CHAPTER FOUR

DOMINIC'S POINT OF VIEW

The drive down the long, winding road toward the maximum-security facility was quiet.

Too quiet.

I looked at the driver, then at the guards seated around me in the back of the transport van, and I couldn’t help but laugh. Not from amusement.

From rage.

Simmering.

Boiling.

Threatening to spill.

The events of the past hours replay in my mind as I look around, the guards watching me like a hawk, but not foolish enough to look me in the eye.

“Do I have to spell it out,” I said slowly, “or would you each prefer a bullet?”

Like trained dogs, the guards jumped to their feet. One of them, the one holding the keys, stepped forward and unlocked my cuffs with trembling hands.

“We apologize, sir,” he muttered. “We weren’t sure if you’d allow anyone to touch you.”

I didn’t respond. I simply stared, seething.

“Where’s my fucking suit?” I asked, eyeing the pathetic state of the one I was wearing. The sleeves were wrinkled, the collar misshapen, thanks to that coward of an officer, Matthews. I would remember him. I always remembered.

A second later, a fresh suit was offered, properly pressed, black, tailored.

My signature. The van pulled over, stopping at the exact location I’d ordered.

My red Ferrari waited there, gleaming beneath the sunlight.

The guards stepped out, giving me privacy as I changed.

When I finally emerged, suited and cleaned, the mask was back on. I was whole again.

“Sir, a call from Alessandro,” one of the guards, Ricardo, said, handing me the phone.

“What’s your name?” I asked, taking the device.

“Ricardo, sir.”

Even the word “officer” disgusted me. But he… he might be useful.

I brought the phone to my ear. “Speak.”

“Boss, I-I’m so sorry for the delay. I won’t fuck up again, I swear-”

He certainly wouldn't.

“You know I don’t tolerate second chances, Alessandro.”

Bang.

The shot rang out through the speaker. Silence followed.

“Target eliminated, boss,” Mateo’s voice came next, calm as ever.

“Good,” I said. “Take over. And find out everything about the detective who orchestrated this arrest. I want his name, his life, and his blood. Also, wipe out every officer who was at the scene today. Full cleanup. No survivors. You have until nightfall.”

I hung up and turned to Ricardo.

“Where are you from?”

“Pittsburgh,” he replied, confused.

I sighed. “Your country, genius. That accent, it’s not American. Mexican? Spanish?”

He stiffened. “Spain, sir.”

I smirked. “And how much do you make in a year?”

“Maybe ten thousand... if I’m lucky. They don’t pay brown cops much,” he added bitterly.

There it was. The resentment. The hunger.

Hook, line, sinker.

“You want to make that monthly?” I asked. “Impress me, and I’ll make it weekly.”

He froze.

“Go in my place. Serve my sentence. Sell my shit on the inside for me. I’ll make sure your family never knows poverty again. And when your time’s up, you’ll come work for me. Triple pay. Private estate. New identity.”

I could already see the decision forming in his eyes.

If he refused? Well, the snipers placed outside his home or the bomb under his porch would take care of that.

“I’ll do it, sir,” he said quietly.

I smiled.

Minutes later, a notification pinged on my phone.

Subject located.

I opened the message, and there she was — her face lighting up my screen.

Sabine.

The same girl from the court. The same girl from my bed the night before.

The girl who shouldn’t still be on my mind.

Almond-shaped green eyes. Skin the color of rich cinnamon. Full lips. Long hair, I remembered wrapping around my hand as I drove into her from behind.

Soft, sensitive, loud.

And now, she's mine.

The report listed her parents’ house address. That’s where she’d be tonight. Probably celebrating.

Perfect.

By nightfall, I arrived at the end of a quiet residential street.

My convoy of sleek, black cars flanked the house.

I stepped out, armed, silencer attached.

No words. No noise.

I opened the front door without knocking.

They were seated around a table: Sabine, her mother, and the man who thought he could cage me.

Their faces turned pale the moment they saw me.

“All this... for me?” I asked, strolling toward the snack table and pouring myself a drink.

The flavor hit my tongue.

Mango.

I turned to Sabine and smirked. “Fitting.”

Her eyes widened. Her father stood so fast, his chair fell behind him.

“You’re supposed to be in jail! You were sentenced.  We saw it!”

“You saw what I wanted you to see,” I said, sipping again. “Now? Those officers who helped you... Their daughters are about to start work in my brothels. Their sons? Bullet or overdose. I’ll let fate decide.”

Her father flinched like a coward.

I turned toward Sabine and took a seat beside her.

The scent of her skin was already intoxicating. It was mango, even now.

“This is good,” I said, taking a bite of mac and cheese. “You cook?”

She nodded silently, her whimpers low, barely noticeable. But I caught it, like a fish in a trap.

“Nice,” I said. “You’ll be doing that for me now.”

Her mother clutched her. “Please. Please don’t take my baby.”

I crouched down to her level and smiled. “Blame your husband.”

Then, louder: “Take her.”

My man moved forward. Sabine screamed, clinging to her mother, but it was useless. She was ripped from her arms and dragged to the door.

The father tried to move, and I raised my gun, aimed, and shot.

His shoulder. 

His Knee.

He fell to the floor, howling.

“That’s for putting your hands on me,” I said coldly. “And so you never forget who the fuck I am.”

I walked out of the house, leaving behind shattered glass and screams.

Sabine was in the back seat, still struggling, still crying.

But she’d stop soon.

They all do.

And once she did?

She’d realize there’s no escape.

Not from me.

Not from Dominic Vitiello.