CHAPTER 23

The room smelled of sweat, blood, and fear.

The four men knelt on the cold concrete floor, hands pressed against the rough surface, eyes flicking toward the tall figure at the end of the hall. Silence stretched so thick it felt suffocating. Every muscle tensed, every breath measured.

The door slammed behind them. One of the men tried to lift his head. A sharp crack against the back of his skull forced it down again. The big boss didn’t waste time. He walked slowly, deliberately, boots clicking against the floor, and the sound alone made hearts pound.

You were supposed to have her, he said,

voice low but cutting through every nerve in the room. She slipped through your hands,

Not once,

Twice.

A bead of sweat ran down one man’s temple. His knees dug into the floor. His hands shook.

“Sir…” he started, but the sentence died on his lips. One looked up, and his jaw locked.

The big boss stopped in front of the tallest one. Without a word, he grabbed the man’s arm, twisted it behind his back. A crack echoed through the room. The man’s scream was sharp, sudden, but short. The boss released him only enough to keep him on his knees, face pressed to the floor.

The second man flinched, anticipating his turn. He barely had time to react before a fist hit his jaw. A low grunt escaped him as his head snapped to the side. Pain bloomed, hot and sudden. He clutched his face, tried to speak, but the boss didn’t allow it.

You think failure is acceptable?

The voice was calm now, deadly in its steadiness. “You think mistakes are forgiven?”

No one answered. They couldn’t. Each second stretched like an eternity, each movement watched, cataloged.

The third man, the smallest, whimpered as the boss approached him. A hand grabbed his chin, lifting his head. Eyes locked on his own, wide with panic. Then a knee drove into his side. Breath left him in a sharp scream. The boss’s shadow loomed over him, heavy, inescapable.

You lost her, the boss said, leaning closer, voice cold. “Do you understand what that means?”

The man shook violently, tears running down his face, his mind scrambling for any excuse, any explanation, any pleading words that would stop the inevitable.

The last man—greedy, brash, the one who had thought he could charm his way out—tried to speak. A swift hand caught him by the collar, pressing his face down into the floor. Another crack, another cry. Silence fell immediately after, only broken by ragged breathing.

The boss stepped back slightly, surveying the damage. They were alive. Barely. Bruised, broken in ways that would take weeks to heal, and yet he didn’t smile. His eyes were cold, calculating, piercing

“You were given orders,” he said softly, almost conversational. “You failed.”

The others flinched in unison. Every nerve, every instinct screaming: don’t move. Don’t breathe too loudly. Don’t do anything wrong.

The boss circled them, calm as a shadow, dangerous as a storm. He didn’t strike fast, but every motion was exact, intentional, leaving no doubt who was in power.

A broken rib. Twisted arm. A leg pushed into a position that promised weeks of pain. Every act a reminder: failure had consequences. He let them feel it, anticipate it, fear it, and then inflicted the next.

Hours could have passed in those moments. The room was alive with the sound of suffering, controlled, precise, not chaotic. Fear had a rhythm now, dictated by him alone.

When he finally stopped, all four were gasping, shaking, bruised, beaten, and trembling under the weight of his gaze. Not a single sound escaped them. The silence that followed was almost worse than the pain.

Then, without warning, he leaned in close, his voice low, measured, the kind of voice that leaves an imprint on the soul.

HOW DARE YOU LOSE MY DAUGHTER A SECOND TIME?

The words hung in the air like a guillotine.

No one moved. No one breathed. Nothing followed. The silence pressed down, heavy, suffocating, final.