A month later…
The air smells like rust and old blood. It’s cold from the dampness that lingers in the walls, floor, and ceiling. They brought me to one of those forgotten warehouses near the river, a place where the cops don’t drive by and the bodies don’t echo when they drop.
I’m on my knees with my hands cuffed behind my back. My face is already split at the cheek from one of Angelo’s goons trying to impress the boss. There are four of them. Carlos’s men. They didn’t say anything when they grabbed me. Just a black bag, zip ties, and the usual bruises handed out on arrival.
I don’t struggle. I don’t scream. I’ve bled in worse places. Only this one feels personal. And I have a pretty good idea why.
Carlos steps in like he owns the night. Fine leather shoes click against the concrete as he circles behind me. I hearthe flick of his lighter before I smell the smoke on an expensive Cuban cigar. He saves them for moments like this, when he gets to perform. He doesn’t speak at first, just paces, slowly and deliberately. I’ve seen it dozens of times. He knows the strength of a calculated silence meant to induce fear in his victim.
This time, that victim happens to be me. But he won't succeed. I don’t give a shit if he kills me or not. Never have. When he finally speaks, his voice is cold and sharp, each word a scalpel. "So, I hear you want to leave."
I don’t answer and keep my eyes forward and chin level. The men behind him are watching too closely. One twitch and it’s over.
Carlos comes around and crouches in front of me; his shadow stretches long across the stained floor. He’s calm, but not relaxed. There’s something coiled in his body, like a rattlesnake right before the strike.
"You really think you can just walk away from me?" he says, voice dipped in venom. "You think you canaskto work for Conti? Like this is a fucking career fair?"
Still, I say nothing. I know he wants a reaction. That's what he feeds on, but I won’t give him one. He grins without any warmth in it—just teeth and poison.
"You fucking asshole," he spits, standing again. "After everything I gave you. After everything I taught you. You want to jump ship the minute you smell another man’s money?"
He turns to the others like they’re his audience now, arms open like a preacher. "You believe this shit? This little rat thinks he gets tochoosewhere he goes."
One of them laughs, nervous and forced. The rest stay silent. They’ve seen what I’ve done for this crew. They know I’ve bled for it, killed for it, and buried men for it. I’ve never disobeyed an order, never flinched, never hesitated, and never talked to anybody—not even when the cops put me in juvie for a couple of years. I always kept to the code of silence: Omertà—the unwritten code of the Cosa Nostra.
But that doesn’t matter to Carlos. Not now. Not ever. Loyalty means nothing to a man who only understands control. He pulls a knife from inside his jacket. Long. Thin. Surgical. My pulse ticks up, but I don’t move. I don't even allow my eyes to follow him when he walks behind me again—slower this time.
Suddenly, he grabs a fistful of my hair and jerks my head back so hard my neck cracks. I grit my teeth, but I don’t grunt. I'm not giving him the satisfaction.
"You want to be your own man?" he snarls. "Fine. But let’s mark the occasion."
The blade bites before I register the first swing. It cuts down from my eyebrow, across my cheek, all the way to the corner of my lip. Hot fire rips through my face, and I taste the metallic blood instantly as it runs warm down my cheek into my mouth. The second cut comes just asfast. Crosswise this time. From the bridge of my nose toward my ear. Deep. Jagged. Personal.
My body wants to shake, but I force it still. I won’t scream. I won’t give him that. Carlos steps away, breathing harder now, knife still in his hand, my blood dripping from the tip in slow taps against the concrete. He sneers. "Let that be your one and only lesson, you little shit. Nobody quits me.Nobody."
He leans in close, the cigar smoke curling around the edges of my vision, and his breath is hot against the raw wound of my cheek. "You're lucky I'm not going to kill you. But remember. You're mine. And always will be. I put a roof over your head when no one else would. You owe your life—and your loyalties—to me.”
Then he straightens, wipes the blade on my shoulder like I’m filth, and kicks me hard enough in the back that I faceplant on the cold cement. He turns his back and walks out like it’s nothing, the others following slowly. A few glance back at me, unsure now. Mario, the closest thing I have to a friend, looks almost sick. These men expected me to cry. To beg. Maybe even break.
I stay down while my blood drips steadily onto the floor. My chest rises and falls, slow and controlled, every breath razor-edged.
I begin to laugh, low and dark. The sound bounces off the empty walls like an omen.
This isn’t defeat.
This isrebirth.
He thinks he marked me.
He thinks he humiliated me.
He thinks he still owns me.
But all he did was give me a face the world won’t forget.
An X over the old me.
A warning to anyone who ever tries to own me again.
