Chapter 3: A Deal With The Devil

Kristoff accepted the handkerchief from his trusted aide, Roland Silverio. With deliberate, almost regal movements, he gently wiped the blood from his hands.

Then, with slow precision, he removed his mask—revealing a face that could steal the very breath from anyone who dared look. His eyes, dark and fathomless, were like enchanted wells, pulling anyone who met them deeper and deeper into their spell. Above lips that were perfectly sculpted, sat a nose as sharp and chiseled as if carved by the gods themselves.

The hard lines of Kristoff’s face radiated both power and beauty—too perfect, almost, to belong to a mere man. It was the kind of face that could outshine the brightest stars in show business.

But beyond his looks, it was his aura that commanded fear and awe—untamed, unshakable, and terrifying. This was a man who held the fates of countless lives in the palm of his hand.

Kristoff’s lips curved into a smile, and in his eyes glimmered a threat.

"And what if I am?"

Irene’s eyes widened, nearly as large as saucers.

Kristoff Montecillo—the very name carried the weight of legend.

Once, he had been nothing but a member of a minor branch of the Montecillo clan, before vanishing for ten years. But when he returned, he conquered the entire underworld singlehandedly, ascending its throne as an unmatched king.

He was so powerful, in fact, that even the President himself tread carefully around him.

Dave, Irene’s former lover, belonged to the Montecillo bloodline—an otherwise nameless family that held influence only because of Kristoff. By blood, Dave was Kristoff’s nephew. And had Irene’s marriage to Dave pushed through, Kristoff would have become her uncle-in-law.

Sandra, Dave’s stepsister, had been the one to drive Irene into the hands of Rigor Buenaflor.

But while Rigor held sway over the city, he was nothing compared to Kristoff—like a mouse before a lion.

And in that thought, Irene found a flicker of hope.

If she could win Kristoff’s support, she might escape the sacrifice forced upon her… and perhaps save her mother’s life as well.

Summoning her courage, though doubt lingered in her heart, Irene asked, “Because I helped you… may I ask a favor in return?”

Kristoff’s eyes sharpened, a dangerous interest sparking within them. For the first time, a woman had dared face him with such strength—especially after he had just taken so many lives. Amused by the audacity, he strode toward her in lazy, confident steps.

With long fingers, Kristoff lifted Irene’s chin, forcing her to meet his gaze.

In that silence, he studied her face, his expression betraying a flicker of amusement. His voice dropped low—rich, deep, carrying a chill that lingered in the air.

“Do you even know who you’re speaking to? Aren’t you afraid I might kill you?”

Terror surged in Irene’s chest. Kristoff’s presence was suffocating, like a storm slowly closing in on her.

He was dangerous—merely speaking to him felt like playing with fire.

But she had no one else left. Kristoff was her last hope.

“I have a background in chemistry,” she said firmly, though desperation wavered in her voice. “I can formulate beauty products. If you help me, you could profit from it too.”

Kristoff shook his head, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Money?” he scoffed, his fingers brushing her cheek. “Do I look like a man who runs short on money?”

There was still blood on his skin, faint but chilling against her flesh. Irene stiffened under his touch, her body rigid with caution.

“What do you want then?” she asked carefully. “If it’s within my power to give, I’ll trade it.”

A strange light flickered in Kristoff’s eyes—something Irene couldn’t decipher.

His gaze swept over her, as though weighing her offer.

"Anything, you say? Are you sure?" He laughed then, loud and sudden. "Very well. Here is what I want."

In a swift motion, Kristoff’s arms encircled her slender waist, pulling her firmly against his powerful frame.

And right there, before the eyes of all his men, he crushed his lips onto Irene’s, claiming her with a kiss that was deep, searing, and utterly inescapable.