"You’re a depraved little thing—dripping for me the rougher I take you... even while calling me a monster?" His gaze stabbedinto mine. "Or because of it?" He rubbed harder. Rougher. I writhed under his touch—and despised myself for it.
"You want exactly this." He leaned in closer, his gaze burning with hunger as his lips brushed a featherlight kiss against mine. "So stop pretending you're better. You're no different than me," he whispered against my mouth. The fleeting tenderness vanished the instant his lips crashed onto mine, as if he wanted to dismantle me with that kiss. His tongue claimed my mouth—reckless and relentless—while his body pinned me even harder against the door. I gasped softly, trapped between the heat of his touch and the loss of control that both terrified and addicted me. It was too much. And that was exactly what made it so damn good.
"Fuck me," I finally breathed against his greedy lips, ready to lose myself.
But he froze. "No," he said sharply.
I opened my eyes in confusion. "What?"
"You were just about to shoot me." His voice was steel. "You don’t deserve it." His hand jerked away so abruptly that the loss of his touch almost hurt. He practically tore it from my pants, and I felt the cool air replace the warmth.
His right sleeve had ridden up slightly, and just above his bicep, something dark glistened. Something that instantly seized my attention. A thick, dark substance that looked like dried blood.
"What... what is that?" I whispered, more to myself than to him.
Alessandro's gaze followed my fixed stare. "That's none of your concern."
My pulse noticeably quickened. "Why aren't you wearing a suit? They said you were out all day..." An uneasy feeling, heavy with dread, settled in the pit of my stomach. "You weren’t in some damn office, were you? What is that on your skin?"
He leaned in closer, as if threatening me. "I said it's none ofyour concern," he repeated softly but firmly.
"The hell it isn't!" I screamed, shoving against him. I reached decisively for his arm, trying to pull him away from the door and finally give myself some space. But he evaded my grasp with a quick movement, seized my shoulder, and shoved me back against the door.
"Where were you? What did you do?" I yelled, my voice shrill.
His jaw clenched, and for a moment, I thought he’d evade me again. But then he lifted his head. "I tortured a Colombian arms dealer."
The words made everything inside me go still.
"You... what?" I whispered, my throat dry.
"He betrayed me," Alessandro said, icy and merciless. "I need to find out who he talked to. I need to know who paid him to interfere in my business."
"Your business?" My mind refused to process it. When he’d listed those violent acts earlier, it had felt too distant, too unreal. I simply hadn’t believed him capable of it. But the blood—still fresh on his skin, right in front of me, so tangible—was something else entirely. Like a damning piece of evidence, a disgustingly real testament to his cruelty. "Are you an arms dealer too?"
His gaze narrowed, and a derisive laugh escaped his throat. "An arms dealer?" he repeated, almost mocking, as he leaned back slightly to study me. "I'm certainly no... ordinary merchant. I decide who buys and who dies, who gains influence and who fades into obscurity. It's not just about weapons—it's about power. And making sure those who stand in my way quickly learn that I don’t make compromises."
My stomach twisted painfully. "You control all of that?" I asked, and the thought of what he’d just said seized every nerve in my body.
His hand drifted slowly to my chin, tilting it up so I had nochoice but to look him in the eye. "Everything you can imagine. And far more."
A shudder ran down my spine. I trembled. The idea that he ruled over such a parallel world with that kind of power was repulsive. And yet so intoxicating it stole my breath. Damn it, what’s wrong with me?
"You really are a psychopath," I murmured, my thoughts in chaos.
He tilted his head with a devilish smile. "Oh, absolutely. You’d never shoot someone, would you?"
My lips parted, a faint breath escaping, but no words came. What was I even supposed to say to that?
"Do you want to know how I make him talk?" he asked, disturbingly soft.
Of course not, you deranged lunatic! Almost against my will, I heard my own voice: "Yes." It was barely more than a whisper, but it was the absolute moral wrong answer.
His eyes narrowed briefly. Then he smiled. "Everyone talks when you use the right methods. It’s astonishing how quickly people lose their bravery once they realize there’s no way out."
He leaned even closer to me, his voice dropping lower, more intimate, as if we were discussing romantic plans for the evening. "He screamed when I started breaking his fingers one by one. The sound of bones giving way under pressure has something... visceral about it." He studied every flicker of reaction on my face. "But that wasn't enough," he continued, dragging his finger slowly down my side in a sharp, deliberate line. "So I got more creative. A knife has many uses, as you surely know. It offers so many possibilities when you know where it causes the most damage without being immediately fatal. The inner thigh, close to the artery..." His finger paused beneath my ribcage, the pressing touch igniting fire across my skin. "Or this sensitive spot right below the ribs..."
My chest constricted—I could barely breathe. Transfixed, I stared at him.
