ZAYAN — POV
"Hello, Mr. Lorenzo De Luca."
He freezes in the doorway.
Not metaphorically. His body actually locks like someone hit pause.
The whiskey glass tilts in his hand, liquid sloshing dangerously close to spilling, and his eyes do this tiny flick over my face like he's checking if I'm real or the concussion finally scrambled his brain.
The bruise on his cheek is ugly. Yellowing around the edges, purple at the center, swollen like it still remembers my knuckles. Same night as the gala. Same mistake.
His throat works. Hard.
"M-Mr Tavarian."
I smile. Polite. Mild. The kind that never means anything good.
"May I come in?"
It takes him a second too long to respond. Then he nods. Not once. Not confidently. Just a stiff little jerk like his neck forgot how to be human.
I step inside. Izar follows after I nod once, the door closing behind us with a soft click that sounds louder than it should.
The apartment smells like antiseptic and expensive alcohol. Hospital clinging to him. Fear clinging harder.
"What do you want, Mr Tavarian?" he asks, voice shaking despite his best efforts. He gestures vaguely toward the living room like hospitality is muscle memory he hasn't unlearned yet.
I walk past him without answering and sit on the couch. I make myself comfortable. Elbow on the headrest. One ankle resting on my knee.
Lorenzo doesn't sit immediately. He hovers. Then lowers himself onto the edge of the couch like it might bite him.
"I'm extremely sorry for the incident," he blurts. Words spilling over each other. "I didn't know she was your wife. If I had known, I swear—please—don't do anything to me."
I tilt my head. Just a little.
"Hey," I say calmly. "Relax."
He flinches anyway.
"I know you didn't know," I continue. My voice stays easy. Friendly. "That part's on me. Sloppy, right?"
His eyes dart to my hands. Back to my face.
"Does it still hurt?" I ask.
He swallows. "N-No, sir. It's fine."
"When did you get out of the hospital?"
"An hour ago," he answers quickly, like he's proud of it. Like surviving earns him points.
I hum. Low. Thoughtful.
"Don't mind me," I say, leaning back. "Drink your whiskey."
"No, sir," he says instantly. "I'm fine."
The smile drops.
Not slowly. Not dramatically. It just leaves.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. Close the distance without touching him. My voice lowers, flattens.
"Drink. The. Whiskey."
His shoulders jerk. He nods fast and lifts the glass with a hand that's definitely shaking now. He takes a mouthful too big, chokes a little, recovers badly.
"Good boy," I say.
Confusion flashes across his face. Offended. Terrified. Both fighting for dominance.
"I brought you gifts," I add casually.
"What?" he asks. His voice cracks on the word.
I glance at Izar. "Bring it."
Izar steps forward and places a paper bag on the table between us. Brown. Ordinary. The kind you'd expect groceries in. It lands with a soft thud.
Lorenzo stares at it like it's ticking.
"What is this, sir?" he whispers.
"Nothing much," I say. "Some cigarettes. A gun. A robe."
He stands up so fast the couch creaks. Panic finally wins.
"Please," he says, hands coming up. "Please don't do anything to me. I have money. I have—"
"Hey," I cut in, standing now. My tone stays calm, almost fond. "Easy."
I straighten his robe collar without asking. He goes rigid under my touch.
"You were our business partner a few hours ago," I continue. "How would it look if I hurt a former partner?"
His breathing is loud. Messy. He nods like that makes sense. Like he believes me.
I smile again.
Not polite this time.
Predatory.
"Sit down," I say.
He does.
And I already know he's not leaving this apartment the way he thinks he is.
I look at him for a second longer than necessary.
Long enough for the silence to start clawing at his throat.
"I know my wife is pretty," I say, voice level, almost bored. "And I know she's got a fucking smart-ass mouth. But that doesn't mean it's an invitation. Right?"
His knees flex like they might give out.
He nods too fast.
"Please, sir," Luca says. "I won't repeat it again. I swear. Never again."
I don't raise my voice.
I don't need to.
"Ti ho già detto di rilassarti," I say .
(I already told you to relax.)
The words land heavy.
He shuts up instantly. Like someone yanked the sound out of him.
I stand.
Not sudden. Not dramatic. Just enough to make the room feel smaller.
I start pacing.
Slow.
Measured.
I let my fingers trail over the glass wall, the polished wood, the expensive shit he bought to feel important. My reflection moves with me. Calm. Controlled. Ugly in a clean way.
"Talking dirty wasn't enough," I say. "But you had the audacity to blow smoke on her?"
That's when he starts shaking.
Not theatrical. Not loud. Just this small, ugly tremor he can't control.
I stop near the window.
"Which brand was that?" I ask.
He blinks. "What?"
I turn my head slowly.
Smile gone.
"The cigarette," I say. "Which brand was it?"
I start pacing again.
Past the couch. Past the table. Past the bag Izar dropped earlier. Every step drags the moment out. I let it sit. Let it rot.
He swallows. "It was… Dunhill Fine Cut, sir."
Of course it is.
Rich people love pretending they're invincible.
I nod once. Like I'm relieved.
"Thank God," I say. "I bought the same."
I walk to the table.
Open the bag.
Boxes hit the surface one after another. Heavy. Clean. Too many. Way more than anyone needs. The sound stacks. Cardboard on wood. Over and over.
More than fifty.
I arrange them neatly.
Because I'm polite like that.
"It's the same brand, right?" I ask, not looking at him.
"I… yes," he says. "It's the same brand, sir."
Good.
I turn.
Meet his eyes.
"Vieni qui," I say quietly.
(Come here.)
He rushes forward.
Too fast. Like a dog called by the wrong person.
I pick up the boxes. All of them.
Press them into his chest.
"Questo è per te," I say.
(This is for you.)
His hands close around them.
They're shaking so bad he almost drops one.
I go back to the couch.
Sit. Same position as before. Like nothing moved except him.
I cross my ankle over my knee.
Settle in.
"Now," I say, watching him fall apart in real time. "Smoke."
I let the silence stretch.
Let it hurt.
"All Of Them."