Chapter 5

Ezra Velleoti had always sought solace in the sea. It was the only place that gave him a sense of peace, a refuge from the suffocating demands of his work.

As the leader of the Velleoti Mafia, his life was a relentless cycle of violence, deception, and power plays. But out here, away from the chaos of the city and the bloodstained dealings of the underworld, he could breathe.

The sound of the waves, whether calm or raging, was a melody to him. The endless horizon stretching before him reminded him of freedom—something he rarely experienced. Sitting on the deck of his yacht, he sipped his vodka, allowing the alcohol to burn his throat as he gazed at the vast expanse of blue.

The sun was high in the sky, its golden rays bathing his skin in warmth. His black sunglasses shielded his eyes, and he leaned back, letting the tranquility of the moment seep into his bones.

He enjoyed these brief escapes, venturing out to sea for three to five days at a time. No one knew of his private beach house except for Omar, his right-hand man—the only person he trusted with his life.

At thirty-four, Ezra no longer sought fleeting pleasures. He wasn’t interested in one-night stands or meaningless affairs. If he was going to let a woman into his life, she had to be someone who could shake him to his core. Someone who would make him rethink everything he had built, someone who could match his fire and his cold indifference at the same time.

But so far, no woman has managed to stir anything in him.

He sighed, rolling his neck to release some tension. His father had raised him alone after his mother—a Filipina—had abandoned them to chase after other men. He never held any hatred for her; he simply didn’t care. His father, now retired, lived peacefully in a secluded part of Italy, and they only met a few times a year. Their conversations were brief, but there was mutual respect. His father had taught him everything about their family's legacy—how to run their business, how to kill without hesitation, and most importantly, how to survive in a world where betrayal lurked in every shadow.

Ezra lit a cigarette, taking a slow drag as he stared at the horizon. His thoughts drifted to the corruption that plagued the Philippines. He had long since accepted that this country was a breeding ground for filth—crooked politicians, criminals disguised as public servants, and the weak who allowed themselves to be exploited.

“That's bullshit!” He muttered under his breath. “A swarm of idiots and fools.”

As much as he despised the system, he had no intention of leaving. He had built his empire here, and despite the rot in its foundation, the Philippines was still home. He had his peace here, even in the midst of the dirt. And besides, he thrived in this environment.

His mind wandered back to the last man who had dared to cross him. A poor fool who thought he could borrow money from the Mafia and walk away without paying his debts. Ezra had been merciful compared to others in his position—he had given the man a chance. But debts were debts, and in the end, the man had to learn his lesson.

A smirk played on his lips as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. Some people never learned.

Stretching his arms, he stood and moved toward the yacht’s controls. It was time to move. The sun was still glaring overhead, even though it was past two in the afternoon. He adjusted his watch, shaking his head. Climate change was a bitch.

Just as he was about to steer his yacht toward a shaded cove where he planned to grill some fish, something caught his eye—a dark shape floating in the water. His brows furrowed as he squinted against the sunlight. At first, he thought it was debris, but as he focused, he realized with a jolt that it was a body.

“Motherfucker!” Ezra cursed, his grip tightening on the wheel. His instincts screamed at him to act fast. Without hesitation, he sped up the yacht, drawing closer to the drifting figure.

As the boat neared, his heart pounded. It was a woman.

His jaw tightened. Who the hell would throw a body into these waters? The sea was supposed to be his sanctuary, yet even here, he couldn’t escape the ugliness of the world.

Ezra didn’t hesitate. He killed the engine and dove into the water. The sudden coldness enveloped him, but he pushed forward, swimming toward the lifeless form. As he reached her, his heart clenched. She was small, delicate—her body battered, her clothes stained with blood. Long strands of dark hair floated around her like a ghostly veil.

“Shit,” he muttered, wrapping his arms around her. He kicked hard, hauling her back toward the yacht. With a grunt, he lifted her onto the deck, his muscles straining.

Breathing heavily, he ran a hand through his wet hair. “F*ck! Why do I have to do this again?” he groaned, irritated with himself. He could have ignored her, let her drift away into nothingness, but something inside him—something uncharacteristically human—refused to let him turn away.

Then, he saw her face.

His breath caught in his throat.

She was... breathtaking. Even with bruises marring her skin, even with her lips pale from near-drowning, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Innocent. Fragile. Yet, there was something about her—something that sent a strange pulse through his veins.

Ezra shook himself. Now wasn’t the time to be mesmerized. He checked her pulse, pressing his fingers against her neck. It was weak, but it was there. Without thinking, he tilted her head back and began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

His lips pressed against hers, and an unexpected jolt shot through him, like a shock to his system. The sensation unsettled him. His body reacted in a way he didn’t anticipate. What the hell was this?

“Damn it, don’t die on me,” he growled, pressing his hands against her chest and pumping hard. He repeated the motion, his pulse matching the urgency of his actions.

Seconds stretched into eternity. Then—

She coughed.

Ezra’s eyes widened as water spilled from her lips. He quickly turned her onto her side, letting her expel the liquid from her lungs. She gasped, her body convulsing as life returned to her.

But her eyes remained shut.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, running a hand down his face. His relief was quickly overshadowed by his growing concern. He wasn’t a doctor, but he knew she was in bad shape.

Lifting her easily, he carried her inside his yacht’s cabin and laid her on his bed. As he peeled off her wet clothes, his jaw tightened at the sight of the blood seeping from a bullet wound near her ribs. His eyes darkened.

“Who the hell did this to you?” he muttered, his voice dangerously low.

Whoever had tried to kill her had left her to die at sea, but she had somehow survived. That meant she was either incredibly lucky—or incredibly strong.

His instincts told him she was the latter.

Grabbing his phone, he dialed Omar. His voice was sharp and commanding. “Omar! Get my doctor to the mansion. Now. And send a goddamn helicopter!”

“Yes, boss.”

Ezra ended the call, his gaze returning to the unconscious woman. He clenched his fists.

Whoever had done this to her had made a grave mistake.

Because now, she belonged to him.

And Ezra Velleoti never let go of what was his.