SIX: An Indelible Mark On The Cursed Lycan

Alfredo’s POV:

"You're not making it easy, are you?" I quip, but my expression changes when I see Ortega. To be honest, she looks a bit terrible. Her face is becoming pale, her eyes red, and tears are streaming down her cheeks.

"What's wrong?" I ask, concern replacing my playful tone. I carefully approach her, and as I kneel in front of her, she black out.

I have some experiences about werewolves, and judging from what’s happening to Ortega, it seems her mate is currently cheating on her. Anytime a werewolf gets cheated on by their mate, they know and they feel immense pain, eventually causing them to black out sometimes.

I have also experienced this back when I had a mate. It turned out that my mate didn’t like me, and she cheated on me several times before leaving our pack. Ever since then, I haven’t seen her, and that experience has made me who I am today: a man who’s not ready to love.

I carry Ortega from the floor and place her gently on the bed. As I lift Ortega from the floor and place her gently on the bed, my mind races with concern. Seeing her in such distress triggers memories of my own painful past with a mate who betrayed me. The anguish of being cheated on by someone you trusted cuts deep, and it's clear that Ortega is experiencing that same agony.

I've been down that road before, and it's left me guarded and hesitant to open up to anyone again. My mate's betrayal shattered my trust and left scars that still ache to this day. Since then, I've been wary of letting anyone get too close, afraid of being hurt again.

But as I watch Ortega lying there, vulnerable and in pain, my instincts kick in. Despite my reluctance to get involved, I can't ignore her suffering. Werewolves may be known for their strength and resilience, but they are not immune to the pain of betrayal, especially when it comes from someone we love.

Carefully, I sit beside Ortega, keeping a watchful eye on her. It's clear that she's been through a lot, and I can't help but feel a pang of empathy for her. Despite the fact that we just met, we share a common bond forged by the pain of betrayal.

As Ortega begins to stir on the bed, I sit beside her, offering a reassuring presence. Her pain is palpable, and I'm determined to do whatever I can to help ease her suffering. Drawing on my own experiences and knowledge of werewolf remedies, I decide to prepare a concoction that may help alleviate her pain.

Quietly, I rise from the bed and make my way to the bathroom, gathering the necessary ingredients. In the large hotel bathroom, I rummage through the toiletries, searching for the items I need.

I am lucky enough to locate a few key ingredients: a vial of lavender oil, a packet of dried chamomile flowers, and a bottle of soothing aloe vera gel. These natural remedies are known for their calming properties, ideal for soothing both physical and emotional distress.

Returning to Ortega's side, I set to work, carefully blending the ingredients together in a small bowl. The scent of lavender fills the air, its calming aroma mingling with the earthy undertones of chamomile.

As I mix the ingredients into a smooth paste, I gaze at Ortega’s face. On a normal day, I wouldn’t bother to help anyone in pain. But there is something different about Ortega; something special that makes me want to help her. I don’t know why I’m helping her, but she seems special.

Once the concoction is ready, I dip my fingers into the mixture and gently apply it to Ortega's temples, massaging it into her skin with slow, soothing motions. The cool touch of the gel combined with the gentle pressure of my fingertips seems to have a calming effect, easing the furrow of her brow and relaxing the lines of tension around her eyes.

I continue to massage the soothing balm into her skin, focusing on areas where the pain seems most acute. With each stroke, I can sense Ortega beginning to relax, her breathing slowing as the tension drains from her body.

After a few minutes, I step back, allowing the calming scent of lavender and chamomile to fill the room. Ortega lies before me, her features softened by the effects of the remedy, her breathing steady and even.

Though I know that the pain of betrayal won't disappear overnight, I hope that my small gesture of kindness has brought her some measure of comfort in this moment of turmoil.

As I continue to gaze at Ortega's unconscious face, lost in thought, my phone suddenly starts ringing. With a sigh, I retrieve it from my pocket and glance at the caller ID, seeing Clyde's name flashing on the screen.

"What's up, Clyde?" I answer, my tone shifting from the calmness I had with Ortega to a more serious demeanor.

"Boss, we've got a problem," Clyde's voice comes through the line, steady despite the urgency of his message.

"What kind of problem?" I inquire, a furrow forming on my brow.

"Some of our guys were transporting a shipment of coke this morning, but their trucks got hijacked," Clyde explains.

"Hijacked? By who?" I ask, my voice taking on a darker edge as concern mixes with frustration.

"The Salvadors," Clyde responds. "Their crew intercepted our trucks carrying crates of coke that were supposed to be delivered to our partners."

The mention of the Salvadors sparks a surge of anger within me. The Salvadors are a rival gang known for their ruthless tactics and willingness to challenge our territory. This act of aggression is a direct affront to our operations and cannot go unanswered.

"Get our team mobilized," I instruct Clyde, my voice steely with determination. "We need to track down those trucks and retrieve our merchandise. And make sure our partners know we're taking care of the situation."

"Already on it, boss," Clyde replies, his tone reflecting the same resolve. "I'll keep you updated on any developments."

"Good," I say, ending the call and turning my attention back to Ortega. Despite the urgency of the situation, I can't shake the concern I feel for her. I want to leave and go handle the situation, but just don’t feel like leaving Ortega. So I decide to leave let my righthand man, Clyde handle the situation.

Gathering my thoughts, I reach for my phone once again and dial Clyde's number. As the call connects, I can feel the weight of responsibility settling on my shoulders.

"Clyde, listen carefully," I begin, my voice firm and commanding. "I want you to mobilize the gang immediately. We need to track down those bastards and retrieve our merchandise before the Salvadors have a chance to move it."

"Got it, boss," Clyde responds promptly, his tone conveying his readiness to spring into action.

"Coordinate with our best trackers and gather as much intel as you can on the Salvadors' movements," I instruct, my mind already formulating a plan of attack. "I want eyes on every possible exit route, and I want regular updates on their whereabouts."

"Consider it done," Clyde affirms, his voice steady with determination.

"Once we locate the trucks, I want the gang ready to move in and secure the area," I continue, outlining the next steps of our operation. "And make sure our partners know that we're taking care of the situation. We can't afford any disruptions to our business."

"I'll make the calls, boss," Clyde assures me, his efficiency a reassuring presence in the midst of chaos.

"Good. Keep me informed of any developments. I want the drugs retrieved and delivered to our partners within ten hours," I conclude.

With the plan in motion, I hang up the phone and turn my attention back to Ortega, hoping that she will awaken soon.

After concluding my conversation with Clyde, I rise to my feet with a sense of purpose. As I stand by the bedside, I cast one last glance at Ortega before turning away.

Making my way across the room, I spot a landline phone on the bedside table. With a determined stride, I reach for the receiver and dial the hotel's room service line. After a few rings, a polite voice answers on the other end.

"Room service, how may I assist you?" the voice inquires.

"This is Alfredo in room 69. I'd like to place an order for some food," I reply, my tone brisk and businesslike.

"Certainly, sir. What would you like to order?" the attendant asks, ready to take down my request.

"I'll have a steak dinner with mashed potatoes and steamed vegetables," I state.

"Excellent choice, sir. Anything else?" the attendant prompts.

"That will be all," I confirm, keeping my order concise.

"Your meal will be prepared and delivered to your room shortly. Thank you for choosing our hotel," the attendant says before ending the call.

With the food order placed, I set the receiver back in its cradle and take a moment to gather my thoughts. The situation with the hijacked trucks requires my full attention, but for now, I must ensure that Ortega is okay.

As I wait for the meal to arrive, I take a seat by the window, gazing out at the city skyline below. The lights twinkle in the distance.

As I gaze out at the city skyline, I'm reminded of the stark contrast between the two worlds I inhabit. To the outside world, I am Alfredo Gambino, a figure of wealth and influence, known for my philanthropy and business acumen. But to those in the underworld, I am something else entirely – a Mafia Boss.

Yet, there is another aspect of my identity that few are aware of – my true nature as a Lycan. Born into a world where myths and legends collide with reality, I possess the ability to transform into a wolf or wolf-like creature at will. It's a curse that has haunted me for as long as I can remember, a burden I carry with me every day.

For most Lycans, the transformation is triggered by external factors such as the full moon or intense emotions. But for me, the curse runs deeper. I can shift between human and wolf forms at any time, a power that sets me apart from others of my kind.

I've long harbored a deep resentment towards my lycanthropy, yearning for a way to rid myself of the curse that plagues me. Countless times, I've sought out answers, only to be met with the same grim truth – there is no cure, no remedy to lift the curse that binds me.

And so, I've learned to accept my fate, embracing the duality of my existence as both man and beast. As the realization dawns on me that Ortega will need nourishment when she wakes, I quickly reassess my order with room service.

"Apologies, I need to make a change to my order," I explain as I pick up the phone once more.

"Of course, sir. What would you like to modify?" the attendant responds, ever accommodating.

"I'd like to add another steak dinner with mashed potatoes and steamed vegetables to my order, please," I request, ensuring that Ortega will have a hearty meal waiting for her.

"Understood, sir. Your updated order will be prepared and delivered promptly," the attendant confirms before we end the call.

With the food arrangements sorted, I take a moment to survey the room, ensuring that everything is in order for Ortega's comfort. Satisfied that all is in readiness, I return to her side.

As I sit beside Ortega's unconscious form, I find myself reflecting on the unexpected shift in my demeanor. I'm not accustomed to showing such concern or speaking with such gentleness, yet with Ortega, it feels almost instinctual.

The question lingers in my mind: why? What is it about Ortega that has prompted this change in me? Is it her vulnerability, her pain, that resonates with something deep within me? Or perhaps it's her strength, her resilience, that inspires a newfound sense of empathy.

Ortega's presence has stirred something within me, something I thought long buried beneath the hardened exterior I've cultivated over the years. Meeting her has reminded me of the capacity for compassion and kindness that lies within us all, even in the midst of our darkest moments.

As I wait for her to awaken, I find myself grappling with these newfound emotions, unsure of what to make of them. But one thing is clear: Ortega has left an indelible mark on me, one that I cannot easily shake. With a sigh, I lean back in my chair, content to wait for Ortega's return to consciousness.