STEFANO RUSSO'S (NERO) POV
"Has he been able to say where his boss is?" I asked as soon as I walked into the dark room. The air hit me—thick with sweat and the metallic tang of blood. It stuck to my throat like perfume gone wrong. Lights hung low; shadows pooled in the corners. The kind of place where men came to scream and no one cared to hear them.
Two guards peeled aside and there he was: a man tied to a chair, gagged, eyes wild. He fought the ropes with frantic kicks, the cloth at his mouth bobbing with each ragged breath. Tears and sweat tracked down his face; the sound he made was animal and urgent.
My boots clicked against concrete as I walked forward, slow enough to show I wasn't hurried, slow enough to let them know I owned the seconds. I did own them. This was my world. This was my work.
"Not yet, boss," Jamiel answered.
He stood to one side, blade in hand, its tip darkened with old blood. He didn't glance at me, just waited, like a nervous soldier.
They brought a chair forward for me. I sat, folding my hands across my lap and letting the silence hang between the screams. When the bound man finally looked up and saw me, his pupils swallowed everything. He started trembling so badly the ropes creaked.
"I'll ask this once." My voice was low, too calm. I moved my chair closer until the smell of him, fear and grime, was sharp in my nose. "Where. Is. Your. Boss?"
He mumbled something useless. I tipped my head at Bull; the man stepped forward and tore the gag free. The captive inhaled like a drowning thing.
"I… I don't know," he stammered, the words falling through the room. My patience thinned.
I reached for Jamiel. He handed me the surgical blade without hesitation. Little rust on the edge, rough and precise. I turned it in my hand, feeling the weight. Tools should look like they mean business.
"You know what I hate?" I asked, looking him dead in the face. His lip trembled; he waited for the punchline. "I hate people wasting my time." My voice had a coldness to it now, the kind that cut softer than steel.
His shaking grew more frantic. He begged, eyes rolling. I let the silence stretch long enough that every second felt like a promise.
Then I moved. One clean slice across the web of his hand where fingers meet palm. He howled, a raw sound that tore at the air. He jerked, the ropes biting into his wrists. Blood bubbled dark and quick along the wound.
I didn't flinch. I wiped the blade on a cloth one of my men handed me, and the gesture was almost polite. Returning it, I leaned in until my face was inches from his. I smelled fear, salty, hot, and beneath it, a man realizing his life was a currency I could spend.
"You know," I said quietly, "I have time for you." My words were gentle and terrible at once. "But I don't waste time when my woman is waiting at the hotel." I watched the way the name hit him, how his pupils dilated. "So make this fast. Tell me where your boss is, or you'll be leaving with fewer fingers, fewer toes… maybe even ears." I didn't stammer the threats. I listed them like facts.
He shook his head so hard I thought he might snap the ropes. Tears cut tracks through dried sweat. "Please, please—" he begged.
"Now." I repeated the question, each word a small, deliberate blow. "Where the hell is your boss?"
In the freeze after his plea, the room narrowed to the chair, the blade, the drip of fresh blood on concrete. My mind cold and clear: Nero. Stefano Russo. Names didn't change what I was. They were labels people gave to the thing they feared most.
I was the one they came to when other men couldn't be found. I was the one who made people talk.
And tonight, I wasn't leaving until I had the exact address.
***
The Russian finally broke. It hadn't taken much, just a few minutes of pain, and he was spilling names, routes, and numbers like loose change.
I let the information sink in, then wiped the blood off my hands and face with a rag. My body buzzed with adrenaline, but under it all was the same emptiness I always felt after jobs like this. Just another night, another broken man.
Stepping out of the torture room, the cold night air slapped me first, sharp and biting against my damp skin. I drew in a breath, letting the metallic stench of blood fade from my nose, but it never fully did.
That's when I saw him, Damien. Leaning against my car like he owned the damn thing, arms crossed, his expression hard. My cousin. My only family that mattered anymore.
I frowned instantly. What the hell was he doing here? He didn't belong in this world. Not here. Not with me like this.
"Yo, Nero." His voice was casual, but I knew Damien too well. There was nothing casual about the look in his eyes. He was worried.
He's the only one who dares call me that. Everyone else knows better.
"Why are you here, man?" I asked, impatience edging my voice. My nerves were still raw from the job inside, and seeing him here made them worse. "You should've waited for me at the hotel."
He shrugged, but it wasn't careless. "It's important. Couldn't wait."
My eyes narrowed. He only pushed boundaries when something was really wrong. "What's so important it couldn't wait?"
"Your father called."
The words hit me like a punch. I blinked. "Why? What did he want?"
Damien straightened from the car, his eyes holding mine. "You should come home."
I shook my head immediately, walking past him toward the driver's side. "I'm not going anywhere," I said flatly. That was final.
But of course, Damien wasn't one to back down.
"Nero, why the hell do we have to go over this all the time?!" His voice rose, sharp with frustration. I froze, hand on the door handle. "Your father needs you back at the empire, but you keep running from your responsibilities."
I turned slowly, my stare cold. "Responsibilities?" My voice came out low, dangerous. "What fucking responsibilities are you talking about?"
He stepped forward, fearless as always. "It doesn't have to be this way. You don't have to do this. Any of this."
I clenched my jaw, irritation prickling under my skin. "You don't fucking tell me what to do and what not to do, Damien," I snapped, voice rising.
He didn't flinch. Never did. That was the thing about Damien, he wasn't scared of me. He should've been, but he wasn't.
"Every time, you forget those who stood side by side with you to build this," he shot back, his voice steady. "Sometimes I wonder where the Nero I grew up with went. Because this man in front of me... he's not him."
For a moment, something twisted in my chest. His words clawed at something buried deep, something I didn't want to feel.
I frowned. "And what the hell do you mean by that?"
"I mean you've become more ruthless. More heartless. And with time, you're going to lose yourself completely to this darkness."
Darkness. The word echoed inside me like a curse. I hated it because it was true.
I stepped closer, eyes hard. "Look, Damien. I'll never bend to the rules of any man. Never. And remember this, I built all of this myself. No one stood by me. No one. Do you get that?"
He blinked, hurt flashing across his face before he shook his head slowly and stepped back.
That small flicker of guilt in my chest—I crushed it instantly. I couldn't afford it.
I yanked open the door, slid into the car, and fired up the engine. The roar drowned out the silence between us. Without another word, I drove off, leaving Damien in the cold night.
---
The suite was silent when I entered, the only sound a low hum from the air conditioner. My body felt heavy, the adrenaline gone, leaving behind exhaustion.
I dropped the hotel card on the counter and glanced around. No sign of Zoe. For a second, my chest tightened. She hadn't run, if she had, my men would've told me. So where the hell was she?
I moved toward the bedroom, the quiet pressing in on me.
And then I saw her.
Zoe lay sprawled across the bed, face buried in the pillow, snoring softly. One leg bent, the other stretched carelessly, as if this was her place, her bed.
I stopped in the doorway, staring.
For someone I had taken, someone who should hate me, she looked… relaxed. At peace, even. Like she belonged here.
A smile tugged at my mouth before I could stop it. Damn her.
I walked closer, crouched, and carefully adjusted her legs, sliding them back under the covers. She stirred, muttering something incoherent, then settled again, her breathing even.
"Silly girl," I muttered.
I pulled the blanket up over her shoulders, watching her sink deeper into sleep.
For a long moment, I just stood there, looking at her.
And everything in me screamed: Don't do this, Nero. Don't fall. This is how it starts. This is how men like you get weak.
But no matter how much I told myself that, I couldn't tear my eyes away from her.