4 PTSD

THALIA POV

Gun.

The remaining people in the lounge scramble for the exit

“Don is here!”

“Viper Lane strikes again!”

Screams blend into each other as bodies push through the doors.

There’s no one in Manhattan: upper or lower who doesn’t know the notorious Don of Viper Lane. His reputation spans every mafia circle in America, Spain, Russia and beyond. Carlos Terrius. The youngest America Don in thirty-one years.

The underworld fears him. The legitimate world knows him as owner of Stay Pediatric Hospital.

Either ways, he's to be bowed to.

“You know who I am, Thalia.”

I snap my gaze up at the sound of my name.

His face remains neutral:no anger, no satisfaction. Just those dark, pitch-black eyes.

“And neither of us needs the money.” He makes his opening move.

I hold my breath, forcing calm into my racing pulse.

Gun to my head.

He knows my name.

How much else does he know?

No.Damien probably told him. On paper and online, I’m just a student who launders trust fund money. He could’ve found me out if he dug deeper, but surface-level? I’m clean.

Orio presses the gun harder against my temple.

If this turns into a gunfight, should I use mine?

I can almost hear Marcus’s voice, sharp with fury

"𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳? 𝘚𝘪𝘹 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘶𝘓 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘨𝘢𝘮𝘦?!”

I shudder at the thought.

No. Marcus and Henry would kill me themselves if they knew I’d compromised everything over this.

I only wanted to rattle him. Get into his warehouse, his dungeon, anywhere he takes people to punish them. Now I’m about to get executed over a chess game, and only one of my team knows where I am.

“I don’t know what you mean, but I do need the money.”

A lie. I need something far more valuable: access.

He leans closer.

My pulse hammers as his cheek grazes my skin, his nose pressing against my neck. I expect words, threats, something.

Instead, he just breathes me in.

Slow. Deliberate.

Taking me in like I’m evidence while I resist the urge to slash his throat.

Then he pulls back, removing the gun from my temple and settling into his seat. He lights a fresh cigarette, his fifth tonight by my count.

“You say you need money.” Smoke curls between us.

“But your leather isn’t cheap.”

“And? Some of us want more.”

His eyes narrow, cigarette balanced between his lips.

“What kind of debt are you in, pretty doll?”

There it is. He’s profiling me, searching for leverage.

“Why? Want to be my pimp?”

Laughter erupts from my left.

I've scoped out this place as always, so I know it's Damien. He sits in the shadows by the window facing Carlos, eating prawns with a grin that hasn’t left his face since I sat down here.

Carlos’s expression doesn’t change.

We hold each other’s stare until he discards his cigarette for a cuban and Orio lights it.

“Okay, pretty doll. What do you want?”

I don’t need to think. I know exactly what I want.

“I’m thinking.”

What do I want?

The truth burns: I want you suffering. I want you begging. I want you to lose everything before you die choking on your own blood.

But that’s the endgame.

Right now, I need proximity. If I’m inside his world, I’ll have access to his schedule, his contacts, his vulnerabilities.

“Give me a job.”

Laughter ripples through the room.Orio.

Carlos shoots him a glare. The sound dies instantly.

Carlos just tilts his head, curious.

I move my rook to h8, facing his pawn.

“Told you. I need the money.”

He moves his knight to d7, trapping my rook.

“What are you good at?”

I meet his gaze as he exhales smoke toward the ceiling.

“Cooking.”

Damien chuckles, but I continue.

“And for someone who chain-smokes, shouldn’t you pair it with something to drink? Or does your throat not..."

Metal presses against my temple before I finish.

I gasp. sharp, voluntary, audible.

The lounge is empty now except for us.

I can shoot a gun. I’ve trained myself past the phobia.

Carlos stands so quickly his chair scrapes the floor.

He draws his own gun straight at me and my entire body goes cold, throat goes dry as he takes a step closer to the edge of the chess board between us.

𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘦𝘯𝘥? 𝘕𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳!

I lift up my foot and stretch my hand down slowly for my gun as Carlos draws nearer.

Before I could bring it out, he stretches his hand past my face. Straight at...

Orio's head.

"Never point your gun at her without my direct order. Ever." He doesn't shout but my body felt the threat.

“Yes, sir.” Orio’s voice shakes as he lowers his weapon.

I remain frozen, staring at Carlos’s sharp profile.

“Do you all hear me?”

The harshness in his tone makes me want to cover my ears.

“Order received, Don.”

Five voices, maybe more, respond from the darkness.

I scan the room but see only Orio and Damien clearly. When I look back, Carlos is seated again, casual as if he hadn’t just threatened to execute his own man.

I bite my lower lip hard enough to taste copper, trying to slow my racing heart.

“My personal assistant.” He makes his move on the board without looking at it.

“You start tonight if you win.”

“Personal assistant?” I can’t hide my shock. “Tonight?”

I don’t need a job that chains me. Marcus’s PA lives in Marcus’s building. Has access to everything about Shadow Lane, but Marcus knows his breathing schedule, where he goes, even what he doesn’t say.

If I win, I’m trapped. Monitored.

In days, Carlos will discover my records are fabricated. My affiliation with Shadows, his enemy.

He sets down his cigarette and drains a full glass of clear tequila in one swallow, gaze unwavering on me.

I wince at the burn he must feel.

“I’m good in the kitchen.”

That smirk again.

“Are you?” He plays.

I make a mindless move, already working through implications.

He plays.

I reach for my bishop and move it into a vulnerable position: an amateur mistake. Losing it is.

His eyes narrow at me.

"Stop playing games within games" he grits out. Eyes pinned on me and I bite my lower lips. He stares longer, dare I say, at my lips before settling back into seat then he plays .

I'm not stupid to be his PA no matter how desperate I am. I'll die within days.

I make another mindless move. Carlos grinds his teeth. Damien chuckles. I look at him and he lifts his drink up at me in salute.

He also knows I'm throwing the game.

Carlos plays again. And the moment I pick up my rook, exposing my queen

His whiskey glass shatters,causing me to flinch.

His hand bleeds, shards of the glass embedded in his palm. Blood wells, dripping onto the board. Onto the floor.

Red. So much red.

My breath catches in my throat.

𝘕𝘰. 𝘕𝘰𝘵 𝘯𝘰𝘸. 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘺 𝘧𝘰𝘤𝘶e𝘦𝘥.

But the red spreads across the white and black square tiles, and suddenly I’m not in the lounge anymore.

I’m seventeen, standing in the doorway of my childhood home.

Blood on the walls. Blue on the floor.

I force my eyes to focus on the chessboard, but the pieces blur into my father’s cold body. Gun marks on his chest and forehead. On my mother’s temple.

Don’t look at his hand. Don’t look at the blood.

I feel Carlos' attention on me like a physical weight.

"Interesting." He whispers

"I think we should get her a doctor," Damien says, sounding restless.

"No." Carlos cuts in. He's so close to me.

From the fog in my mind, I see his hand move up to my cheek. The same hand that pulled the triggers on them

"NO" The scream tear from me while I try to stand, away from him but my legs wobbles and I collapse onto rigid body. Carlos. His scent floods my nostrils