Romeo was grabbed roughly by Ivan's 6-foot-7 bodyguard and shoved into the back of a sleek black tinted Cadillac Escalade. His stomach clenched—not just from hunger but from the sinking feeling that whatever awaited him next would be worse than anything he'd already endured.
"You look starved. Did they just pick you up from Africa?" the man asked sarcastically with a smirk as he tossed a half-eaten KFC chicken breast and some stale fries at Romeo.
Normally, he would have sneered at being handed someone else's leftovers. But this wasn't normal.
This was survival.
He had not eaten in three days. His body felt weak, his limbs barely responding. Right now, pride was a luxury he couldn't afford.
"Thank you," Romeo muttered, snatching up the food with trembling fingers.
The man chuckled darkly, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and cruelty. "What awaits you is a fate worse than death. You should have starved in Africa while you had the chance."
The words sent a chill down Romeo's spine. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his face blank.
A fate worse than death.
It had been said so many times that it was beginning to burrow into his mind like a parasite.
"But surely, what could be worse than death? Nothing," he told himself, clenching his fists.
"As long as I am alive, I still have a fighting chance. A chance at escape."
Romeo and the burly man sat in silence for another twenty minutes, the only sound in the car being Romeo's slow, deliberate chewing. He ate everything, even gnawed the chicken bones down to powder, his body desperate for any sustenance. Each swallow felt like a small victory—one more moment of life stolen back from the abyss.
Through the rearview mirror, their eyes met. The man was studying him—cold, calculating. His face was marked with a jagged scar running from forehead to cheek, as if someone had once tried to split his face in two.
Battle scars.
Romeo considered asking about it, but something told him it was best to keep his curiosity in check. This was no ordinary thug.
This was a seasoned enforcer—one of Ivan's infamous debt collectors.
It was rumored they could rip out your kidney and leave you alive just to make a point.
"I have to escape."
Romeo barely realized he'd spoken aloud until the air in the car shifted.
The burly man's head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. He let the silence stretch, as if daring Romeo to repeat himself. Then, in a voice as calm as it was deadly, he said:
"I will rip your backbone out and whip you with it if you even dare dream about it."
Romeo shrank back, his pulse racing, but something inside him stirred—an ember of defiance refusing to die.
Escape.
The word pulsed through his mind.
Again. And again.
The doors to the Quiver Lounge basement burst open. A group of men emerged, moving with the cold efficiency of predators. The burly man started the engine as one slid into the front seat beside him. Behind them, three other black cars rumbled to life, headlights flicking on in synchronized menace.
Romeo prayed for a miracle—an accident, a police roadblock, anything to disrupt his fate.
But deep down, he knew no such thing would happen.
The drive to Ivan's residence was silent, except for the driver's occasional bursts of road rage.
"Do these people know I can bite their heads off and feed them to my pigs? There's nothing they can do about it," the burly man muttered, his voice laced with amusement.
Each time he spoke, he glanced at Romeo through the mirror, the unspoken message clear: That applies to you too.
The convoy approached a towering gate, reinforced like a military outpost. Armed guards in full combat gear inspected the vehicles before pressing a remote, causing the massive gate to hum open.
As they drove deeper inside, Romeo caught his first glimpse of Ivan's estate.
It was a fortress.
The mansion loomed in the night, an architectural marvel, bathed in soft golden lights. Despite everything, Romeo couldn't help but admire the sheer opulence of it. The Christmas decorations still clung to the walls, their festive cheer a stark contrast to the prison it truly was.
"What a glorious prison," he murmured under his breath.
The man in the front passenger seat stiffened. He turned, his glare sharp enough to slice through steel.
"Boy, you better keep your food hole shut," he said, voice as cold as the Moscow winter.
"You are here to be seen. Not to be heard."
Without another word, he stepped out and yanked open Romeo's door.
"Out!" he barked, grabbing him by the back of the neck like a disobedient dog.
Romeo's instincts flared. He jerked back, voice snapping before he could stop himself.
"Get your hands off me, Shrek!"
The air in the car froze.
The man's face darkened. His muscles tensed, arm rising in a split-second decision to strike.
Romeo braced himself, jaw clenched. But the blow never came.
A voice, deep and authoritative, cut through the moment like a blade.
"Easy there, Rigor."
Ivan.
The atmosphere shifted.
Romeo turned his head just as Ivan approached, his presence sucking the air from the space. He was calm, but there was a quiet threat beneath his words.
"You will behave," Ivan said, his gaze locking onto Romeo's. "Or there will be consequences."
Then, to Rigor: "And you—don't kill my little beast. Not just yet."
A smirk played at the corner of Ivan's lips.
"Show it to its room."
Romeo barely had time to process the words before Ivan turned, addressing another man.
"Victor, follow me to my office."
Romeo committed the names to memory. Victor. Rigor.
His mind raced with questions, the biggest one being: Why had Ivan stopped Rigor from hitting him?
Maybe he isn't as terrible as he's made out to be. Maybe deep down, he's a good guy. Maybe…