CHAPTER 4

⚠️ WARNING CONTAINS DRUGS & CIGARETTES ⚠️

Alexander POV

The rain hasn’t stopped since last night. It’s hitting the glass windows of my mansion like it’s trying to break in. The thunder outside sounds like gunshots, but I’m used to that sound. I live in a world where death and money always come together.

I’m sitting at the head of a long table in the meeting room. My men are talking, about shipments, drugs, and rivals. The smell of cigar smoke mixes with whiskey and power. Everyone looks serious, but my mind… it’s somewhere else.

I’m not thinking about the business. I’m not thinking about my enemies. I’m thinking about her.

SUMMER.

That girl. The one who shouldn’t mean anything to me, but somehow does. It’s been a week since that night, but her face keeps appearing in my head like a scar I can’t erase. I remember how her eyes looked, afraid but strong. How her voice trembled when she spoke. How her touch made me feel something I thought I’d buried a long time ago.

She was supposed to be just another woman. Just one night. But when I left her, I felt… empty.

I’ve dealt with women who begged for my attention, who cried just to stay beside me. But she was different. She didn’t beg. She didn’t cry. She just looked at me, as if she could see through the man everyone feared.

And that’s what’s bothering me. No one looks at Alexander De Rossi like that.

“Boss,” Rico, one of the reapers, says from across the table. “The Black Serpents are moving guns through the north docks again.”

I blink and try to focus. “Handle it quietly,” I said, my voice cold and steady. “No witnesses. If anyone talks, make them disappear.”

He nods. The rest of the men keep talking, numbers, routes, bribes. I should be listening, but their voices fade into the background. I can’t stop thinking about that night.

Why her? Why do I keep seeing her face?

I pick up my glass of whiskey and stare at it. The golden liquid shakes slightly in my hand. I take a slow sip, but even that doesn’t calm me down.

Marco, my right-hand man, leans close. “Boss, are you okay? You seem… off.”

I give him a sharp look. “I’m fine,” I say flatly.

He doesn’t believe me, but he doesn’t push. No one ever pushes me.

But he’s right. I am off. My focus is gone.

I can’t stop thinking about her, her voice, her smell, her warmth. The way her body trembled when I touched her, not out of fear, but something deeper.

Something inside me tells me that girl isn’t normal. There’s something hidden in her, something I can’t explain. I don’t know what it is, but I feel it. And that feeling won’t leave me alone.

The meeting continues. One of my lieutenants stands and says, “Boss, the Serpents killed two of our men last night. Do we hit back?" I look up slowly. The room goes quiet. Every man in here is waiting for my answer.

I stand and button my suit. “Not yet,” I say. “Let them think they’re in control. Then, when they get too comfortable, we strike. Hard and final.”

My tone leaves no room for argument. The men nod in silence. “Understood, Boss.”

They keep talking, but I stop listening. My eyes drift to the large window beside me. The rain looks endless. For a moment, I see her reflection there, Summer, like a ghost staring back at me.

I shake my head, trying to get rid of the image, but it doesn’t go away. I shouldn’t care about her. I shouldn’t even remember her. She’s nothing, just a girl I met once, in a club place, living a hard life. But my chest feels heavy when I think of her.

That’s the problem. I’ve spent years making sure nothing touches me, no pain, no emotion, no weakness. And now, one girl I barely know is making me feel everything.

When the meeting finally ends, everyone leaves. The room goes silent again. I sit alone with my thoughts. I pour another drink, the sound of the liquid echoing in the quiet room. I run a hand through my hair and close my eyes.

All I can see is her. Her eyes. Her lips. Her pain.

“Summer…” I whisper, her name soft against the silence. It feels strange saying it, like I’m breaking my own rule.

I don’t even know who she really is. But I can’t stop thinking that there’s something inside her, something dark, something familiar.

Maybe I’m going crazy. Or maybe… fate is playing with me again.

I’ve lived too long in this world of guns and betrayal. Nothing surprises me anymore. But her, she’s different.

And for the first time in years, I feel something I don’t understand.

I hate it. I want to forget her.

But I can’t.

I finish my drink and set the glass down. The storm outside grows louder, almost mocking me. No matter how much I try to fight it, I know the truth.

That girl, Summer…She’s already under my skin.

And I’ll find her again, not because I want to.

But because I need to.

She left something in me that night. Something I’ll never be able to erase.

The call came late, and my heart jumped when I saw Rico’s name. I picked up without thinking.

“We found her,” Rico said, voice low and quick.

Relief hit me like a cool wind. Relief, sudden and sharp, because at last the empty ache in my chest had a place to go. I had been carrying that unknown weight for a day, and now someone had handed me a direction. It felt like a small victory, stupid and immediate.

“Where?” I asked.

“West village. By the old market,” he said. “She’s there, Boss. But… they’re hurting her.”

My breath tightened. “Who’s with her?”

There was a short pause. “Seven men. Locals. Thugs. They have her cornered.”

The word thudded in my ears. “Keep watching,” I told him. I didn’t say go. I didn’t order anyone to move. I let the quiet sit there, heavy and hot. “Tell me everything you see.”

Rico listed what he could, where they stood, how they moved, the path they would take if they left. He said the thugs looked sharp with wine and anger. He said Summer was scared, trying to hide. I closed my eyes and pictured her small face in the dark, and the image burned under my skin.

“I’m coming,” I said finally, but it was softer than a command. It was a promise to myself.

---

. The Reapers, were briefed and waiting. We did not rush into noise. We moved with the slow, certain steps of men who knew when to strike. The city was still sleeping under a gray sky, the rain from last night making the streets slick and dark.

When we reached the west village, the smell of wet trash and smoke hit me. People peered through shutters, or they did not look at all. The market stalls stood empty like open wounds.

Rico pointed without words. The alley was narrow, narrow enough that sound stuck there like dirt. I stepped in and my boots made no sound. The closer I got, the louder everything became in my head, her cries, the thud of fists, the soft curse of the rain.

And then I saw them.

Seven men. They were bigger than beggars, dressed in old jackets, faces stubbled and hard. They stood around her like they owned the space. One had his hand on her wrist, another’s fist rose again. They did not flinch at our arrival, because they did not expect anyone with real power to care.

Summer was small on the ground. Her dress was stuck to her skin. Mud glued her hair to her temple. She tried to curl into herself but there was no hiding. Her eyes met mine for the shortest time, and something raw passed between us, guilt, fear, and a tiny, desperate hope.

Rage tasted like cold steel in my mouth. I felt it coil under my ribs and then snap into movement.

“Get them,” I said to Rico, my voice flat, sharp with command. The Reapers moved like trained shadows.

The alley turned alive. Men shouted and scattered when the Reapers closed in, fast, precise, no mercy. I stepped forward and the air changed. I watched as fists fell away and the thugs realized they faced something bigger than them. The fight did not last long. It never did when my men were involved.

I pushed through the mess of bodies and rain to her side. She flinched when I reached to lift her. Her cheek was split, and her lip bled. Her breaths came short and fast like someone who had been running too long.

“You,” I said, looking at the nearest thug. My voice was a low blade. “Who sent you?”

He spat, trying to be brave. “It’s.... We— we thought she—”

“You thought what?” I asked. My hand tightened on his collar until he gagged. I wanted to hear him beg. I wanted him to remember this fear.

He choked out, “She’s a whore. Someone said she was spying on the wrong men. We just—”

Lies slipped easy from weak mouths. The words did not matter. I looked back at her. She clasped her arms around her knees, trying to hide more of herself. Her eyes were red and rimmed with tears, but she did not cry loudly. She had learned to be small and quiet.

I set my jaw. “Take them,” I ordered. “Tie their hands. Bring them to the car.”

They moved under command and pushed the men forward. The thugs stomped like animals, spitting and cursing, but the truth was plain in their faces, afraid. Afraid of being seen to have touched someone under my shadow.

I lifted Summer into my arms more gently than I thought I could. She was lighter than I expected. Her body trembled against me. For a second she buried her face in my chest, and I felt the quick, ragged beat of her heart. It sounded like a drum calling me to things I had no name for.

On the walk back, she clung to me like someone holding onto faith. I kept my voice low, “You’re safe.” She looked up at me with eyes that were too old for her face. “Why?” she whispered. “Why did you—”

“Because I could not let them do it,” I said. The words were a truth I didn’t want to examine. I would not give her pity. I would not kiss her wounds to make them scar less. But I could not leave her in that dirt.

Back in the car, the city passed in gray lines. The Reapers watched the bound thugs in the rear. Summer sat wrapped in a blanket, breathing shallowly. I felt the world tighten into a narrow line: protect her, find who sent them, and never let her be small again.

At the mansion, the doctor cleaned her cuts with hands that did not tremble. He wrapped the wounds and gave her pills to dull the pain. I stayed at the window, watching the rain fall and worrying about the shape of things to come.

But first, I would keep her safe.

She had come into my life like a storm I never planned for. Now she was there, in my house, bandaged and breathing. My hands curled into fists at the thought of any other man touching her.

I promised myself then, soft as a vow and hard as steel: whoever used her body, whoever called her names, whoever thought she could be broken, would learn the meaning of my anger.

For now, she slept with a blanket over her knees. I sat near and watched. The night was long, and the rain kept falling, but in that quiet I felt a new kind of hunger, one that had nothing to do with power or control. It had something to do with holding what mattered and not letting it go.