THREE: DRAMA IN THE ALLEY

Damian Caldara’s POV

Fear engulfs me like smoke. My heart pounds inside my chest, but I decide to be the man.

I grab a rod from the corner of the room and march straight to the door. I open it.

The stranger from the market stands there, arrogance stamped across his face. “Let’s see you act all high and mighty now,” he smirks.

“Your hands are strong enough to throw punches, right?”

I glance past him. Three men stand behind him, all bigger than me. Their faces carry a quiet threat, like they would tear me apart without hesitation.

“Good evening,” one of them says. A long scar runs across his face.

The scar-faced man steps forward. “We need to talk.”

“You heard him. Let’s take a stroll to the alley over there,” another cuts in.

I lock the door behind me and tighten my grip on the iron pipe, holding onto it as my last leverage.

“What do you want?” I ask.

They all laugh in unison. Then the third man speaks. “Why are you carrying an iron pipe? You want to teach Boss Viro Junior a lesson? Youfilme?”

I stare at him in astonishment. How can a grown man like him suck up to someone so shamelessly?

“Beat it,” the scar-faced man interrupts with a commanding voice.

In that moment, I know there is nothing I can do to evade the confrontation. If I fight here, Caleb could get hurt. It would be worse if they decide to take revenge on him.

Two men step behind me, and we walk toward the alley.

We move quickly like a pack of wolves. I see concern on the faces of the bystanders, people staring at us, but no one is willing to put themselves in harm’s way to save a total stranger. It seems Scarface has earned a reputation on this side of town.

He leads us into the abandoned alley. The street lights here are dim, the perfect setting to commit a crime without being seen or caught by unwanted CCTV. The alley carries a rusty metallic stink. I hate it, but that is the least of my worries this evening. I am outnumbered and cornered.

Then I see more figures emerging from the shadows. Three more men join the party.

Thinking back, I remember casually training years ago with my father’s guards. I never took those moments seriously, but the chief of security always said in a mocking voice, “If only you weren’t a rich heir, you would be a bully in a gang.”

I am significantly stronger than an untrained ordinary man, but these are thugs whose daily activity is fighting and robbing the innocent of their legitimate earnings.

As the three additional men close in, the scar-faced leader signals, and Mark, the guy from the market, strolls toward me with pride.

He speaks up. “You hit me in the market in front of everyone. You almost broke my nose. You humiliated me. That I cannot take lightly.”

The confrontation begins with insults. I accuse him of trying to touch my girlfriend. He mocks my ability to protect Caleb, questions my sexuality, and abuses my very existence.

Tension explodes into violence when I punch him hard enough to break his nose once more. His men swarm me immediately, landing blows from every direction. Fists crash into my face and ribs, but I fight back fiercely, managing to injure a few of them and hold my ground despite being outnumbered.

The fight escalates when the scar-faced leader steps in, furious at his men’s hesitation.

Fueled by adrenaline, I keep striking until they rush me all at once. I am hit repeatedly. I stagger and lose my chance to escape.

The scar-faced man finally confronts me himself. I throw a punch at his chest. It does nothing. He does not even flinch. His retaliatory blow feels like it shatters every will to fight, knocking the strength out of me. The group resumes their assault, beating me down until I can barely protect myself.

Eventually, they stop, dragging me upright and forcing me to sit against a rock.

Mark approaches and taunts me. “Maybe I should go after your so-called girlfriend. It will reduce such abomination in this world.”

“You think strength is beating someone with so many men?” I cough violently. “That’s not power. That’s insecurity.”

My words make him pause.

When one of the men suggests killing me, Mark refuses, intrigued by my resilience and hinting that I might be useful. He tosses his card at me.

“I like the way you fight. That’s my card. Hit me up and we’ll catch up.” He laughs weirdly.

Normally, I would discard the piece of paper without a second thought. But after this encounter, after witnessing the raw power behind Scarface, the way he absorbs my punch without even flinching, and the endless possibilities that could come with having underground backing, I know I need to keep the card.

I cannot see the future, but I am certain my destiny is somehow tied to Mark, and that our journey will only grow deeper from here.

After a tense moment, they decide to let me live and leave the alley. I remain there for several minutes, battered but conscious, strangely exhilarated that I survived. Finally, I stagger away, counting my steps and clinging to what little dignity I have left.

I open the door to my little apartment and fall flat on the floor.

Caleb rushes over, then stops.

His eyes widen, but not with worry or fear for me. They widen with embarrassment. “Damian… what happened to you?” he asks, showing no iota of concern, just pure irritation.

“How could you let yourself get beaten up like this?”

“I was saving you,” I reply.

His words sink deep. The man who is supposed to comfort me is irritated instead. It hurts in a way the punches did not. He does not ask if I am fine. He does not rush to get me help. He just sits there, staring at me with something that looks like disgust. I feel the sting of betrayal, and it burns differently.

“I’m going to clean up,” I mutter.

I walk into the bathroom, shut the door, and sit on the edge of the tub. My hands shake as I rinse the cuts with water. I pour alcohol over the wounds, watching it sting into open flesh, then lift the bottle and drink what is left like a madman who cannot tell pain from relief.

When I finally step out, hoping he might apologize or at least soften, I freeze.

Caleb is not alone.

He is hunched on the couch, whispering urgently into his phone. He does not notice me standing there, bruised and bleeding.

“…No, don’t worry… I’ll find a way to convince him… I can come over tonight,” he whispers in hushed tones.

I ignore all the drama and crawl into bed, pulling the covers over myself as I drift into a heavy, restless sleep.

………….

The next day, I rush to the hospital for a proper checkup, and Caleb does not even bother to come along. For two days, I recover alone, ordering takeout, staring at white walls, craving home cooked meals that never arrive. Not once does he visit. Not once does he call to say he is on his way.

When I finally return to the small apartment, vengeance is written all over my face. Instead of relief, I walk straight into another level of confrontation.

Before leaving the Caldara estate, I transferred a significant sum of money. Profits I saved from business dealings. Incentives and benefits from the blossoming farmland. Small percentages. Forgotten trusts left by my father. Enough to live comfortably. Enough to rebuild. Enough to tempt the wrong person.

I never told Caleb directly. But he knew. How?

That question burns in me as I step inside and find him waiting. Dressed in black silk, the thin fabric clinging to his body, outlining every deliberate detail. His lips are red and wet, inviting, almost staged to disarm me.

But I could not care less about his appearance. I need answers.

“What the hell, Caleb?” My voice trembles with anger. “Why didn’t you come to the hospital? Why the sudden distance? Why the silence? What is happening to us?”

I guess he lets me have my way these past few weeks, playing loving and gentle. Nothing about it is accidental.

He watches me close the door, the dim lamp casting golden light across his thighs and sculpted chest, revealing those longing eyes that never miss a reaction.

“Long day?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I mutter, tossing my bag aside. “So, are you going to answer my question or keep misbehaving?”

He rises slowly and walks toward me with deliberate grace. He does not move like someone seeking affection. He moves like someone calculating leverage.

His fingers slide beneath my shirt, his nails grazing my chest. “You’re stressed,” he whispers. “Let me fix it.”

It is the same strategy he uses the first night we are together. He acts as if he is about to withdraw, as if he does not care whether I respond. Then, the moment my guard drops, even slightly, he pounces with that intoxicating, controlled seduction that always leaves me wanting more than I should.

Before I can reply, his mouth meets mine, hungry, controlling, the kind of kiss that says he is setting the pace, not me.

He pushes me back against the door, one hand gripping my jaw, forcing me to look at him, the other massaging my laps and fiddling the rod underneath.

His dominance isn’t new.

But the intentions behind it are somewhat confusing. What does he actually want this time? I cannot fathom it.

“You’ve been hiding things from me,” he murmurs as he licks my neck.

I freeze.

My heart skips a beat; I can feel my chest pounding faster. “What do you mean?” I reply.

He smiles, a sweet and innocent yet devastating smile. “Don’t play dumb, Damian.” His hand moves lower, slow enough to make my thoughts spiral. “You left your inheritance… but you didn’t leave empty.”

I swallow hard. “How do you…”

His thumb brushes my lips. “I’m not stupid. Men like you always have backups.”

“Men like me.” When did he start talking like that?

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asks softly, but his tone is not out of hurt, it is calculating.

“I didn’t think it mattered.”

“Oh, it matters,” he whispers into my ear. “Everything matters when we’re starting over.”

I stammer beneath him. “I… I was going to tell you. The time wasn’t just right yet.”

He pulls me toward the mattress. And what follows isn’t love, or even passion. It is power. The raw leverage he has over me.

He steadies his movement and speaks softly into my ear. “So you hide such a big secret from me, and you come here with allegations and accusations?”

“I’m sorry, I’m so… so…”

Before I finish my statement, he tenderly pinches my nipples as he licks my ear intensely.

His hot breath and tingly tongue get me hard immediately.

“Awwwwwwwwn,” I let out soft moans.

Then he takes my shirt off and glides seamlessly on top. Every movement is deliberate. The way he twists his body brings desire. Every moan is intentional.

At one point, he takes my wrists and pins them above my head. Not forcefully, but with enough pressure to remind me he is in control.

“Let me take care of you,” he says in a hushed seductive tone, voice low, dangerous, and compelling.

And I let him. Even though something about it feels wrong, even though part of me knows he isn’t trying to comfort me, he is trying to secure something.

When it is over, he stays lying on top of me, fingers tracing idle patterns on my chest.

“How much do you have left?” he asks suddenly. The question hits me like cold water.

My breath stalls. “Caleb…”

“Relax.” He kisses my collarbone. “I just want to know what we’re working with.”

“We’re fine,” I answer.

“That’s not a number.”

I hesitate. And he notices. His hand slides down again, but this time the touch isn’t seductive; it is threatening in its sweetness.

“Damian,” he whispers into my ear, “tell me.”

I exhale shakily. “Enough for a new life.”

He smiles softly. He looks satisfied. “That’s all I needed to know,” he replies.

He kisses me again, but it doesn’t feel tender. It feels like he has won something.

After the intense sex, I come to a bitter realisation. 

This guy is dangerous, too much for me to handle, but at this point it doesn’t matter.

All I know is that something in my life is shifting against my favor, yet I recklessly fall headfirst into the trap.

The next morning, everything unravels. I wake to birds in the backyard and sunlight slipping through the narrow edge of the curtains. For a brief second, everything feels normal. I yawn and reach to my side.

The bed is cold. Empty. “Caleb?” I call softly, still half asleep.

No response.

That is when I notice the door. Slightly open. It creaks when the wind nudges it. Shattered glass litters the floor. The room is no longer just messy, it is disturbed. Drawers hang open. A chair lies on its side. The groceries we bought the night before are scattered across the tiles, as if someone searched through them in a hurry.

My heart begins to pound.

I step carefully over the glass, scanning the room. His phone is gone. Mine is still on the table. I try calling him anyway. Switched off.

On the floor, near the overturned chair, lies his necklace. The one he never takes off. The chain is broken.

A cold realization settles into my bones. This is not him stepping out for air. This is not a morning walk. It’s a struggle.

This is a kidnapping.