6 ~ A Taste Of Blood And Power

The bar smelled like spilled beer and sweat, the air thick with the stale scent of cigars and cheap cologne. It was a place where bad decisions were made, where regret marinated in whiskey and desperation clung to every surface. I had worked here long enough to know that trouble came in many forms—but this?

This was the worst kind.

I had seen violence before. I had seen men break bones over debts, watched them pull knives over insults, but this? This was different.

The goons who had been laughing moments ago now stood frozen, their bodies rigid with barely contained terror. Even Victor, my boss, who had seen his fair share of fights, swallowed hard, his hands shaking as he took a step back.

Two of the waitresses, Carla and Gina, rushed to Victor’s side, helping him up with hesitant hands before retreating a safe distance away. Their wide eyes darted between Raphael and the unconscious drunk on the floor, barely containing their curiosity.

Then there was Carla—the same Carla who loved to pry into my life—watching me with an expression that made my stomach twist.

“You just made my night, little rabbit.” Raphael’s voice was silk laced with something dark, something thrilling.

I swallowed. Hard.

I knew better than to let my guard down around men like him.

Raphael didn’t even have to raise his voice. He simply stood there, exuding danger like a second skin, his dark eyes assessing the situation with quiet amusement. He was a man who didn’t need to announce his power—it bled from every inch of him, tangible, suffocating.

The room held its breath.

And then—

A shot rang out.

The bullet zipped past Gina's face, so close that it sent a lock of her hair fluttering. She gasped, stumbling back, her phone slipping from her fingers and clattering onto the counter.

"That," Xavier, Raphael's right-hand man, said smoothly, lowering his gun, "was a warning. No recordings."

The implication was clear: the next bullet wouldn’t miss.

Gina's face went deathly pale as she nodded frantically, pressing herself against the bar like she wished it would swallow her whole.

I swallowed hard, my pulse hammering against my ribs.

This wasn’t just power.

This was control.

And it terrified me.

'How do I explain this?'

The goons who had come with the drunk bastard shrank back, their arrogance dissolving like sugar in water. One of them even dropped his weapon, letting it clatter to the floor. They knew. They recognized power when they saw it.

I had never seen men fold so quickly

But my crisis was far from over.

I had barely begun processing the gravity of the situation when movement caught my eye.

The drunk leader—the bastard I had knocked out cold—was stirring.

His body swayed as he pushed himself up, shaking his head to clear the haze of alcohol and pain. He blinked at the scene, his gaze darting between Raphael, his cowering goons, and Victor still groaning on the floor.

Then his bloodshot eyes landed on me.

Hatred twisted his already ugly features.

And before I could react, his fingers curled around a jagged shard of broken wood from a shattered chair.

He lunged.

Shit!

It happened too fast.

I barely had time to inhale before he was coming straight for me, wild-eyed and snarling, his makeshift weapon aimed at my stomach.

I knew I wasn’t fast enough.

I braced for impact, my muscles locking up as I squeezed my eyes shut.

And then—

Warmth.

Not pain.

Warmth pressed against me, a solid presence that made my breath catch.

My eyes flew open in time to see Raphael standing in front of me.

His broad frame blocked my view, his body rigid, shoulders tense.

The wooden shard—splintered and sharp—was lodged deep in his back.

Blood seeped through his white dress shirt, dark and growing.

He had…taken the hit? For me?

"What the hell—?!" My voice came out strangled. "Why would you—?"

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t even flinch.

Instead, he turned his head slightly, just enough for me to catch the edge of his profile—his dark, wicked blue eyes gleaming with something terrifyingly close to pleasure.

He was SMILING.

A slow, dangerous smirk that sent ice down my spine.

The drunk idiot who had stabbed him stumbled backward, his face drained of color. His fingers trembled as he released his grip on the bloodied chair leg, as if realizing—far too late—the mistake he’d made.

Raphael exhaled, as if savoring the moment.

"You really shouldn’t have done that," Raphael murmured, voice low, almost amused. "But since you did…"

Without warning, he reached behind him, gripping the wooden shard embedded in his flesh.

And then—he ripped it out.

The sound of tearing flesh made my stomach churn. Blood dripped from the sharp edge, but Raphael didn’t so much as blink. If anything, he looked 'exhilarated'.

Then, with brutal force, he drove it into the drunk’s shoulder.

The bastard’s scream tore through the room, raw and agonized.

I took a step back, my stomach twisting.

Raphael didn’t just hurt people.

He enjoyed it.

The sick gleam in his eyes, the way his lips curled in satisfaction as the man writhed beneath him—it was pure, unfiltered pleasure.

I had heard stories about him—stories of the ruthless Mafia Boss who ruled the underworld with an iron fist. But seeing it firsthand?

This was different.

This was a man who thrived on violence.

He wrenched the makeshift weapon free, watching as blood spattered onto the floor. The drunk bastard whimpered, clutching his wound. His arrogance had disappeared, replaced by sheer terror.

"Should I kill you?" Raphael mused, tilting his head. His voice was calm, almost bored, as if he were deciding whether to swat a fly.

The bastard frantically shook his head, his face twisted in agony.

"You sure?" Raphael continued, his tone light. "Because you did 'stab me'. That’s not something I usually let slide.”

The drunk man whimpered, pressing his forehead to the floor. “Please. Please, I—”

Raphael sighed, rolling his shoulders like this was all just a mild inconvenience. Then he casually lifted his fist—

And slammed it straight into the bastard’s face.

A sickening crunch.

Another punch.

Then another.

And another.

Blood splattered onto the floor, mixing with the spilled liquor.

Raphael wasn’t just punishing him.

He was breaking him.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to look away.

This wasn’t a fight.

It was slaughter.

And the worst part?

Raphael was still laughing.

Low, breathless chuckles that made the hair on my arms stand on end.

I had never seen someone enjoy causing pain so openly.

Victor, scrambled to his feet, his face drained of all color. "P-Please!" he stammered, hands raised in surrender. "Sir... I—I appreciate your intervention, but if someone 'dies' here, it'll cause too much trouble!"

Raphael stilled.

The only sound left in the room was the drunkard’s ragged breathing.

For a moment, I thought he wouldn’t stop.

That he would kill the man anyway, just because he could.

But then—

He let out a slow, deep sigh.

Like a man finally satisfied after a long, indulgent meal.

He wiped the blood from his knuckles on the drunken bastard, flicking the excess onto the floor with mild disinterest.

He stood up, straightening his suit as if he hadn’t just beaten a man to a bloody pulp. His expression was unreadable, his gaze flickering toward me for just a second before turning to Xavier.

"Take them."

Xavier nodded. The goons didn’t even fight as they were dragged away, their fear outweighing any misplaced sense of loyalty.

The bar fell into stunned silence.

Victor let out a breath of relief, but his eyes lingered on me, a flicker of understanding hidden behind the fear.

He 'knew' there was something between Raphael and me.

But he didn’t dare say it.

Instead, he forced a shaky smile, his trembling hands resting on the counter as he muttered a quiet. "Thank you sir… for preventing a bigger mess."

Raphael didn't respond.

His presence had everything to do with me.

And I hated that.

I hated that everyone could see it.

Carla, who had been eerily quiet until now, decided to speak.

Her voice was sweet. Dripping with fake innocence.

"So…" she drawled, glancing between Raphael and me. "Mr. Mafia Boss, what exactly is your relationship with our dear Selene?"

Her lips curled.

"A mere waitress… who usually doesn’t mind a little attention."

The words stung.

A subtle dig.

One that made my stomach twist.

Raphael didn't even blink.

Instead, he turned to me, his expression unreadable.

And then, in front of everyone—

Slowly, his lips curled into that infuriating, knowing smile.

Like he already had an answer.

One that I wasn’t going to like.