinched instinctively, a residual tremor of fear he couldn't suppress. But Ricardo's touch was impossibly gentle as he began to carefully snip and unwind the dark thread wrapped tightly around the base of Alex's cock.

"Sutures." He explained, as the strings loosened one by one. "Tight enough to restrict the blood flow, to make everything numb, swollen, distant." His fingers worked deftly, soothing the abused skin. "And when I 'clamped' and 'cut'…" He brought the scissors up with a flourish, snipping the air near Alex's hip with a crisp snick. "I just snapped a piece of uncooked linguine. Your brain did all the rest."

As the final string fell away, sensation rushed back into the deprived flesh in a painful, prickling wave. Alex's eyes dropped, his breath catching as he saw the truth: his skin was whole, marked only by a few shallow, needle-thin punctures beading with mere drops of blood.

A choked sound, half-sob, half-laugh, burst from his lips. He was intact. He was whole. The annihilation had been a phantom, a masterpiece of psychological torture crafted with terrifying obscenity. The relief was so violent it was dizzying, and hot tears of sheer deliverance spilled down his temples, mingling with the sweat of his fear.

"You… you…" His voice broke, words collapsing on themselves, trembling with the aftershocks of adrenaline and spent terror. Then, with a stifled, breathless laugh that was both bitter and grateful, he murmured, "Dr. Simone won't be happy when he finds out you've raided his supplies."

"Oh, he won't." Ricardo's answering chuckle was low and rich. "But I'll tell him I was only experimenting with what he taught me."

Alex blinked, still reeling. "What he… taught you?"

Ricardo leaned over him, caging him with his arms, his face inches from Alex's. His blue eyes were blazing with intimate intensity. "On the island." He said, his voice dropping. "When I was recovering, I was plagued by phantom pains — aches in limbs that hadn't been touched, burns where there were no scars. Dr. Simone told me the culprit was the brain. The brain is powerful… or perhaps, deeply stupid. It can hallucinate sensations — muting or creating them. It can make you feel a limb that's no longer there, or make you believe a part of you is gone. He taught me how to train my mind to quiet the pain." He paused, his eyes locking with Alex's, gleaming with a dark, clever light. "Tonight… I just applied the opposite on you. I tricked your brain."

He laughed then, a bright, astonished sound, like a child who had just discovered a fundamental law of the universe. "And it worked! You truly felt it, didn't you? You believed you were being unmade."

But Alex didn't laugh. The sound wasn't joyous to him — it was heartbreaking. The ingenious, cruel beauty of the trick faded before a much larger, more crushing truth: Ricardo's understanding of pain wasn't theoretical; it was written in the scars on his soul, learned in the crucible of suffering Alex had created.

The ropes bit into Alex's wrists as he strained against them, not in fear now, but in a desperate, aching need to reach out, to hug the man before him. His breath hitched, not with panic, but with a grief so profound it felt like a physical weight on his chest.

"Ricardo…" The name was a broken whisper, a confession. His throat closed around the words, his voice thick with a shame so deep it felt terminal. "I'm so sorry." The words were inadequate, tiny pebbles thrown into the chasm of what he'd done. "I… I was the one who carved that pain into you. I taught your body how to feel it. I deserved every second of that horror. I don't… I don't deserve this. I don't deserve your mercy."

Ricardo didn't answer with words. Instead, he lowered himself, his presence enveloping, and pressed his lips to Alex's sweat-damp forehead. The kiss was startlingly gentle, a benediction in the aftermath of the storm. His lips lingered, warm and soft against the cool skin. 

"This is enough." He murmured, his breath a fervent whisper against Alex's brow. "For now." 

He drew back just enough to meet Alex's gaze, his own eyes shimmering with a complex mix of triumph and lingering pain. "I just needed you to understand. I needed you to feel what it was like in that church. The sheer, airless agony. The complete humiliation. The utter helplessness of being unmade by someone you…" He trailed off, the words too fragile to finish. His voice cracked, betraying the depth of the wound he was trying to articulate. 

"I needed you to believe you were giving me everything, body and soul. And I needed to know…" His throat worked, his hand cupping Alex's face. "I needed to know that you would. That you would really lie there and let me do that to you."

His thumb brushed over Alex's wet cheekbone with a tenderness that felt like a brand. "And you did. You gave me everything, even when you believed you'd be irrevocably unmade, because it was me holding the knife."

Alex's voice rasped, hoarse, fragile. "So it was… a test?"

Ricardo exhaled, the tension in him unraveling by degrees. "A test. An exorcism. Call it whatever you want." His expression softened into something raw, almost apologetic. "I had to do that. I had to silence my ghosts. I had to know you'd give yourself to me without condition." He swallowed. "I needed proof of your devotion."

"And Ramon…" His eyes darkened suddenly, a flicker of satisfaction breaking through. "Ramon needed to believe it all. Needed to see you broken. His reaction, his despair — I needed him to feel that same helpless horror he inflicted on me. I needed him to be broken, too." 

He took a shaky breath. "I don't want to be a victim anymore. I'd rather he fear me, hate me, than see me as a trophy, as the… plaything of his boss." A pause, quieter, a choked confession: "I was trying to heal myself."

Alex's chest heaved. The sheer, breathtaking genius of it — the cruel, twisted psychological architecture of revenge and healing — struck him with the force of a physical blow. It was the most horrifying and the most beautiful thing anyone had ever done for him. To him.

"You terrifying, brilliant, impossible man." He whispered, the words laced with awe and a dawning, staggering understanding.

A slow, possessive smile touched Ricardo's lips as he leaned in, his mouth hovering near Alex's ear. His voice dropped to a husky, intimate whisper that sent a shiver straight through Alex's core. "But you know I could never truly break my favorite toy, could I?" The endearment was a dark, thrilling promise.

"This isn't mercy. I want you whole. Because you're mine, Alex. You always will be." His hand slid down, his fingers closing around Alex's flaccid cock. Even raw and aching, it twitched weakly at the shocking contact. "And I still need it…" he murmured, his grip firm and knowing, "…even now."

The shift was vertiginous — Alex's body spiraling from the abyss of horrific pain to the shocking relief of being whole, now to the searing, possessive heat of Ricardo's touch. He was utterly unmoored, his emotions a turbulent storm inside him. A broken, half-hysterical sound escaped him — part sob, part gasp. Dizzied. Mesmerized.

Ricardo chuckled, a low, rich sound of dark amusement as he began to stroke him, his movements slow and deliberate. "Look at you." He marveled, his eyes shining with a desire that seemed to feed on the very spectacle of Alex's vulnerability. "You're fucking insane. And so fucking hot like this." His gaze swept over Alex's body. "Tied up, covered in cum, crying, completely at my mercy… and still needing me so much." His hand squeezed, firmer. "You are perfect."

Alex's head fell back against the pillow, his breath coming ragged, phantom pain dissolving into electric sensation. The ropes kept him spread wide, a stark reminder of his absolute surrender.

"Ricardo…" His voice cracked, a plea without shape. Stop? More? Even he didn't know.

"Come on." Ricardo urged, his thumb sweeping over the oversensitive slit, coaxing, commanding. "Get harder for me."

A weak, bitter laugh broke from Alex's lips, trembling on the edge of tears. "I can't." He whispered, a tremor of helplessness in his voice. 

His cock, sore and overwhelmed, refused to respond to Ricardo's efforts, swollen yet stubbornly half-soft. The adrenaline, the terror, the emotional whiplash — it had all drained him. "You've… you've scared the damn life out of it." His words faltered into a hiccupping giggle.

Ricardo's brows softened, his mouth curling with a wolfish, yet tender smile. "Then let me bring it back to life."

He moved to the space between Alex's thighs and lowered his head.

His first touch was not with his mouth, but with his cheek, nuzzling the soft, shaved skin of Alex's groin in a gesture of pure affection. Then, his tongue emerged, a pink, wet promise in the shadows. He started at the very root, where the faint, coppery tang of blood from the superficial needle pricks still lingered. His tongue was flat and warm, lapping gently, soothing the angry welts, cleaning away the last vestiges of the horrific illusion with the devotion of a priest performing an ablution. He licked a slow, soothing stripe upward, and Alex gasped, his muscles tensing against the ropes, a full-body tremor that was part shock, part awakening.

Ricardo murmured low against the sensitive flesh, his breath hot. "So smooth… so tender." His words vibrated through Alex's skin, the intimacy cutting straight into him. "Like silk warmed by the sun."

He moved lower, and Alex's breath hitched as Ricardo's mouth opened. He didn't just take his ball; he enveloped it. His mouth was a hot, wet sanctuary, drawing one inside with a gentle, sucking pressure. He held it there, rolling it carefully on his tongue, the deft muscle swirling around the tender flesh, soothing the deep, phantom ache of its imagined removal. 

A low, guttural moan was torn from Alex's throat — this was a pleasure so shocking in its contrast to the pain he'd just endured that it felt almost like a new kind of pain itself. Ricardo's teeth nipped ever so lightly, not enough to hurt, but enough to make Alex jolt and gasp.

The sudden flash of sharpness gave way to soothing suction again, as though Ricardo were punishing and healing in the same breath. His hand cradled Alex's other ball, massaging it with care, as if coaxing it back to life.

"So delicious…" Ricardo breathed, releasing it with a soft, wet pop, his lips glimmering. "All of you. Every part."

Then he did the same with the other ball.

Alex shuddered. Phantom pain bled into sensation, twisted into a strange, dizzying pleasure. "Ricardo—" His voice cracked, a whimper escaping. His hips tried to flinch, but the ropes forced him to take every moment, every flicker of Ricardo's tongue.

Then his tongue began its journey proper, a slow, torturous ascent from the heavy root up the vulnerable underside of Alex's shaft. It was a flat, wet, deliberate stroke that made Alex's toes curl against the ropes. His hips jerked, a helpless, involuntary thrust into the breathtaking heat. Ricardo hummed in approval, the vibration traveling straight through Alex's cock and into his spine, melting the last of his resistance.

"You taste so fucking good." Ricardo whispered, licking again, then again, each stroke firmer, more insistent. At the swollen head, he lingered. His tongue circled the crown, dipped into the slit, tasting salt and copper. He flicked the frenulum with the very tip of his tongue, a precise, maddening little motion that had Alex's thighs tremble violently, his nails digging into his palms.

"God—ahh—Ricardo—" His cry was desperate, his back arching off the bed. The phantom mutilation, the phantom emptiness — everything dissolved under the flooding shock of real, raw pleasure.

That was all the invitation Ricardo needed. He looked up, his blue eyes dark with desire, holding Alex's dazed gaze as he parted his lips wide. With a needy groan, he took him in. There was no hesitation, no awkwardness, only a deep, consuming hunger. He sank down, inch by inch, until his throat swallowed the length. His lips sealed around the hardening shaft, his hand gripping what his mouth couldn't, stroking slowly. Then his throat tightened, a deep, muscular contraction that made Alex see stars.

The sensation was earth-shattering. It was too much. The heat, the wetness, the exquisite pressure — a suction so perfect it felt like his very soul was being drawn out. His body, which had been screaming in panic, was now screaming in ecstasy. The humiliations, the terror, the agony — all of it burned to ashes under the searing sensation of being enveloped, devoured, cherished. His cock throbbed painfully in Ricardo's mouth.

Ricardo began to move, establishing a rhythm that was both masterful and desperate. He bobbed his head, his lips stretched tight, his hand coming up to cradle and gently massage Alex's balls, reinforcing their presence, their wholeness. The obscene, wet sounds filled the room, a lewd symphony that was the only thing Alex could hear.

The feeling was beyond anything Alex had ever experienced. It wasn't just physical; it was an absolution, a promise of repair. Each slick, careful motion from Ricardo coaxed some stubborn, aching life back into him. He was not broken. He was not less. He was here, in this bed, being devoured by the man he loved, and he was whole.

Under the relentless, loving assault, Alex's body finally surrendered to a different kind of overwhelm. His cock swelled to a gorgeous, pulsating hardness, stretching Ricardo's lips even wider, filling his throat. A full, aching erection, a physical denial of the annihilation he had so completely believed in.

"Fuck—Ricardo—" Alex gasped, his voice breaking apart. His chest heaved, the pleasure almost unbearable, each drag of Ricardo's lips along his shaft ripping through him like fire. "I can't—ahh—I can't take it—"

Ricardo pulled back just enough to look up, eyes catching the light like glints of wine — mischievous, ardent, impossibly tender. Saliva shone at his lips; his breath was a warm promise against Alex's skin. 

"Yes, you can." He murmured, low and certain. Then he dove back down, taking him deeper, swallowing him whole. One… two… three devastatingly perfect sucks pulled a ragged groan from Alex's throat.

When he finally released him with a soft, wet pop, he sat back on his heels, a triumphant, breathless grin on his face. "And I'll give you more."

In one fluid, graceful motion, he swung his legs over Alex's hips, straddling him. The ties of his robe gave way with a whisper, and the purple silk slithered from his shoulders, pooling like a fallen blossom over Alex's feet. He was naked beneath, his skin luminous in the stark light. The faint, silvery scars that mapped his back were hidden from Alex's view. His gaze wasn't on Alex's face but lower, fixed with intense purpose on where their bodies would join.

"You took your punishment." He murmured, his voice a low thrum that vibrated through Alex's core. His eyes finally lifted, capturing Alex's, holding him more intensely than the ropes. "Now you get your reward."

He positioned himself. Alex watched, mesmerized, as Ricardo's elegant fingers guided his aching, blood-engorged cock to that warm, fluttering entrance. Then, with a sigh that was part relief, part conquest, Ricardo sank down. It was one slow, devastating motion that stole the air from Alex's lungs, sheathing him completely in a blissful, impossibly tight heat.

Alex cried out — a raw, shattered sound torn from someplace deeper than instinct. The contrast was overwhelming: the ghost of terror still humming in his veins, the shock of reprieve, and now... this. To be inside Ricardo, to be wanted there — welcomed like a return to some sacred ground he'd believed was forbidden to him forever — it undid him. The revelation unspooled every defense, leaving him bare.

His hips strained helplessly against the ropes, a primal, desperate urge to thrust upward, to bury himself even deeper. But he was bound, powerless — forced to lie open and still, letting Ricardo take what he needed, use his body for pleasure.

And God help him — he loved it.

Ricardo began to move, a slow, deep, grinding rhythm that wrenched another broken sound from Alex. He rode him with a focused intensity, his head thrown back, the long, elegant line of his throat working as he moaned.

"This is what I need." He breathed out, the words punctuated by a deliberate, rolling thrust that made Alex see stars. "This is what I could never let go of." He pressed a hand flat against his own lower abdomen, as if feeling the shape of Alex inside him. "My favorite, most magnificent toy." He leaned forward, bracing his hands on Alex's cum-slicked chest, his pace quickening. The ropes creaked with the strain of Alex's body. "It doesn't matter if you're in me or I'm in you. You are mine, Alex. Front and back, top and bottom, inside and out. All of you. All mine."

Time stretched in the sound of their ragged breaths, the slick, rhythmic thud of flesh colliding, the raw, guttural noises neither could suppress. The world narrowed to this bed, to this union.

"Ricardo… I'm… I'm going to…" Alex finally choked out, the warning a strained gasp. His climax was coiling, a tidal wave built not just from the exquisite friction but from the entire emotional maelstrom — the staged terror, the staggering relief, the fierce, all-consuming love for the beautiful, cruel, brilliant man who owned him utterly.

"Come for me." Ricardo commanded, his voice a husky whisper, his own rhythm becoming frantic, chasing his peak. "Come inside me. Claim your reward."

It was the permission Alex didn't know he needed. With a guttural shout ripped from the depths of his soul, he obeyed. The release was unlike any other. It was a convulsion of agony and bliss, of surrender and victory, as if every shard of shame and fear had been forced through him and come out in a whole new form. He sobbed as he poured into Ricardo with helpless, shuddering pulses that seemed to drain him of everything, his body shaking uncontrollably, his vision bleaching into white nothingness.

Above him, Ricardo cried out, his body clenching rhythmically around Alex, milking him through his own powerful orgasm. He collapsed forward onto Alex's chest, his breath coming in hot, ragged gasps against Alex's neck.

They lay entangled in the aftermath, the only sounds their slowing heartbeats and the gradual return of their breath. The ropes were still tight, their skin was sticky and musky, but the horrifying void between Alex's legs was gone, replaced by the warm, spent, real weight of the man he loved, still intimately joined with him.

"Untie me." Alex whispered into the shell of Ricardo's ear, his voice soft as a breath. "I need to hold you."

Without a word, Ricardo moved. His fingers, now tender where they had been clinical, worked at the knots. The ropes fell away, and feeling rushed back into Alex's bruised, numb limbs. He surged upward the moment he was free, his trembling arms wrapping around Ricardo's neck, pulling him down into a desperate, crushing embrace. He buried his face in the curve of Ricardo's shoulder, inhaling the scent of their sweat and sex, grounding himself in the solid, real presence of the man who had just dragged him through hell and back into something like heaven.

His hand slid instinctively down Ricardo's back — and froze. Beneath his fingertips, he felt them: the ridges, the scars, the silent map of every wound he had left there. They seared through his palm like brands. His guilt, already a weight in his chest, deepened until it threatened to split him in two.

He had experienced a brilliant illusion; yet Ricardo bore the evidence of real, permanent damage. Alex's breath hitched, a silent sob shaking his frame as he clutched Ricardo tighter, as if he could somehow press an apology directly into the marred skin.

"My love." He choked out, the words muffled against Ricardo's hair, his voice breaking. "I owe you… everything."

Ricardo gathered him up, holding him tightly, one hand cradling the back of his head. "Yes, you do." He said softly, lips brushing Alex's temple. "But you don't need to pay it back. Not now, not ever. I don't want us to be even." He pulled back slightly, his gaze intense, full of a fierce, possessive love. "I want you to always owe me. For your entire life. Don't you ever expect to pay that debt off."

A wet, incredulous chuckle escaped Alex. "You cunning little bastard." There was no venom, only admiration, only a profound, dazing affection.

They held each other in the wreckage of the bed, the room softening around them into a sanctuary. Ricardo stroked Alex's hair with a newfound tenderness, then pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek — a kiss that tasted of salt tears and a future suddenly, brilliantly reclaimed.

"We trusted each other today, didn't we?" Ricardo whispered, his fingers trailing lightly down Alex's throat, then chest, coming to rest over the racing beat of his heart. "And maybe… we can do it tomorrow, too."

Alex met his eyes, a weary, genuine smile touching his own lips. "Every tomorrow." He vowed, the words a solemn oath. "I am yours for every single one."

Chapter Text

Early morning, the bedroom was hushed, curtains filtering the pale light. The night had been deep, peaceful — rare for both of them. Alex sat half-upright against the carved headboard, hair mussed, the sheets pooled around his hips. Ricardo lay with his head pillowed on Alex's bare stomach, facing the end of the bed, his breathing slow and even, each exhale a warm brushstroke on Alex's taut skin, in sync with the rise and fall of his abs.

The stillness broke with the insistent, hollow ringback tone from Alex's phone. He had been dialing, waiting, dialing again. Each unanswered ring tightened a knot of unease in his chest.

"Fuck." He muttered, the word rough with sleep and worry. "I should've called him last night. He might do stupid things."

On his stomach, Ricardo only lifted a lazy eyebrow, his silence a wall of profound indifference. He couldn't care less.

Alex typed a message with curt precision: "Ramon, it's Alex. Answer the phone. Now!"

He pressed dial again. This time, after several rings, the call connected.

A ragged voice burst out, thick and tumbling. "Fff… fuckin' stop callin' me!" The words were a wet, slurred snarl, dripping with venom and something broken. "Jus'… leave me the hell 'lone… I ain't… I ain't gonna li'sen t'you…" His voice cracked into a sob that curdled into sudden rage. "You… you creepy li'l shit! Ffffuckin' demon! Gonna—gonna kill you… gonna skin ya 'live... y'hear? Jus' wait, jus' fuckin' wait—"

Alex's frown deepened. The tone was cracked, high, hysterical — but more than that, blurred, garbled, drowning in liquor. He could almost smell the whiskey ghost rising from the phone.

"Ramon." He cut in, his voice hard, slicing cleanly through the chaos. "It's me. Alex. Listen carefully — I'm fine. Nothing happened. It was only a hoax."

But the reassurance fell flat. Ramon barked a bitter laugh that broke into coughing. "Bullsh—bullshit! You thin'—think I don' know? 'S him, 's that li'l bas'ard—Ricar—Ricardo!" He spat the name like poison, his tongue thick and clumsy around the syllables. "He'sh makin' you shay that... He'sh got your phone... makin' you a fuckin' puppet... Shoulda—shoulda shlit hish throat—" His words tangled worse, slurred curses collapsing into a wet, muffled sob. "Shoulda... shoulda..."

Alex clenched the phone tighter, forcing patience. He let the storm burn itself out. Then, slowly, the rage slipped, the venom of hatred dissolving into the raw, unvarnished agony beneath. The slurring grew heavier, weighted with a grief so profound it was difficult to hear.

"Ah—Aahlex…" Ramon's voice slumped, molasses-thick and mangled by booze. "…y'wer' like a son t'me, y'know tha'? D—Dante… my br'r…" He swallowed, the syllables slurring into one another. "An' Le—Leooo… he was... yers, y'bes' budd'. Both o' 'em… gone." A choked sob escaped him, raw and ugly. "All I… all I got lef' was you. Jus' you. You—you're family, man, you're—"

There was silence, broken only by a wet sniffs, then a cry tore through the line, raw and animal. "An' now—now tha' pretty devil… Salav'ro's fuckin' brat… he—he d'stroyed ya too. Took the last thin'. The las' thin' I had. Evil fath'n' son… they took everythin'. Everything!" The pitch climbed, fraying into a howl of pure, unadulterated pain. "They'll pay, Aahlex! I swear—I'll kill 'em, kill 'em all, every fuckin' one of 'em Garav'ni dogs! Burn 'em—burn the whole—whole damn place—"

"Ramon!" Alex's voice snapped sharp, commanding. "Listen to me. I'm fine. Nothing happened. Do you understand? I'm alive. I'm intact. You don't need to do anything."

Ramon just sobbed, curses collapsing into moans.

Alex softened his tone, comforting like one would calm a rabid hound. Then he sighed, weary but firm. "Enough. No more drinking. I'm sending men to you. You stay where you are. Do nothing. Just sleep. Do you hear me? That's an order."

It took minutes — long, agonizing minutes of coaxing — before the line finally steadied. Ramon muttered something unintelligible and hung up.

Alex lowered the phone slowly, exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. His hand absently stroked Ricardo's hair, threads of dark silk slipping through his fingers. "Looks like… he's having a breakdown."

"Good." Ricardo's voice was flat. No triumph, no mockery. Just a blank, cold echo. He lay still, his eyes fixed on some middle distance, as if processing a new and complex equation, but he offered nothing more.

The silence between them grew thick and uneasy. The gentle rhythm of their breathing was the only sound in the warm stillness. After a long moment, Alex shifted against the headboard. The morning light caught the tension in his jaw, the way his free hand clenched at the edge of the sheet. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of a confession long held back.

"There's something I should tell you." He kept his gaze on Ricardo, the words measured, cautious.

Ricardo's eyebrows raised again in curiosity, though his body remained perfectly still against Alex's stomach. But Alex caught the subtle sharpening of his attention — Ricardo's breathing paused just slightly, waiting.

Alex swallowed. "Something… about your father."

That got a reaction. Ricardo's head turned with deliberate slowness, his cheek rubbing against Alex's belly skin. He tilted his face upward, his gaze finally catching Alex's. The casual languor was gone, replaced by a sharp, wary focus.

Alex held that blue stare, steeling himself. "I've been looking for his Vault." The words came out in a rush, as if he'd been holding his breath around them for months. "The entire time. Before and during all of this."

The mention of Salvatore's Vault — the legendary trove of blackmail intelligence that held judges, prosecutors, and rival mafiosi in its grip — hung between them like a loaded gun.

Ricardo's eyes narrowed, studying Alex's face for a while before he let out a soft, unsurprised sigh. "Of course you were." He said, a trace of weary cynicism in his tone. "Every shark in these waters is hunting for that prize." He shifted slightly, adjusting his weight on Alex's stomach. "Why are you telling me this now?"

Alex leaned forward a fraction, his voice dropping to a near whisper, as if the walls themselves might be listening. "Because I'm close. I'm on the verge of finding it."

The air in the room changed. Ricardo pushed himself up in one fluid motion, the sheets pooling around his waist as the last vestiges of relaxation vanished from his face. His eyes darkened, clouded with something complex and unreadable — a flicker of alarm, perhaps, or the shadow of old betrayals.

"Really?" The word came out quiet, almost a breath, but it carried the weight of a dozen unspoken questions.

Alex didn't answer directly. Instead, his hand found Ricardo's wrist, thumb brushing over the pulse point in a slow, grounding motion, as if anchoring himself against Ricardo's heavy scrutiny. The words came haltingly, like he was picking his way through a minefield of potential misunderstandings.

"We need it, Ricardo." He explained, his voice low and urgent. "You've seen how corrupted the system is. How thoroughly your father has... hacked it. If we want to beat him in court, to find justice your way, we have to level the playing field." His grip tightened slightly, desperate to make Ricardo understand. "We have to hack it back, and the Vault is the key." 

He paused then, something fragile and uncertain flickering across his features. "I didn't dare tell you before because..." His voice trembled slightly as if shamed. "Because I was afraid you'd think that everything between us was just another manipulation, that I pretended to regret so I could mine you for information about your father, and steal his power for my own ambition."

Ricardo watched this display of awkward sincerity with something that might have been amusement if it weren't so sharp-edged. He snorted, a faint, ironic smile touching his lips.

"You can't mine me for something I don't have." He said, each word precisely articulated. "I know nothing about where my father stowed his files. He always made sure to lock his most precious secrets away from his weak heir. I'm useless in that regard." His laugh was a harsh, brittle sound that seemed to cut the air between them. "And you knew that, didn't you? Otherwise you'd have interrogated me the first day you kidnapped me."

The self-deprecation in his tone was like a blade turned inward, and Alex felt something twist painfully in his chest at the sound of it.

"I know..." Alex said, his voice softening. "I know you don't know that. But still... I don't want any more shadows between us. I couldn't bear the thought of you thinking I was just—"

"Alex." Ricardo's voice was firm, cutting through his explanation. He lifted his hand, his fingers soft as they brushed Alex's cheek. The gesture was tender, but his eyes held an intensity that made Alex's breath catch. "Promise me. No more hiding things like this. This is our war, our fight together. Don't keep me out — not about your plans, not about my father." 

His head tilted slightly, a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Besides, how do you know I can't provide clues you haven't considered?"

Alex stared at him, a flicker of surprise and then a deep, profound relief washing over his features. He clasped Ricardo's hand and pressed a brief kiss to the knuckles, small and reverent. "I promise." He murmured against the skin, his voice rough with emotion. "Come to my study this afternoon. I'll show you everything I've got."

After lunch, Ricardo made his way to Alex's study. The guard posted outside the heavy oak door gave him a curt nod and opened it for him without a word, clearly under explicit orders.

Ricardo stepped in. He had been in the study a few times before, but only for brief, tense moments. Now he took it in with fresh eyes. The room was vast yet simple and clean — no ostentatious displays of wealth or power, no garish trophies of violence. Its air was cool and still, heavy with the aroma of espresso and the faint hum of electronics. The blinds were drawn tight, shielding the space from the afternoon sun, leaving slivers of light to cut across the polished hardwood floor.

Alex sat before a long L-shaped mahogany desk, his side to the door. The wall ahead of him wasn't a wall at all, but a matrix of six wide monitor screens, nearly covering it from end to end. They glowed with a mosaic of data — real-time financial charts, complex network maps, surveillance feeds, and encrypted logs scrolling too fast to read. It looked less like a traditional mafia boss's lair and more like the nerve center of a tech mogul or a government intelligence agency — which, in Alex's case, was exactly the point. He was part engineer, part strategist; the lifeblood of his empire ran through those screens. 

Alex's fingers flew across the keyboard, a rapid, soft clicking that filled the quiet room. "Give me five minutes." He said without turning, his voice low and focused.

Ricardo nodded, and took the opportunity to explore. The wall opposite the windows was dominated by a solitary, formally framed photograph: Dante Chiesa. It was a cold, studio-style portrait — a man stiff in a black suit, his expression hard, his eyes holding no warmth. It was the sort of portrait one might find in a corporate boardroom or a government building, not the kind of photograph a son would choose to remember his father by.

Ricardo's gaze swept the room, searching for any other personal trace — any image of Elena, the woman who had shaped Alex's early years, whose words had become Ricardo's secret solace. There was nothing of her. Not a single photo. Her absence from this space felt deliberate, pointed — a taboo in her own son's home.

Damn. Ricardo thought, a private ache twisting in his chest. She's become like a secret soul guide to me, and I don't even know what she looks like.

He drifted to the other side of the room, where a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf stood. It was sparsely populated, holding not novels or histories, but technical manuals on cybersecurity, network architecture, and advanced programming, in both Italian and English. The sight immediately transported him back to Elena's preserved bedroom on Castello Island, to her books filled with meticulous, brilliant notes. This was her legacy.

It was then that something caught his eye — a simple silver frame, no bigger than a paperback, tucked away in a corner of a lower shelf. It was unappealing, its presence so understated it seemed almost forgotten. Drawn by a quiet curiosity, Ricardo walked over and picked it up.

It held a picture of two boys. They couldn't have been much older than ten, their faces flushed with the joy of game. They were squatting on a verdant lawn, wearing grass-stained football jerseys, a scuffed ball resting in front of them. 

One of them was unmistakably Alex. The amber eyes were the same, though here they were clear and bright, free of the shadows they would later hold. A sharp, intelligent grin stretched his mouth, a look of pure, unguarded happiness. His arm was slung around the other boy, a protective, brotherly gesture.

The one under his arm was smaller, a little rounder around the cheeks, his features less defined, with a smattering of freckles, a slightly crooked nose, a gap between his front teeth that showed in his exuberant smile. His face radiated a warmth and an easy-going charm that was instantly endearing. Ricardo stared at his happy, innocent face for a long time, a cold knot forming in his stomach.

Behind him, Alex's typing ceased. Ricardo heard the soft crunch of leather as Alex rose from his chair, footsteps approaching with measured caution.

Ricardo turned, still holding the photograph, and their eyes met across the shadowed space. "This other boy..." He asked quietly, though he already knew the answer. "Is it Leo? Ramon's son."

Alex froze. The casual ease he'd had while working vanished, his shoulders tightening almost imperceptibly. His eyes flicked from the photo to Ricardo's face, and for a moment, he looked painfully still, caught in a memory he'd tried to bury.

"Yes." He answered, the word coming out reluctant, rough-edged.

Ricardo felt something shift in his chest — understanding, perhaps, or recognition. "This is the reason, isn't it?" He gestured with the frame, his voice soft but insistent. "The real reason you'd rather take punishment yourself than let Ramon pay."

Alex didn't answer. He just looked at the photo in Ricardo's hand, and the profound grief that flashed in his eyes was a more powerful confirmation than any words could ever be.

Ricardo placed the frame back on the shelf with a quiet, deliberate care, as if handling something sacred. He turned to face Alex fully, his own anger and resentment toward Ramon momentarily silenced by the weight of what he was seeing. 

"Tell me about him." He said, his voice gentler than Alex had heard it in weeks. "About Leo."

Alex hesitated, then let out a long, slow breath. He walked to the window, pushing aside one of the heavy blinds to stare out at the sunlit garden, as if he couldn't tell the story while looking at Ricardo.

"After my mother left," he began, his voice low, rough with memory, each word carved from a place of deep, unhealed hurt, "my father brought me to the mainland and kept me hidden — safe houses, temporary arrangements, always moving. Sometimes..." His throat worked, swallowing against emotion. "Sometimes he'd dump me at Ramon's house and disappear. Days at first, then weeks at a time."

Ricardo remained perfectly still, afraid that any movement might shatter this moment of vulnerability.

"Ramon was often away on business with him, so it was just me, his wife Sofia, and Leo." Alex's voice softened, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "Leo was two years younger than me. He was an annoying little shit. Followed me everywhere, but he never made me feel like an intruder. From the first day, he treated me like the brother he'd always wanted."

Alex traced patterns on the windowpane with his fingers, as if he could carve Leo's memories into the glass. "We were inseparable. Playing football until it was too dark to see the ball. Climbing the big oak tree in their yard. Building elaborate forts on the sand beach. Even when I was angry about my father, about being abandoned again, Leo could make me smile."

Ricardo watched Alex's hand. The knuckles flexed once, then smoothed. "Then Ramon went to prison for my father." Alex continued. "I stayed with Sofia and Leo even more often. They became... they became more real to me than my own family. Sofia treated me like her own. She would help with homework, bandage scraped knees, read stories before bed. And Leo..." He paused, struggling. "Leo was my best accomplice. We'd spend hours drilling each other with knives and sticks, sneak out to pick fights in the dockyards, and he'd always cover my back." He paused, his expression stark. "He was the only brother I ever had."

Ricardo held his breath as he watched Alex's reflection in the window glass, saw the way his shoulders curved inward as if protecting an old wound.

"But when Leo was fourteen, shortly after his initiation..." The words came out flat, emotionless, as if Alex had drained them of all feeling to make them bearable. "Your father had him taken. They tortured him for three days before mangling him into pieces. Just to send us a message."

The clinical tone he used to describe the brutality made it somehow worse. Ricardo felt a chill that had nothing to do with the room's temperature.

"Ramon was still inside when it happened." Alex continued, his voice hollow. "He couldn't even attend the funeral. And Sofia..." His voice broke slightly. "Sofia died two years later. Uterine cancer. The doctors said stress could have accelerated it, made her body unable to fight. Ramon lost everything — his son, his wife, his faith in any kind of mercy."

Ricardo stood frozen, words deserting him as his thoughts tumbled into chaos. The hatred he carried for Ramon still smoldered — the man who had reveled in his ruin, who had tried to drown him. That fury had been sharp, clean, undeniable. Yet now, another image overlaid it: Ramon's voice on the phone, thick with whiskey and grief, howling like a wounded animal, promising vengeance through tears he could barely choke down.

It was grotesque, pathetic — and devastating. The venom, the insults, the cruelty seemed suddenly small compared to the cavern of loss behind them. Ricardo realized he hadn't been just facing a ruthless sadist, but a hollowed-out shell — a man gutted by his father's hand, staggering on with nothing left but rage.

His chest tightened. What was he supposed to feel? Sympathy? Guilt? Understanding? Forgiveness? Each emotion twisted inside him like glass, until they shattered together into something harsher: anger. Not at Ramon, not at Alex, but at Salvatore. His father's shadow pressed down on him, suffocating — the true architect of every wound, every broken life, every scream that still haunted him.

Ricardo straightened slowly, the decision settling into his bones. When he lifted his eyes to Alex, they no longer wavered; they burned with resolve.

"Show me what you have on my father." He said, his voice low but steady. "I want to help." A pause — heavier, more determined. "I need to help."

For a heartbeat Alex only stared at him, then a faint, weary smile touched his lips, like a man who had been waiting for this moment, and fearing it, all at once.

"Come with me." He murmured, his voice a low, intimate invitation. He reached for Ricardo's hand, and Ricardo let him, their fingers intertwining with surprising naturalness. Side by side, they crossed to the massive desk where the monitors cast their pale glow, rows of secrets shimmering like a constellation waiting to be read.

Alex guided Ricardo to his own high-backed leather chair, the seat still warm from his presence. Ricardo hesitated before lowering himself into it, as if crossing another threshold further into Alex's world. Alex pulled up a simple stool for himself, sitting so close their knees brushed, their reflections glinting side by side in the monitor screens.

"Clara has been working on this for two years." Alex began, his fingers dancing across the keyboard with practiced efficiency. "The Vault is primarily a physical asset. Old school. Only ten percent, at most, is digitized and accessible by hacking. The rest — the real leverage — is physical documents, ledgers, tapes, and isolated hard drives stored in a location completely disconnected from the outside network."

He zoomed in on a file on one screen, showing a blurred, long-lens photo of a man in a sharp suit entering a nondescript van. "Salvatore uses a clandestine agency to manage it, a shadow team. Clara managed to track one of them, a courier. It was a long, painstaking process, but through data mining, we finally narrowed it down to four possible locations."

As he spoke, the screens shifted. The cold, analytical data vanished, replaced by a large-scale map of Southern Italy. Alex clicked, and four windows bloomed into life on separate screens, each showing the satellite image of a different property in crisp, high-resolution detail. Three looked like sprawling agricultural businesses — a ranch with long stables, a vast citrus orchard nestled against a hillside, a vineyard with neat, soldier-straight rows of vines. The fourth was a stark contrast: a dilapidated industrial complex near a commercial port, a cluster of rusted warehouses surrounded by a chain-link fence.

Ricardo leaned forward, elbows on the desk, studying the images. His eyes narrowed as he took in each possibility. At first glance, they all seemed plausible. His father was meticulous, and any of these could be cover enough.

"The warehouse is the most strategically sound." Alex said, pointing. "Close to the port for transport, easy to fortify, and anonymous. My analysis puts it at a sixty percent probability."

Ricardo stared at the image of the rusted, corrugated roof. He shook his head slowly. "No." he said, the word quiet but firm.

Alex turned to him, an eyebrow raised. "No?"

"It's too ugly." Ricardo stated simply. Alex looked at him, confused, and he elaborated. "My father is a vain man. He sees the Vault as his legacy, the source of his true power, his crown jewels. He would never keep something so precious to him in a rusted, utilitarian box. He'd want to visit it, to admire it, to feel its power. That place has no soul."

He pointed to the next image, the sleek, modern vineyard with sprawling new facilities. "This one is too new... too shiny."

Alex tilted his head, more interested. "Oh?"

"He doesn't trust anything that doesn't have deep roots." Ricardo explained. "He trusts old loyalties, old blood, old stone. He wouldn't trust his entire empire to a place without history."

His finger moved to the third, a rustic ranch deep in the Aspromonte mountains. "And this one is too far. He's a paranoid control freak. He would want it somewhere he could reach in an hour, unannounced, just to be sure. This is a three-hour drive, one way."

That left the last image. An old citrus grove on a coastal hill, less pristine than the vineyard, with a historic, slightly crumbling stone villa at its heart.

Ricardo's breath caught. He zoomed in, his eyes tracing the lines of the old stone walls, the rows of dark green trees.

"This one." he whispered, a strange certainty dawning in his voice.

"It's a possibility," Alex conceded, "but the security seems lighter, and it's still an active agricultural site. The risk of exposure is higher."

"He hides in plain sight. Profitable, legitimate businesses that generate clean cash and demand no questions." Ricardo murmured, his mind drifting back. He wasn't looking at the map anymore; he was looking into his own past. 

"I remember… something." He closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the chair. "Sometimes, when I was a boy, he would come home late. He wouldn't smell of cigars or the expensive cologne he always wore. He would smell of damp earth… and citrus blossoms. And something else… something cold, like stone or cellars."

Alex listened, his own expression shifting, the strategist giving way to the profiler.

"I went there once." Ricardo continued, his eyes still closed. "I was maybe seven or eight. He took me with him. He said it was a business meeting, but there was no one else there. Just him and two of his oldest guards." He opened his eyes and pointed to a specific spot on the screen, a half-overgrown path leading away from the main villa. "We walked down this path. I remember complaining about the thorns on the bushes."

His finger then traced a crumbling, circular structure at the end of the path. "He went into this old stone building. An old watchtower, maybe? He told me to wait outside with the guards and pick oranges." His gaze became distant. "They weren't normal oranges. They were dark, almost red inside. Blood oranges."

The metaphor hung in the air between them, heavy and chilling.

"When he came out an hour later," Ricardo finished, his voice barely a whisper, "he had that smell on him again. Earth, blossoms, and cold stone. He never took me back."

Silence filled the study. Alex stared at the screen, then at Ricardo, a new, profound respect dawning in his eyes. He had been analyzing data, logistics, and security protocols. Ricardo was analyzing a soul — the dark, twisted soul of his own father.

"A vain man hiding his crown jewels in a place with history." Alex murmured, repeating Ricardo's words. "A paranoid man keeping it close. A sentimental man choosing a place that grows blood oranges."

He turned back to the main monitor. With a few clicks, he closed the windows for the warehouse, the ranch, and the modern vineyard. Only the citrus grove remained, filling the screen. He highlighted the old stone tower at the end of the path and marked it with a flashing red icon.

"Okay." Alex said, his voice imbued with a new, shared conviction as he looked at Ricardo. "We go with your gut."

Chapter Text

The meeting room in Alex's villa was a chamber of dark elegance, its high ceilings and carved mahogany walls absorbing the morning light that slipped through sheer curtains. A long, polished obsidian table dominated the space, its surface gleaming like a still lake under the weight of maps, tablets, and steaming espresso cups. The air was cool and still, tasting of roasted coffee and ozone from the electronic equipment.

The men assembled around the dark table were a collection of hardened faces — Ramon, the security head Sergio, Alex's trusted capos, and the mercenary leader Captain Mason with his lieutenant. They were the machinery of power, waiting for its engine to arrive.

The double oak doors swung inward. Everyone rose to their feet in a silent, uniform gesture of respect. Alex entered first, his presence commanding the space as always. But it was the figure half a step behind him that drew every eye and sucked the air from the room.

Ricardo Garavani followed, not as a shadow, but as a counterpart. He moved with a new, unnerving grace. The ocean-blue shirt he wore seemed to intensify the chill in his gaze as it swept the room, a king surveying a territory he had no need to conquer because he already owned its ruler. The change was seismic. The boy who had once trembled under their collective scrutiny was gone. In his place was a man who held a glacial calm, sharp and unyielding.

His eyes landed on Ramon, and lingered.

For the first time, Ricardo did not shrink at the sight of the man. No more sickening lurch of panic, no more trembling hands, no more haunting phantom pain. He looked at him directly, and the gaze was cold, almost surgical. It was not defiance, not hatred, not even triumph. It was only indifference laced with the knowledge of dominance, an analytical look of a pathologist examining a specimen pinned to its spot.

Ramon, on the other hand, felt a wave of cold sweat break out across his back. He flinched, an almost imperceptible jerk of the scar on his face, his gaze dropping to the floor. The whiskey from yesterday still churned in his stomach, a bitter reminder of his spectacular breakdown.

Fuck. Is he one of us now? Or are we… his? The thought was a stinging acid in his gut. The boy he had once dismissed as a spoiled brat, the victim he had relished breaking, now walked at the right hand of his boss, radiating an authority that felt inevitable and terrifying, as if he had not only survived their world but also controlled it.

Ramon felt it like a blade pressing into his throat, stealing his breath. Humiliation flooded him in relentless waves, the memory of the phone call a fresh, vivid trauma. He hadn't just been tricked; he had been psychologically flayed. Ricardo's voice had been calm, clinical, narrating Alex's supposed castration in chilling detail. Ramon's ears had supplied the wet, tearing sounds, his nose the phantom scent of blood and antiseptic. And when Ricardo sent that gory image — some hapless loser's severed parts that must have been plucked from the depths of the dark web — Ramon's mind had painted a picture so horrific it had broken his very sanity.

He played me. He played me like a fucking rubber chicken!

Ramon had been reduced to a sniveling, pathetic wreck over the phone. He had wept, begged, cursed, vomited, howled with a grief and rage so pure it completely exposed the rotted core of his pain — all for a performance. His raw, desperate vulnerability had been meticulously puppeteered and exploited by Ricardo, not to harm Alex, but to teach him a lesson. He felt like the biggest fool in the world. His pride, the stubborn core of a man who had survived streets and prisons, was annihilated in front of the very boy he once despised.

He wasn't just afraid of Ricardo's potential for cruelty; he was terrified of his mind. To construct something so perfectly sadistic, so psychologically devastating, without drawing a drop of permanent blood, was a level of cunning Ramon couldn't comprehend. It was a power more formidable than any bullet or blade. A mind that could ruin him without even touching him.

And the most maddening part? He couldn't even direct his rage properly. What was he supposed to avenge? A prank? A lesson? Alex was whole and unharmed. Ricardo hadn't actually committed the atrocity Ramon had sworn to slaughter him for. He couldn't strike back without looking unhinged, without admitting how thoroughly he'd been outmaneuvered. The fury was left circling like a mad wolf with no prey, eating itself alive.

As Alex took his seat at the head of the table, the others began to follow suit. Ricardo stepped naturally into the seat immediately to his right — a position of trust and seniority, directly across the table from Ramon. 

Ramon's legs locked in a state of fight-or-flight paralysis. The chair beside Alex suddenly felt like a trap. The thought of sitting there, under that cold, knowing gaze for the next hour, made his skin crawl.

He took a step away from the table and gesturing toward Sergio who was sitting two seats behind. "Psst, Sergio." He whispered stealthily. "Switch with me."

Sergio gave him a confused look, and before he could respond, Alex's head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. "Ramon, what are you doing?" 

Every eye in the room turned toward Ramon. He felt his face flush with heat, the weight of their collective attention pressing down on him. "I—uh—I need to piss." He lied, the excuse clumsy and transparent. "I'll take the end seat when I'm back."

Alex simply stared at him, his gaze pinning Ramon, unyielding, a silent reminder of who held the reins. He knew exactly what Ramon was doing. He was observing the perfect implementation of Ricardo's lesson: dominance achieved not through force, but through trauma.

"You can hold it." His voice was quiet, but leaving no room for negotiation. "Sit down right here. We're starting."

Defeated, Ramon obeyed, the shame burrowing deeper as he sank back into his seat. He glanced at Ricardo, whose expression remained impassive, watching coldly like a statue. There was a flicker of something in Ricardo's eyes — not triumph, not a smirk, just a calm, flat acknowledgment: You're afraid of me now, and you should be.

The meeting began. The screen lit with maps and schematics as Alex outlined the Vault operation. His voice was steady, analytical, pointing out choke points, escape routes, timing, and contingency plans. But his eyes — though they traced the screen — flickered often toward the silent struggle at the table.

He saw it all: Ramon, once the fiercest dog at his side, now restless and diminished, his shoulders hunching, his fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on the table; Ricardo, silent yet commanding, his eyes occasionally darting to Ramon, not with malice but with a detached curiosity, as if studying a specimen. Alex recognized the shift in power as clearly as the lines on the map.

Alex's hand tightened briefly on the laser pointer, a mixture of emotions welling up in his chest — a pang of protective guilt toward Ramon, warring with a dark, undeniable thrill at Ricardo's transformation. He was orchestrating this, too — keeping Ramon in line, ensuring Ricardo's place, balancing the fragile alliance that held his empire together. But beneath it, he felt the weight of what he'd unleashed in Ricardo, a force that could either save them or destroy them all.

When the meeting finally ended, Alex's voice cut through the dispersing murmur of chairs scraping and papers rustling. "Ramon. Stay behind."

The words were casual, but they landed with weight. Ramon's hand, already on the back of his chair, froze. Around him, the others filed out, their footsteps echoing in the hallway beyond. Ricardo stood up last, his movements deliberate, unhurried. As he reached the door, he and Alex exchanged a glance — brief, nearly imperceptible, but loaded with unspoken understanding — a spark of intimacy that excluded everyone else. Ricardo's nod was subtle, a promise of trust, then he slipped out and pulled the door closed behind him.

The soft click of the latch seemed to reverberate in the sudden silence, sealing Alex and Ramon inside the vast, cold meeting room. The fading scent of coffee and expensive cologne lingered, mingling with the fresh, clean air that always clung to Alex.

Ramon sat rigid in the chair, arms crossed defensively over his chest, his jaw working as if chewing on words he couldn't quite spit out. His scarred face, usually a mask of stoic menace, was taut with a cocktail of shame, fear, and simmering resentment.

Alex stood at the head of the table, one hand resting on its surface, fingers drumming a slow, unconscious rhythm. The large screen behind him was now blank, reflecting the room like a monochrome ghost.

The air between them was thick, oppressive, charged with everything unsaid. Alex could feel it pressing against his chest — the weight of explanations owed, of trust fractured. He drew a breath, searching for the right words, the ones that would make Ramon understand without revealing too much, without exposing the raw vulnerability that still scraped beneath his skin like sandpaper.

But Ramon spoke first.

"You…" The word came out rough, abraded by anger and hurt. His hands flexed on the edge of the table. "You were in on it, weren't you? His whole sick performance… you were part of it. You screamed for him! You let him make me believe—" His mouth twisted with humiliation and disbelief. "I thought you were being carved apart. I thought I was about to hear you die! You were faking it just to make me a fucking idiot." His eyes were bloodshot, blazed with wounded betrayal. "It felt like you stabbed me in the back, Alex."

Alex turned his head slowly, his own exhaustion warred with a rising tide of frustration. "No, Ramon." He said, his voice low and utterly convincing. "I'd never do that to you. I swear on my father's grave, I didn't know he was going to call you. I didn't know what he was planning until it was too late. He tricked me, too. I believed every second of it, just like you." The memory of the blindfold, the cold steel, the phantom agony of severance, flashed in his amber eyes, a genuine shudder running through him.

Ramon's eyes widened, searching Alex's face for a lie, yet found only sincerity. But the anger didn't fade — it shifted, trapped in the feedback loop of his own humiliation.

"Then how the hell did he get you like that?" He pushed his chair back with a harsh scrape and stood up, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "How could he strip you bare, tie you up like a slaughtered pig, put those fucking tools next to your cock without you allowing it? You let him!" His voice dripped with a scorn that was meant to wound. "So what was that? Some fucked-up kinky bedroom play between you two? Dragging me in as the fool to make it spicier, to add some extra thrill to your—"

"Ramon!" 

Alex slammed his hand down on the table, the sharp crack echoing through the room. The direct, nasty offense — having his deepest vulnerability described as "kinky play" — stripped away his composure. The humiliation was sudden and raw, flashing across his face.

"Enough." He took a steadying breath, forcing himself back to a controlled calm. "What happened between me and him is not your concern. What matters is this: I took what I deserved. And you..." he leaned forward, his gaze intense, forcing Ramon to meet it, "you got what you deserved."

Ramon's mouth opened, then closed, his broad shoulders slumping. He sank back into the chair, a low, panting breath escaping him. His fight were draining out, leaving behind a weary, bitter resignation.

Seeing the shift, Alex's tone softened, switching from heated defense to strategic persuasion. "Ricardo was the one who pinpointed the Vault. His insight, his understanding of his father's mind, is what our data couldn't provide." He paused, letting that sink in. "And don't forget, he was the one who sent Salvatore to prison in the first place, not us. He is the reason we even have this chance."

Alex's gaze sharpened, drilling into Ramon. "I need you to respect him. I'm not asking you to like him. I'm not even asking you to pay back what you owe him. But you MUST respect his position beside me."

Ramon's jaw worked silently, his gaze dropping to the table.

"He's with us, Ramon." Alex continued, his tone growing more urgent, more strategic. "We can't win this war without him. And don't be shortsighted — there are things far more important than just putting a bullet in Salvatore's skull. Ricardo is..." He paused, searching for the word. "Priceless to us."

The words rolled off his tongue smoothly, convincingly — the same kind of strategic reasoning Alex had used countless times before to justify difficult decisions, to rally hesitant underlings, to convince himself that the ends justified the means. It was his armor, his shield, the logic that had carried him through impossible situations.

But even as he spoke, something inside him jerked violently, like a fish caught on a hook.

The realization struck him with uncomfortable clarity: it felt too natural, too perfectly aligned with his pragmatic goals.

Priceless. To us.

Was he just hiding behind strategy and ambition, constructing a narrative his old lieutenant could accept, or was that truly how he saw Ricardo? As an asset first, a person second? As useful rather than loved?

The thought made his stomach twist with nausea. He loved Ricardo — he knew he did. The feelings were genuine, undeniable, woven through with yearning and need and a terrifying vulnerability he'd never allowed himself with anyone else. But underneath that love, coiled like a serpent in dark water, was that calculating part of his mind still measuring, still weighing, still instinctively assessing Ricardo's utility.

Strategy and love. Can they coexist? Or does one inevitably poison the other?

The question whispered through his consciousness, unwelcome and persistent. It made him feel sick — with himself, with the person he'd become, with the cold pragmatism that had been beaten into him by years of this life.

He shoved the thought down, though it burned like acid. He forced himself to focus on Ramon, who sat deflated now, the resentment banked to embers of grim acceptance. He knew, as Alex knew, that Ricardo's place was no longer negotiable.

Alex saw the opening. "If you're not feeling fit for the mission," he said, his voice quiet but edged with steel, "if you can't put aside your personal feelings and your… understandable trauma, I can have Sergio lead the assault team, and spare you from the operation." Then he added quickly, "no shame in it."

The effect was instantaneous. Ramon jolted upright as if electrocuted, his eyes widening in genuine panic. "No!" The word was a raw plea. "Don't! Don't leave me out of this. Not when we finally go for Salvatore's throat. You'll kill me if you sideline me now, Alex. You'll kill me." He took a step forward, his voice dropping to a gravelly, earnest vow. "I'll follow orders. To the letter. I'll cause no trouble for you," he swallowed hard, the name a bitter pill, "or for Ricardo. I swear it on my son's soul."

Alex watched him closely, the raw desperation etched across Ramon's features as plain as his scar. After a pause, he let a faint, wry smile touch his mouth and gave a short nod. "Alright. We move forward."

Relief shuddered out of Ramon in a breath, though his shoulders stayed stiff, his eyes still wary. The fear had softened, not vanished.

Alex reached out, a steadying hand on Ramon's arm — a gesture meant to soothe, to bind the crack back together. Yet beneath the calm mask, he held the tempest down tight, aware this fragile balance between them was nothing more than a truce of necessity. It would hold, yes. But only for now.

Chapter Text

The ranch sprawled across the Calabrian hinterland like a fortress of tranquility, its rolling emerald hills dotted with low, weathered stone walls and dark cattle moving lazily under the September light. Olive trees cast gnarled shadows across the gravel drive as a black SUV rolled to a stop near the main house. 

Alex and Ricardo stepped out of the vehicle. The air was clean, carrying the earthy scent of damp soil and distant livestock. The ranch, which Alex called Rifugio d'Ombra — Refuge of Shadow, was one of the Chiesa family's lesser-known properties, now serving as a safehouse and staging ground. In three days, they would assault the Vault from here, which was just fifty miles away.

The ranch house, a long, whitewashed structure with terracotta tiles, stood at the heart of the estate. It was a mix of rustic tradition and hidden fortification — shutters painted a fading green, the wide veranda shaded by vines, but antennas and cameras discreetly mounted in the eaves told another story.

Alex moved ahead with that confident stride of his, boots crunching on gravel. Ricardo followed, his eyes scanning the property like a panther stepping into unfamiliar territory.

It was cool and dim inside, the air smelling of old wood and cured meat. The living room was plain but cozy: worn leather couches, a heavy wooden table strewn with laptops, notes, and topographic maps, a coffee pot steaming on the counter.

And at the center of it all, leaning casually against the table, was Clara Ventresca, a thin woman in her mid-twenties.

It took Ricardo a beat to recognize her. Her hair, once a natural brown, now blazed in vibrant purple, cut in a sharp, asymmetrical bob that swept across one eyebrow. Tattoos snaked across her forearms in complex geometric patterns, partly hidden by the rolled-up sleeves of a black hoodie, like private passwords only she could decipher. With thick-framed glasses perched on her nose, she looked both like a rebel student and a scholar who had wandered into the wrong battlefield, yet carried herself with such calm ease that the room seemed to bend around her presence.

She looked up as they entered, and Ricardo felt his breath catch slightly — not from attraction, but from the strange cognitive dissonance of seeing her here, like this. Her gaze was steady, cool, making Ricardo feel as though he had already been seen through.

"Clara." Alex's voice was warm, casual. He moved into the room with the comfort of someone returning home. "Everything running smoothly?"

"Like clockwork." Her voice was low, slightly husky. She gestured to the screen before her. "Your boys are thorough. We've got eyes on every approach to the Vault. It has a biometric defense, but nothing we can't crack."

"Good." Alex's tone held approval. He stepped closer to her and spoke briefly about the technical details, his words brisk, focused, all business. Clara replied in the same clipped rhythm, her hands sketching sharp motions in the air like she was tracing invisible circuits.

Then she glanced at Ricardo, a faint, knowing smile playing on her lips. Alex caught it, a flicker of amusement in his own eyes.

"Well," Alex said, turning slightly to encompass both of them, his arm briefly brushing Ricardo's, "I guess I don't need to reintroduce you to each other, do I?"

Ricardo felt an awkward weight stir in his chest. He had known Clara before, but as a different person. He had seen her reporting dutifully to his father, quiet, diligent, the efficient cybersecurity lead he never once suspected. The memory pricked him now like a thorn: how easily she had played her role, how completely she had deceived them all, being Alex's scalpel inserted deep into the Garavani heart. And yet, this was the ghost in the machine, the one who had silently aided him that terrifying night he'd slipped into his father's office, erasing his digital footsteps with a phantom's touch.

Clara chuckled, a soft, pleasant sound. "No, I think we're quite acquainted already." Her gaze met Ricardo's, relaxed and self-possessed. There was no apology or defensiveness in her eyes — only a cool acknowledgment of a shared secret.

Ricardo swallowed, his face feeling warm. "I should… thank you. For that night." He said at last, the words leaving him with a shy, unguarded smile he hadn't meant to show.

"Just doing my job." Clara answered with a light shrug. A faint, appreciative smile touched her lips. "But I'll admit, you've got good instincts. And serious guts. Very impressive."

A slow grin spread across Alex's face as he watched them. He leaned back against the table, arms crossing loosely over his chest. "Impressive?" He drawled. "You're saying that now? I seem to recall a certain report declaring that my Ricardo was just a 'useless spoiled dandy'."

His voice was teasing, but the look in his eyes — fixed on Ricardo — was warm, touched with pride. Clara just arched a brow, unbothered, as Ricardo let out a soft sigh.

"Must you?" Ricardo muttered, darting an annoyed gaze at Alex but unable to hide the faint color that crept into his cheeks.

"Just stating facts." Alex said with feigned innocence, pushing off the table. He moved behind Ricardo, sliding an arm around his waist in a casual, grounding hold. His voice dropped to a low purr near Ricardo's ear. "Turns out our 'dandy' has a mind sharper than my best analysts. Who'd have guessed?" He shot a playful wink at Clara over Ricardo's shoulder.

Clara rolled her eyes with a fond exasperation that spoke of a long and easy familiarity. "It was a miscalculation." She stated cooly. "The data never shows the full picture."

"A terrible mistake we both made." Alex admitted, his smirk softening into something more genuine. He gave Ricardo's hip a brief, possessive squeeze before letting go. "Well, I'll leave you two to catch up." He started toward the back door of the house, his boots echoing softly on the stone floor. "The horses haven't seen me in months. I'll go check on them. Make sure they're not planning a coup of their own."

With a final, knowing glance that swept over them both, he stepped out onto the sun-drenched veranda, the screen door swinging shut behind him with a soft creak, leaving the air strangely hollow.

Silence settled in — thick, uneasy. Ricardo stood awkwardly, the warmth of Alex's touch still on his skin. He felt exposed, unmoored, trapped in the presence of the woman who had been the blade that pierced his father's empire, who was to him both a ghostly enemy and an ally, a living reminder of how deeply Alex's web had been woven around his old life.

Clara rose from her seat and crossed to the kitchenette, her movements unhurried. "Tea or coffee?" She asked, as if she was the mistress of this house.

Ricardo cleared his throat. His voice came out lower, rougher than he intended. "Coffee, please."

He sat on the couch, posture stiff despite his effort to relax. The faint clink of porcelain reached him as Clara poured the drink, then placed the cup in front of him. She added a bottle of milk to the side table. "Freshly milked this morning." She said lightly, almost teasing.

"Thank you." Ricardo said with a brief nod, the words polite but distant. He suddenly felt like an outsider looking in — a guest hovering at the edge of Alex's circle, waiting to be integrated.

Clara sat back into the chair across from him, folding one leg over the other. For a moment, neither spoke. Ricardo's fingers brushed the edge of the cup, unsure how to begin. She saved him the trouble.

"Curious how I ended up working for him?" She asked, voice calm, steady.

Ricardo met her gaze and gave a small, wordless nod.

Clara leaned back in her chair, folding her arms, the tattoos shifting like shadowed script across her skin. "It's a long story." She started, her tone matter-of-fact, as if reciting a case history. "My father had a small construction business. Nothing fancy, just honest work. But the economy tanked, and he needed capital to keep his workers employed, to finish a contract. He went to the wrong person for a loan."

Ricardo felt his stomach tighten. He knew where this was going.

"Garavani's loan sharks." Clara continued plainly, without dramatics, but Ricardo could see the shadows harden behind her glasses. "My father couldn't pay, so they beat him. Broke three of his ribs and his left hand. Told him next time they'd come for my mother, for me." Her jaw clenched. "I was at university in Milan at the time. Politecnico di Milano, computer engineering program."

"Same university as Alex's mother." Ricardo said quietly, remembering Alex mentioning it once.

"Yeah. Weird coincidence, right? Or maybe not a coincidence at all." Clara smiled bitterly. "Anyway, I came home after graduation. Saw my family crumbling. The debt had grown to something impossible. So I got... creative."

The corners of her mouth curled up slightly, her purple hair catching the light. "I tried to use my skills to exploit Alex's online casino platform. I found a flaw in the statistical algorithm. Started winning. A lot. But it only took three days for Alex to catch me."

"He caught you?" Ricardo asked, intrigued.

"He didn't just catch me. He sent an encrypted message to my laptop that revealed the flaw I was exploiting and the exact code I needed to patch it. Then his men tracked me down and brought me to him."

Ricardo's breath caught, eyes widening, urging her to continue.

Clara leaned forward, her voice dropping slightly, imbued with something close to reverence. "I thought I was dead. Instead, he sat me down and talked to me. Really talked. Asked me about my father, about my education, about what I was trying to do. Then he did something crazy." She chuckled, shaking her head in lingering disbelief. "He asked if I wanted to really learn the ways of breaking his system. He showed me how to exploit a deeper vulnerability he'd deliberately left in the firewall – one only he knew about. He let me drain a small fortune from his own accounts. It was enough to clear my dad's debt. And in return, I agreed to work for him."

"So he pretended to put a price on your head." Ricardo added for her, the pieces clicking into place with a terrible, brilliant clarity.

"Exactly. And I, the desperate and talented young hacker, fled straight to the only man powerful enough to protect me from Alessandro Chiesa." Clara said, the script of their long con now familiar. "I demonstrated my value to your father by dismantling part of the very system Alex had taught me to breach. Your father saw a useful tool, a vulnerable asset he could control, and a personal victory over his rival. He never trusted new blood — let alone a young woman. But he always trusted his own greed and his hatred for the Chiesas. That's how I got in."

Ricardo was amazed. The sheer audacity, the meticulous long-game planning, the strategic brilliance of it all. It was classic Alex Chiesa.

"It was all Alex's design." Clara said, her eyes gaining a bright, fervent intensity as she spoke of him. "He's a genius. A real one. You know he never finished high school? He completely self-taught, inherited his mother's cyber systems, maintained and improved them."

Her expression, when she said it, changed. The cool, analytical gaze softened, warmed by unreserved admiration. It was more than professional respect; it was a fondness, a loyalty that had been earned in the fires of shared secrets and salvation.

"He even trained me personally." She added, her voice softer. "He'd spend nights drilling me on penetration testing, on social engineering. And not just how to break things, but how to build them, how to think like him."

Ricardo felt something twist in his chest — not quite jealousy, not quite envy, but something close. The intimacy she described, the mentorship, the trust... It felt like a private club he'd never been invited to join.

"He's more than smart." Clara straightened her upper body, as if making a formal proclamation. "He's a good man — patient, generous. He saved my family. He gave me purpose when I had nothing but desperation. That's how much I owe him."

"He's a… good man?" Ricardo repeated quietly, looking down into his coffee cup. It wasn't a question, but a complex echo. The words felt foreign. Good? To him, Alex was a tempest of contradictions: his torturer, his protector, his ruin, his salvation. The concept of him being simply "good" was both achingly desirable and painfully distant.

Clara's answer was immediate and certain. "At least to us. To his own people."

His own people.

The phrase lodged in Ricardo's mind like a splinter. He looked at Clara — at her purple hair and inked arms, at the sparkling glimmer in her eyes, at her easy confidence in this place that was a sanctuary of Alex's making. This woman was one of Alex's people, for years. She had shared Alex's mind, had been saved by him, molded by him, had been on the inside, a trusted confidante who spoke the same language of code and strategy. They were alike in a way Ricardo and Alex could never be. She had seen the side of Alex Ricardo was only now, desperately and belatedly, trying to grasp, and still wondering if he was just imagining it.

Envy curled through his gut like smoke. Not envy of Clara's relationship with Alex — he could see the admiration in her eyes, maybe even affection, but not the consuming need that ate at him. No, this was envy of her place. Her belonging. Her clean slate.

Ricardo was with Alex now, yes. Sharing his bed, sitting at his right hand, earning grudging respect from men like Ramon. But he could not shake the sense of lateness. That there was a part of Alex already claimed by others, unsullied by the particular, brutal history they shared.

The Garavani name, the family feud, the torture, the church – it was a permanent stain, a bitterness that would always separate him from being truly one of "Alex's own people" in the way Clara was. He had come into Alex's life as a target, a pawn, and a victim, while she had come as one of rescue and mentorship. And the difference, in that moment, felt like an unbridgeable chasm.

The thought burned, silent and bitter, beneath the quiet smile he forced to hold. He stared at Clara, as if she was a living reminder of everything his relationship with Alex was not, and might never be.

The screen door creaked open again.

Alex stepped back inside, sunlight chasing him in a golden halo that broke against his shoulders. His hair was slightly wind-tousled, his sleeves rolled, his collar open, and a carefree smile played on his lips. The faint scent of hay, horse, and fresh air clung to him — a rustic edge that softened the sharp lines of the man who ruled streets from behind screens and gunfire.

He paused at the door, taking in the room in a single glance. Clara was already back at the map-strewn table, casually reviewing the data on her laptop, the movement of her purple hair a splash of color against the pale wood. And Ricardo sat rigid on the couch, fingers tracing the rim of his half-empty coffee cup, his neutral expression a little too careful. The distance between them wasn't physical; it was atmospheric — a subtle, weary flatness that seemed to emanate from Ricardo.

Alex's own smile faltered for a fraction of a second, a flicker of unease crossing his face as he sensed the subtle shift in the room's air. But he smoothed it away with practiced control, choosing not to probe the silent tension.

Instead, his voice came relaxed, bright — too bright. "They remembered me!" He said, tossing his gloves onto the table. "Bruno nearly bit my sleeve off in greeting. I think he's offended I left him in Clara's care."

Clara smiled faintly, without rising. "He likes me more than he likes you."

Alex shot her a quick grin — one that didn't quite reach his eyes — before turning his full attention to Ricardo. "Come on." He said, stepping closer, lowering his voice to something conspiratorial, coaxing. "You haven't seen them yet, have you? The horses. I think you'll like them. Come ride with me."

Ricardo blinked, the turmoil in his chest momentarily stilled by the warmth of the request. "Now?"

"Now." Alex's eyes glinted with boyish enthusiasm. "The light's perfect. I'd like to show you the land." He reached out, the gesture casual, but his fingers brushed Ricardo's shoulder in silent insistence — a touch that said "come with me" more than his words did.

Ricardo hesitated only a moment. Then he rose, smoothing his shirt with a hand that trembled almost imperceptibly. "Alright." He said softly.

Alex smiled, satisfied. "Good. Let's go."

As they moved toward the back door, Clara's gaze followed — sharp, knowing, faintly amused. She tilted her head, resting her chin in her palm as if watching a play whose ending she already knew.

"Try not to fall off." She called lightly. "He's a proud one, Bruno, that stallion."

Alex looked back over his shoulder, grin flashing. "You're just jealous he doesn't listen to you."

Clara raised an eyebrow, her tone perfectly even. "Maybe I don't need him to."

Their eyes met — a fleeting spark of camaraderie — before Alex pushed open the screen door again, this time for Ricardo.

Ricardo stepped through onto the veranda, the warmth of the afternoon sun washing over his skin, the strange, bitter envy still coiling in his gut.

As the screen door swung closed behind them, Clara exhaled quietly and leaned back in her chair, the corner of her mouth curving in a small, thoughtful smile.