BLOODY EXITS

Marco's POV

My head throbbed as if it'd been axed to pieces.

Cold seeped into bones first — cold tile against my cheekbone, damp air that stank of metal and bleach. My eyelids groaned open, heavy, my vision spinning until the world righted itself into focus.

Not my room. Not the White House.

Somewhere below ground. Cold naked walls. One light bulb hanging overhead, swaying very slowly.

And blood.

There was blood on the floor a few feet away from me — dark and half-dried, smeared like someone had been dragged.

My heart slammed against my ribs. Was that mine?

I tried to sit up and was pulled back at once — my wrists were bound behind me with something stiff that dug into my skin whenever I shifted. My ankles were bound together.

Panic crept up my throat.

"What the fuck"

"Good morning, sunshine."

His voice froze me in my tracks.

He was there.

Sitting in a metal chair a few feet away from me like he'd been waiting for my wake-up call. Legs apart, gun hanging loose in his hand, head resting back against the wall. He looked. bored. Like I was just another checkmark on his list.

And that made it worse.

Adrenaline coursed through me, slicing and searing. "What in the world do you want from me?" I growled, my throat sore. "You haven't spoken to me since last night. I just give it an hour or two before my dad notices I'm gone and—"

He raised his hand, one easy gesture that silenced my words on my lips.

Not because I was going to do his will.

Because that amount of silence meant something was wrong.

He slowly raised a phone to his ear, then pushed a button and held it out on speaker.

"Hello, President Powell."

My blood thrummed.

My father's voice boomed in through the tinny speaker, big and furious. "Dante fucking Russo. Where is my son? I know you're at the center of what happened last night. I swear to God, if you harm him—

Dante grinned weakly. I hated the way controlled he sounded when he spoke.

"Your son is fine. For now. In fact."

He rose, slow and methodical, and made his way over to where I was tied. He dropped down on all fours until we were face-to-face. His eyes were cold and pitiless, that jagged scar gleaming in the light like a signal.

".he's standing right in front of me.".

My dad's breathing was labored on the other end of the phone. "Marco? Are you injured? Dante, I swear to God—"

Dante ignored him and redirected his focus back to me. His gloved fist came out, clenching a bunch of my hair.

I winced, pain slicing through my scalp as I tried to wriggle away.

"Stop!"

"Marco!" My dad's voice boomed over the phone.

Dante didn't even flinch.

"Alex," he said, his voice gentle but lethal. "You and I had an understanding. US shipments, sent in through my dock. That was our agreement. Imagine my surprise when they vanished."

My father paused for a moment before he said, "Dante, you understand business. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose—

"Not a poker table." Dante's fingers tightened in my hair, forcing my head back so that I was forced to look up at him. My scalp hurt. "You double-crossed me."

"You lost this one. Let go of my son."

"Lost?" Dante's deep-throated laugh sent shivers crawling up my arms. He pulled his free hand out of his pocket and drew out a knife.

My blood ran cold.

"What do you think you're doing?" My voice shook despite my attempts to keep it even.

Dante didn't answer me. He instead pushed the flat of the blade into my shoulder, drawing it down slowly until it caught on the rim of my tuxedo coat. Fabric ripped with a soft hiss as he sliced through it.

"Stop!" my father snarled into the phone. "Don't you touch him!"

Dante grinned again — a slow, cold, disgusting grin.

"You think you're in a position to give commands," he said. "Where. Are. My. Shipments?"

"There aren't any shipments. It's over, Dante. Release him."

The knife brushed against my skin. I spat, pulling at the ropes.

There has to be another way," I gasped, my chest heaving and falling. "Dad, just do what he tells you—"

"Shh," Dante whispered.

And then he pushed the blade deeper.

Flames coursed through my shoulder as the knife cut through flesh. Scorching blood streamed down my chest, soaking into the hem of my shirt.

I screamed.

My dad swore so violently the speaker ruptured.

"Dante! Stop!"

"Not until you produce what's owed me."

"I can't!

Dante drew out the knife and wiped my shirt of blood as if I were a rag.

"You think you can steal from me, shame me, and have your little perfect family left in tact?" he snarled, his voice so cruel. "No, Mr. President. I want you to hurt. I want you to know that every minute your son remains alive is to my discretion choosing that he should.".

"Dad!" I shouted, my throat raw. "Just give him the goddamn shipments! He's going to kill me!"

"Marco, listen to me," my dad pleaded, his voice shaking now. "You just calm down. I'll get you out. I promise."

Dante got up, bored now, and with a flick of his hand ended the call. The phone fell quiet.

"HEY!" I yelled, fury and fear exploding. "Turn it back on! Let me talk to him!"

Dante went down on his knees again, inches from me so I could see the faint line of stubble on his jaw.

"You talk too much."

His gray eyes burned into mine as he pressed the tip of the knife into my throat — just enough for me to feel the threat.

"Welcome to your new life, Powell," he breathed. "Hope your father wisens up. For your own good."

My chest was heaving. My blood streamed down my arm.

And for the very first time ever, I understood that my father might not be able to save me.