Florek had bled for more than three weeks.
The Varkis' grip on the district had tightened slowly like a noose. What began as a blackout raid had become a full occupation. Draven counterstrikes flared up sporadically, ambushes in back alleys, snipers on rooftops, desperate charges from loyalists who still believed the tide could turn, but each one was crushed with brutal efficiency. Bodies vanished into the river before dawn; survivors learned silence the hard way. Karter Angelo, the former district head, sat tied to a slim wooden chair in the back room of what used to be his own office. The chair groaned under his weight. He had signed the resignation papers days ago, blood-smeared, trembling signature—before anyone outside the room heard from him again. A Varkis man now sat at his desk.
The casinos, once glittering engines of profit, stood dark and silent. Owners begged through intermediaries to reopen, promising tribute, loyalty, anything. The Varkis refused. Everything was sealed: doors chained, slots stripped for parts, vaults emptied under guard. Business bled out of Florek like water from a cracked basin, flowing instead to safer Varkis districts where lights still burned and money still moved. The red zone label had been stamped on every map, every ledger. The report reached William at breakfast.
He sat at the head of the long mahogany table in the morning room, knife slicing cleanly through a rare steak. Maroon juices pooled on the porcelain plate, rich and glistening. The cutlery scraped with slow, deliberate creaks as he carved another bite, savoring it. His face wore an expression of quiet contentment, almost serene.
The messenger stood a respectful distance away, head bowed.
William swallowed, dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin, and nodded once.
"Tell Michael he has impressed me."
"I will deliver your compliment at the first opportunity, sir."
William set the knife down. "Anything else?"
"Yes, sir. The doctor has just left. Young Master's bandages were changed this morning. The wounds are healing cleanly faster than expected. He should be walking without difficulty in another week or so."
William gave a single, curt nod. No smile. No warmth.
"Good. It's about time he gets back on his feet and handles the matters he's neglected." his tone was strict, filled with disappointment.
The secretary bowed again and turned to leave, nearly colliding with a maid sweeping in from the side door.
She carried a tray with a steaming bowl of porridge, a silver spoon resting on the rim. Tight red curls framed a freckled face; bright blue eyes flashed with irritation. Tall, curved in a way that drew stares from half the household staff, she moved with the confidence of someone who knew exactly how attractive she was and used it like a weapon.
"Watch where you're going, Twinkle Toes," she snapped at the secretary. "I made this for the young master. If it spilled, I'd have skinned you alive."
The secretary rolled his eyes, stepped aside without a word, and vanished down the corridor.
Foxy, known for her sharp tongue and sharper temper, paid him no mind. She stormed toward Valentino's room, tray held high like a battle standard.
The corridor outside Val's suite was a fortress now: The moment Foxy reached the door, they closed ranks, blocking her path.
"Get out of my way," she hissed, "or I won't ask nicely. The porridge isn't getting any hotter while you hold me here."
One guard raised a hand. "Young Master's orders. No disturbances."
Foxy's eyes narrowed. In a flash, she leaned forward, teeth sinking into the man's forearm. He grunted in pain, yanking back instinctively. She darted past, shoved the door open, and stepped inside without knocking. She froze.
Valentino stood in the center of the room—tall, bare-chested except for the fresh white bandages wrapped tight across his ribs and shoulder. A male attendant was buttoning a crisp shirt over him, fingers quick and careful. Light from the tall windows finally caught Val's face: skin drained of color, lips cracked, and pale eyes shadowed deep with exhaustion. Yet even like this, damaged and hollowed, he was breathtaking.
Foxy's fire extinguished in an instant. She blushed crimson, spun on her heel.
"I'm sorry, young master," she stammered. "I didn't mean to intrude."
Val didn't respond. The attendant finished the last button and guided him toward the armchair by the low coffee table. Val moved slowly, each step measured, pain flickering behind his eyes.
"Young master," Foxy pressed, recovering, "I made you porridge. Please eat it while it's hot."
Val raised one hand—lazy, commanding. The attendant stepped forward to take the tray.
"You're too loud," Val said, voice flat and cold. "My head hurts."
Foxy hesitated only a second. She had waited a month to see him alive, breathing, sitting upright. She wasn't leaving that easily.
"Let me set it down for you," she insisted, pushing past the attendant. "I'll arrange the table properly—"
The attendant tried to block her. The tray tilted. The bowl slipped, crashed to the floor in a wet splatter of oats and milk. Porcelain cracked sharp against the tiles; the spoon rang like a bell.
Val's eyes snapped open. He stared at her. Foxy's breath caught.
The guards at the door stepped inside at the noise, freezing when they saw the mess.
Val's gaze never left her face. "Kneel."
Foxy swallowed hard. "Don't you hear me?" His voice dropped to a hiss. "I said kneel."
She sank to her knees without another word, trembling.
"Tongue. Floor. Now. Or I'll make you wish you'd never opened that door," he hissed, lifting his head in disgust. His eyes were cold, not an ounce of humanity in them.
Foxy's breath shook. One would think she would not do it, but she bent forward. Hands braced on the cold tiles, she lowered her face to the spilled porridge, warm, sticky, humiliating. She licked once, twice, tasting salt and shame.
Val watched, expression unchanging. "You didn't forget your place after all," he murmured. He looked away, dismissing her entirely.
"Just because I let you go every time doesn't mean I won't kill you. Don't test my patience. "
The guards moved at once. Rough hands seized her arms, hauling her up and dragging her toward the door. She didn't fight. The attendant dropped to his knees with a cloth, wiping the floor in swift, efficient strokes.
The door slammed shut behind her.
In the corridor, Foxy stood for a long moment—porridge still on her lips, cheeks burning before straightening her apron and walking away.
Val took a sharp, ragged breath inside the dim room, as though the air itself had finally granted him a sliver of mercy. He closed his eyes, willing the lids to stay shut, willing sleep to come, if only for a moment. But peace had abandoned him that night in the alley and never returned.
Three bullets. Three clean cracks in the rain. And the face behind them—sharp, porcelain, lips painted the color of fresh blood haunted every shadow behind his eyelids. Shot by a woman. The heir of the Varkis family, reduced to bleeding in the gutter like some alley rat because a woman had pulled the trigger without hesitation.
His hands clenched into fists on the arms of the chair, knuckles whitening until the bandages around his ribs pulled tight and fresh pain lanced through his side. He welcomed it. Pain was honest. Pain reminded him he was still alive to feel it.
The memory flickered again: headlights slicing through the downpour, her casual stance between them, the revolver rising slow and certain. That mocking voice—smooth, cultured, dripping disdain.
"So this is the great heir of the Varkis…"
His teeth ground together so hard his jaw ached.
"I lost because of you," he whispered into the empty room, each word carved from bile and rage. "Don't let me find you."
The threat hung in the quiet like smoke. He exhaled slowly, forcing the breath past the knot in his throat.
When he did find her, and he would, he would make sure she remembered every second of it. He would strip away every layer of that cool composure until nothing remained but fear. Until she begged for the end, he would never grant.
His fingers flexed once, twice, imagining the feel of her throat beneath them. He had been thirsting for her blood ever since he had awoken. He leaned his head back against the chair, staring at the ceiling. "A woman... How dare a woman?"