Chapter 7: Her Scent in the Dark

Mateo POV, Katarina’s House

“Where the fuck is the girl?” Scarface barked, his boot slamming hard into the coffee table and sending the broken plates and leftover beer bottles crashing to the floor.

My heart missed a beat, and I stepped in front of my useless father defensively, who was still reeking of whiskey and desperation. His hands trembled as he stumbled back, mumbling, “She was here… I swear she was here…”

Scarface didn’t give a fuck about his lies. He jerked his chin at the two goons beside him.

“Hold the pretty boy down,” Scarface ordered, voice cold with amusement.

Before I could react, two strong arms grabbed me, one yanking my wrist behind my back, the other shoving me forward until my knees slammed into the cracked floorboards.

Pain exploded in my knees, but I kept my mouth shut, jaw clenched so tight I thought my teeth might break, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a scream..

My father scrambled back to his feet, desperate now, he was waving a stack of crumpled bills at Scarface like a pathetic offering.

“Here! Take it back!” he cried. Tears and sweat poured down his filthy face. “Take the money back! I don’t want trouble! Just leave us alone!”

Scarface snatched the money from him, laughing coldly.

He let the dirty bills rain down over my father’s greasy hair, slapping his sweaty face with a handful.

"You think this was about the money?carface laughed, his rotting teeth flashing like a fucking warning sign. stepping closer, shoving my father so hard he collapsed into the coffee table wreckage. "We don't want your filthy fucking money."

He knelt down, grabbed a fistful of my father’s hair, and yanked his head back to look him dead in the eyes.

“We want the girl you promised,” he spat. “The sexy little virgin.” He dragged the words like a lullaby dipped in filth.

My gut twisted hearing those rotten teeth say her name like that—like she was nothing but a prize.

Scarface gripped my father’s chin with two fingers, digging into the hollows of his cheeks and forcing his mouth open. His wicked grin widened.

"You think you can fuck with Giordano?" he hissed, voice dripping with venom.

Without warning, he smashed the butt of his gun across my father's face and blood sprayed across the wall. My father crumpled to the floor, clutching his nose, crying like a pathetic little boy.

“Please,” he sobbed. “Please! She was here! She was just here! Don’t kill me!”

“Maybe you need a little motivation,” he said, glancing over his shoulder.

His sick eyes landed on my mother, slumped on the stained couch, barely conscious, her blouse hanging half-off her skeletal frame.

My father blubbered something useless, but Scarface was already moving again.

“No...” I muttered, struggling against the men holding me.

“Don’t touch her, you sick fuck!” I shouted, rage ripping out of me.

But Scarface just laughed a cold, empty, devilish sound fitting his monstrous face. He grabbed her by the hair and yanked her upright.

Her eyes fluttered open, glassy, confused, too high to understand what was happening.

Scarface ripped her blouse apart with one savage jerk. Buttons popped.

Her pale, sagging breasts spilled out, riddled with old bruises and track marks.

She moaned softly, not in pleasure. In confusion. In pain.

"Pretty little junkie bitch," Scarface muttered, unzipping his pants with one hand and bringing out his tiny little dick. Well, it was not tiny.

He shoved her back down onto the couch, her legs spread awkwardly, exposing her granny white underwear, and grabbed her breast forcefully.

I thrashed harder.

"NO!" I roared, but the bastards held me tighter, shoving my face down into the ground.

I could hear it. The sound of fabrics tearing. I heard my mother’s weak, broken whimpers and the disgusting sound of skin against skin. The wet, animal grunts from Scarface as he forced himself into my mother’s pussy, her unresisting body making it easier as he continued to ram into her.

He didn’t even take his pants off he just yanked her legs apart and slammed himself into her, grunting like a feral beast.

Tears blurred my vision. I squeezed my eyes shut and my fists clenched so tight my fingernails cut into my palms.

I felt like I was going to vomit, but I held it back, choking on the rage burning inside me.

My heart pounded so loudly I thought I might pass out.

Her head rolled to the side, a silent tear sliding down her wrinkled cheek.

When Scarface finally cummed, he pulled back and wiped himself casually on her torn blouse, like she was nothing more than garbage.

She didn't move. She just lay there, broken, used, still, and probably still high.

Scarface turned back to me, grinning.

 "You gonna tell me where your pretty little sister is?" he sneered, zipping up his pants.

"You ready to talk now, tough guy?" he asked sweetly.

I lifted my head, blood dripping from my split lip. I glared at him, pure hate burning in my chest.

And I spat at his feet. Scarface’s smile faded immediately.

He pulled out a small hunting knife from his belt. The blade was shining under the flickering ceiling light.

"Alright, tough guy," he said softly. "Let's see how much pain you can take."

He grabbed my left hand, forcing it flat against the broken coffee table.

"No!" I struggled, but two men who held me pinned me down harder.

Before I could brace myself, he grabbed my left hand, pinned it down on the splintered coffee table, and

SLICE.

I yelled. White-hot agony shot up my arm as Scarface severed my pinky finger clean off. It felt like my arm exploded. I tasted blood in my mouth from screaming.

Blood sprayed across the table. My severed finger rolled off and landed in a puddle of whiskey and dirt..

Scarface leaned in close, his breath rancid against my face.

"You have twenty-four hours," he whispered. ""Bring me the girl... or I kill you, your whore mother, and your useless father. Then  I’ll find your little sister and fuck her until she breaks."

He stood and kicked my severed finger across the floor, laughing.

I gasped, pain making the edges of my vision go black, but somehow I stayed conscious.

"I’ll pay it back," I croaked. "I swear... I’ll get the money. Just give me time."

"You want to buy her back now?" he hissed, licking his lips in satisfaction..

"Fine. Pay ten times what your father took. Ten times. Or we take her body, and your lives."

The words slammed into me like a punch to the gut.

Ten times the money? No fucking way. We didn’t have that in ten lifetimes. Hell, we barely had a roof.

Scarface stood, his face twisted with sick amusement.

“ I’ll get the money,” I insisted, blood dripping from my hands and spilling onto the floor in thick drops. 

Scarface laughed and slapped me hard across the face.

"You better figure it out fast, Mateo," he called over his shoulder.

"Time’s ticking." "Or you’ll watch her die screaming."

He nodded to his men, and they finally let me go. I collapsed forward, gasping, blood pouring from my hand. The door slammed behind them, shaking the whole shitty apartment.

The room spun. The world tilted. I could barely breathe from the rage boiling inside me as I heard their motorcycles gearing up noises as they left.

I forced myself to crawl toward my mother, covering her broken body with a blanket, even though she didn’t respond.

I sat there for a long time, clutching my bleeding hand to my chest, shaking with fury and guilt.

Only one thing was clear. I would save Katarina.  I didn’t care what it cost.

Even if it meant carving my soul out and handing it to the fucking devil.

“I had twenty-four hours. Maybe less. If I wanted to save my sister, I had to do something unthinkable. So I dialed his number. The Devil answers fast.”

Vittorio’s POV

At A Distance at Watching Katarina

The car was off. The street was silent.

But he wasn’t.

He sat in the driver’s seat, gloved hands resting on his knees, eyes locked on the second-floor window across the street.

The window across the street was cracked open.

She was inside. He could feel it.

Not just in his chest ,in his cock.

The first time had been a mistake. That kiss. That taste.

But he couldn’t forget it.

Couldn’t forget her.

Katarina.Katarina.

She was laughing inside. Talking to someone. Her voice drifted through the window—soft like smoke from a dying flame.

Soft yellow light bled through the curtains. The kind of light that made skin look gold.

He wondered if she was reading. Or naked. Or crying.

He didn’t know which one turned him on more.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

He told himself that, again and again.

But he didn’t leave.

She hadn’t seen him—not really. Not in the bookstore. Not when she kissed him.

She hadn’t seen what he was.

But she would. Vittorio clenched his jaw as the curtain shifted. A silhouette moved past. Slim. Barefoot.

She was pacing.

She always did that when she was anxious.  He remembered. Even if she didn’t.

The memory hit him like a whip,Her mouth wet and open, moaning his name on her knees, her breath fogging up the glass as he slammed into her from behind.

He growled under his breath and gripped the steering wheel until it creaked.

“She’s just a girl,” he whispered.  “A distraction. Nothing more.”

But even now, in the dark, her scent haunted him.

Citrus shampoo. Dust from old books. Sweat from fear.

And something else. Something sweet and slick and purely hers.

That fucking delicious thing—

The one that caused his cock to throb in his jeans. He pressed his palm against it—hard. Like punishment. Like penance.

“Not yet.” He'd promised himself he wouldn’t touch her again until she begged.

Not screamed. Not cried.

Begged.

The front door to the apartment building cracked open.

Someone stepped outside  a shadow in a hoodie.

His eyes narrowed. But it wasn’t her.  Too tall. Male. Harmless.

He relaxed an inch. Just one. His mind drifted back to her moans

Not from their kiss.

From the dream.

He knew she dreamed of him. He’d planted it there. That kind of touch didn’t go away.

It branded you. Left a stain. “She’s mine.”

He whispered it like a prayer. Like a warning.

For a moment, he imagined walking up the stairs. Knocking once. Waiting.

Then gripping her by the throat and asking her if she  wanted to run.

But he didn’t move. He sat there. Watching.

Breathing her in.

Eventually, the light went out.

The cat in the window blinked once, then vanished behind the curtains.

He lit a cigarette with shaking hands. Took a long drag. Then whispered into the empty car:

“I’ll give her one more night,” he muttered. “Then I’ll take what’s mine.”

And with that, he started the engine.

The hum of power filled the silence like a threat.

He  didn’t glance back at the window.

Didn’t have to.

She was already imprinted behind his eyes.