Matteo froze for a solid moment.
His mind raced, calculating faster than his pulse.
He's the boss of the Viper Gang.
Not a rumor. Not speculation. A fact carved into the city's underbelly.
I don't want to be anywhere near his bullshit.
Moving crossed his mind—closing the shop, disappearing, relocating continents if necessary. But that would look suspicious. Weak. Predictable.
Fuck.
Then something clicked.
No fear. No retreat.
A better idea.
A slow, deliberate smirk tugged at Matteo's lips as he crossed his arms over his chest, posture relaxed—too relaxed for someone standing in front of a kingpin. His body language spoke louder than words: unimpressed, unafraid, uninterested.
"Name's Joo-Young."
A lie. A clean one.
There was no paper trail. No digital footprint. Matteo had made sure of that long ago. Unless Aleksander planned to rip apart the earth molecule by molecule, he wouldn't find a damn thing.
Aleksander's smile deepened.
Not friendly. Not amused.
Predatory.
"Well then," he said smoothly, voice silk wrapped around steel, "hello, Mr. Joo-Young."
He glanced around the parlor, eyes skimming the flash art, the steel trays, the carefully organized chaos.
A pause.
"I apologize in advance," Aleksander continued calmly, "for the mess I'm about to make in your lovely parlor."
Matteo's brow twitched.
The hell does that—
The sound shattered the air.
A sharp crack echoed off brick and concrete, drowning out the music, vibrating straight through Matteo's ribs. The gangster's scream followed instantly—raw, animalistic, gut-wrenching. He collapsed to the floor, hands clawing uselessly at himself, his voice breaking as pain ripped through him.
"FUUUCK— WHAT THE FUUUCK—!"
Matteo didn't move.
Couldn't.
His breath hitched, eyes widening—not in shock alone, but in the cold realization that this wasn't chaos.
This was normal.
Aleksander didn't even flinch. He stood over the writhing man with a smile that suggested mild inconvenience, like someone dealing with a stain on a shirt.
Tears streamed down the gangster's face as he looked up, trembling, his entire body folding in on itself beneath Aleksander's shadow.
Matteo swallowed hard.
What. The. Fuck.
His hands clenched involuntarily. Fear slid in slow and heavy, curling in his stomach like a living thing.
"You truly believed," Aleksander said calmly, "that I wouldn't discover you were a spy?"
He crouched slightly, meeting the man's gaze.
"That I would let you carry my mark while feeding Caesar scraps of my empire?"
Aleksander's grin widened.
He rolled the man onto his side with his foot—casual, effortless—then brought his heel down with crushing intent.
The scream that followed was shrill, broken, desperate.
The gangster nearly blacked out—only to be yanked back by a sharp slap that snapped his head sideways.
Aleksander straightened.
"Here is what will happen next," he said pleasantly.
"My men will take you. They will be… thorough."
He leaned closer, voice lowering, intimate and lethal.
"You will tell us everything you know about Caesar's plan."
A pause.
"If you cooperate, your death will be quick."
Another pause—longer this time.
"If you do not," Aleksander continued softly, "I will personally ensure you live long enough to regret every second of silence. Radiation really does wonders."
The man broke.
"I'LL TALK— I'LL TALK— PLEASE—!"
Aleksander stood, unimpressed.
"Good."
He snapped his fingers.
Two men appeared instantly, dragging the sobbing gangster—Vladimir—toward the door. His screams echoed down the street until the door slammed shut behind them, leaving the parlor unnervingly quiet.
Too quiet.
Aleksander turned back to Matteo, smile returning as if nothing had happened.
"My apologies, little zaika," he said lightly. "My men will take care of the mess."
Matteo stood frozen.
Did he do that in English on purpose?
Was that for me?
A warning?
Before he could think further, Aleksander was suddenly close—far too close.
Inches from his face.
Matteo could smell expensive cologne beneath gunpowder and cold air.
Aleksander's eyes flicked down briefly, amused.
"You're adorable when your nose wrinkles like that," he murmured.
"I hope we meet again."
He tilted his head.
"My men will finish here. Close up for the night."
And just like that—he was gone.
Matteo didn't move as two men entered and worked efficiently, scrubbing, wiping, restoring the parlor until it looked untouched. Pristine. Like nothing violent had ever occurred.
When they left, Matteo locked the door with shaking hands.
That night, he walked home in silence.
-
Across the street, a black limousine idled.
Aleksander watched from the tinted window as Matteo disappeared into the dark. His expression was thoughtful now—curious, intrigued.
He turned to his assistant.
"I want everything on him," Aleksander said quietly.
"Be quick."
A pause.
"I don't like waiting."