The room was too quiet, the kind of quiet that crawled into your skin and settled in your bones. It wasn't peace; it was the silence before something bad. Every girl in that room felt it. The air was thick with unspoken fear, and the dim light above flickered every so often, like even the bulb was too scared to stay steady.
Mia sat against the wall, her knees pulled close, her chest rising and falling too quickly. She was still replaying the words the other girl had whispered to her minutes earlier. Don't run. He'll find you. He always finds you.
Her heart had hammered so hard she was sure everyone could hear it. She tried to steady herself, but the thought kept circling back: maybe escape wasn't possible. Maybe the walls weren't the real prison—it was him. Luca. His shadow stretched over everything, even when he wasn't in the room.
Then she heard it.
A faint jingle of metal from the hallway. At first, it was so soft she thought she'd imagined it. But then came the sound of boots. Heavy, deliberate. The kind that carried weight, not just in noise but in meaning. The floor seemed to vibrate faintly with each step. Whoever wore them wasn't in a hurry. He didn't need to be.
The lock clicked.
The door opened.
Luca stepped inside.
He didn't storm in or slam the door for effect. He didn't need theatrics. Just his presence was enough. He filled the doorway like a shadow, tall, composed, dangerous in a way that didn't need proving. His eyes swept the room slowly, resting on each face like he was choosing which one to break first. When his gaze landed on Mia, her blood ran cold.
"I heard something," he said, almost casual. His tone was calm, but there was steel beneath it. "Something about running."
The silence that followed pressed against the walls. No one moved. No one breathed.
Mia felt the other girl beside her shrink into herself, eyes glued to the floor.
Luca's jaw tightened. "Who said it?"
No one answered.
In two quick strides, he was standing in front of the smallest girl near the door. Without warning, he grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back. She let out a strangled cry as his cold eyes bore into hers.
"Was it you?" he asked, his voice low, even.
She shook her head violently, tears streaming down her cheeks.
Luca let go so suddenly that she collapsed onto the floor with a choked sob. He turned slowly, his gaze drifting across the room again. One by one, the girls dropped their eyes, terrified of catching his. Until he stopped.
On Mia.
"You." His voice dropped, dangerous. "Stand up."
Her stomach twisted. Her legs refused at first, heavy as stone.
"I said stand." This time the edge in his tone sliced through the room.
Her body obeyed before her mind could argue. She pushed herself upright, wobbling slightly, her knees trembling.
Luca stepped closer, until his face hovered just inches from hers. She could smell his cologne—sharp, expensive—but underneath it lingered the faint tang of smoke and gun oil.
"You thinking about leaving me?" His voice was so soft it made her heart hammer harder.
Mia shook her head quickly, breath shallow, words lodged in her throat.
"Liar," he muttered.
Before she could explain, his hand shot out, clamping around her wrist. He yanked her toward the center of the room. The other girls scurried back against the walls, eyes wide and fixed on her, terrified but grateful it wasn't them.
"Bring me the chair," Luca said without looking away from Mia.
One of his men dragged a battered metal chair across the floor. The screech of metal against concrete sliced through the silence, setting Mia's teeth on edge.
Luca shoved her down into it. Her body folded against the cold steel, her pulse racing.
From his jacket, he drew a knife. Its blade caught the dim light, flashing briefly as he turned it lazily in his hand. He circled her once, twice, slow like a wolf deciding how to strike.
"You see," he said, his tone calm, conversational even. "I don't like liars. And I don't like people who think they can walk out of my world." He paused behind her. She could feel his presence pressing down on her. "So now, we're going to remind everyone what happens when you even think about it."
Her throat went dry.
He leaned close, his breath grazing her ear. "Maybe I should start by taking something from you."
Her chest seized. "Please—" she started, but the words died in her throat.
A sharp click echoed.
She froze.
Luca had drawn a gun, cocking it in one smooth motion. He pressed the barrel against her thigh, steady, unshaking.
"You scream, I shoot," he said flatly. "You stay quiet, maybe you keep your leg."
The room turned deathly still. Even the air seemed to stop moving. The other girls were statues, wide-eyed, silent, too afraid to even gasp.
Luca's finger hovered over the trigger, almost playfully, like a man testing patience. But then, in a sudden shift, he turned the gun away from Mia and aimed it at the girl who had warned her earlier.
"You." His tone hardened. "Tell me the truth. Did you tell her not to run?"
The girl's lips trembled. She shook her head instinctively, but her body betrayed her. Her shoulders shook. Her breathing hitched. She couldn't hide it.
"Answer me," Luca snapped. "Or she dies." He jerked the gun back toward Mia's chest.
The girl let out a small sob. Then finally, barely audible: "…Yes."
Luca's smile was thin, almost satisfied. Not the smile of a man who had heard what he wanted, but of one who had caught a mouse in a trap.
He holstered the gun and straightened. "Hold her."
Two of his men moved instantly. The girl screamed and tried to back away, but they grabbed her arms and dragged her forward, kicking, thrashing.
"No! Please—please, I didn't mean it—" Her voice broke as they forced her down onto her knees.
Luca didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. From the corner of the room, he picked up the blowtorch. The hiss of the flame filled the air, loud and terrifying. The light flickered across his face, highlighting the sharpness of his features, the emptiness in his eyes.
Mia's stomach churned. Her hands shook so violently she had to grip the edge of the chair to steady herself. She knew what was coming, but her body wouldn't move.
"This," Luca said, holding the torch steady, "is what mercy gets you in my world."
The flame drew closer. The girl screamed, thrashing in her captors' grip. Her cries filled the room, shrill, desperate, animal.
The smell hit first—burning fabric, then skin.
Mia turned her face away, pressing her eyes shut, but the sounds were worse than the sight. The girl's screams cut into her chest like knives, each one higher, more ragged. The other girls sobbed quietly into their hands, but no one dared move.
Luca's expression never changed. His face was calm, detached, as if he were fixing a broken pipe, not ending a life.
When it was finally over, the girl slumped, limp in the men's grip. The only sound left was the hiss of the torch and the harsh, uneven breathing of everyone in the room.
Luca switched the flame off. The silence that followed was worse than the screams.
He set the torch aside and looked back at Mia. His eyes locked onto hers. Cold. Unflinching.
"Remember this," he said quietly, almost too soft to hear. "There are no warnings here. Only rules. My rules."
Mia's heart pounded so hard she thought it would tear out of her chest. The message was clear. There was no safe silence. No safe words. No safe choices.
She now felt guilty for the die girl, she died because of her. Obey one person......
Only Luca.
And Luca's rules were written in blood.