The tension in the warehouse had thickened into a physical, suffocating presence—a noxious blend of William's fear, cold industrial air, the coppery scent of fresh blood, lingering pointlessly in the background.
William's breath came in uneven, ragged pulls, each gasp a struggle against the searing pain radiating from his freshly wounded thigh. The ropes biting into his wrists were unforgiving, leaving angry, raised red welts against his clammy skin.
Luciano Solis De La Vega regarded him with an exquisite, cool, almost bored expression, treating William like a mildly interesting but already solved puzzle—one he intended to keep struggling a little longer for his personal amusement.
His icy blue-gray eyes glinted beneath the harsh fluorescent lighting, and there was a particular, inherited aristocratic cruelty in the way he held his posture: outwardly relaxed, yet undeniably predatory—an elegant nightmare carved in platinum and frost.
"Alright," he murmured, voice smooth stream as silk dipped in venom. "Let's begin with something simple, yes? My money cargo—the one you claimed vanished at sea last week." His lips twitched, amused. "Where did it actually go?"
William stared at the floor, jaw clenched against the pain, his lips bloodied and swollen. He refused to speak. Silence stretched thin between them, brittle and dangerous.
Luciano blinked once. Then twice. Then he sighed—an elegant, weary sound that somehow managed to make the moment exponentially more terrifying than any curse could have.
"This is going to take too long, isn't it?" He murmured, sounding genuinely disappointed.
He snapped his fingers—a quiet, sharp sound that cracked the silence.
From the far corner, Marcos immediately melted out of the room. Moments later, he returned, moving with anxious speed, carrying a drink balanced precariously on a silver tray like a sacred offering.
It was a Caramel Ribbon Crunch Crème Frappuccino—topped to perfection, drizzled artistically with caramel sauce, the mountain of whipped cream spiraling like a decadent, frivolous crown.
William blinked at the sheer absurdity.
Luciano's eyes lit up in a way they never did for living beings.
"Ah," he said, taking the cup with genuine reverence. "Finally, something sweet in this bitter, messy world."
He took a slow, contented sip through the straw, humming in satisfaction like a man tasting heaven. The cheerful, saccharine sound of contentment echoed eerily in the grim, industrial warehouse.
One of the younger guards shifted uncomfortably, avoiding eye contact. The sight of Luciano enjoying an expensive, perfectly crafted Frappuccino while a beaten, bleeding man struggled against his bonds was profoundly unsettling. It was the kind of detail that hammered home the realization that true monsters didn't need to growl—they could sip caramel and smile.
Luciano glanced up at William again, his expression immediately devoid of warmth.
"Don't make me stab you again," he said gently, as if reminding a child to finish his vegetables.
William's voice came out cracked. "There's nothing to say. Just kill me."
Luciano paused mid-sip, eyes lifting over the rim of the cup. "Kill you?" His tone mildy offended by the suggestion. "Oh no, no. Killing you is unimaginative. Lazy, even." He took another slow, contented sip. "I prefer consequences tailored to the offender."
William scoffed—almost a laugh, broken and desperate. "I have nothing you can use. Nothing I care about except my mother, and we all know how you value mothers who have sacrificed alot for their children." His voice tightened. "So unless you plan to kill me, you get nothing."
Luciano finished his sip and set his drink aside with surgical precision on a nearby metal surface.
Then, with the same cold, absolute grace he brought to every action, he reached for the knife lying on the tray.
He didn't warn. He didn't threaten.
He simply stepped forward—and slammed the blade straight into the wooden chair between William's thighs.
Wood splintered with a sickening, loud crack. The razor-sharp tip of the blade stopped barely a breath away from William's most vulnerable, primal point.
William choked on his own saliva, his body jerking violently and instantaneously against the unforgiving restraints.
Several of Luciano's own men winced, and instinctively shielded their groins, stepping back with pained expression. Even hardened killers had limits.
Luciano leaned down, his lips curving into a slow, utterly chilling smile that was entirely detached from human emotion. "Now you have something to lose."
Then the smile vanished, replaced by a stare so cold it felt like the arctic winter had crept into the room, freezing the blood in William's veins.
"Start talking before I lose every drop of patience I possess, Will."
William broke instantly. The threat to his body, to his masculinity, succeeding where the threat to his life had failed.
"Okay! Okay!" he blurted, his chest heaving, his words tumbling out in a frantic rush. "I—I was sent. Someone hired me! A man called Marrow Prince."
The room stilled entirely. Even the humming lights seemed to flinch at the whispered name.
Luciano's expression didn't change; he listened calmly, sipping his drink as though enjoying a mildly interesting bedtime story. But the temperature in the room dipped perceptibly, as if the world had collectively stopped breathing to catch the name.
William continued quickly, desperate to get the words out before the blade moved. "I don't know who he is! I've never seen his face! Everything came through encrypted messages. He just… gave me the job. Told me to report exclusively to him. And the cargo—your cargo—it's with him now, hidden away in a safe house."
He stopped, gasping for breath, expecting outrage, fury, or a dramatic interrogation.
Instead—
Luciano smiled.
A soft, slow, utterly terrifying, satisfied smile.
William's stomach plummeted to his feet.
"You… you already knew," he whispered, the horrifying realization dawning like poison spreading through his veins.
Luciano's tongue clicked against his teeth in amusement. "Of course I knew. I simply wanted your confirmation." He shrugged lightly. "Information is like wine, Will. It tastes far, far better when the liar stops pretending."
William's pulse hammered. "Please—I can still be useful. I know where he keeps the crates. I can lead you there. I can—"
"What crates?" Luciano interrupted, sounding genuinely confused as he raised a brow. "Oh. You mean the tissue papers?"
William froze, his eyes widening in pure disbelief.
"Tissue… papers?" he echoed, voice cracking.
Luciano smirked, pulling out the knife and inspecting the tip for splintered wood. "Yes. One hundred percent biodegradable. Very soft. Good for wiping messes." He waved a hand. "Not worth more than thirty thousand, really."
"You're lying," William whispered desperately.
Luciano didn't bother answering.
Instead he leaned back, folding his arms, letting the silence and the dawning horror torture William more effectively than any blade could.
"Oh. By the way," he added as if remembering something trivial, "thank you for making the Marrow Prince pay one hundred million into my dummy account for that trashy cargo. Honestly I didn't expect him to fall for it."
William's jaw dropped, hanging slack in disbelief and ruin.
Luciano tilted his head with gentle condescension. "Did you truly believe I would let you near my real business? My operations? My secrets?" He gave a soft chuckle. "Adorable. You've been decorating the lobby of my empire while believing yourself inside the throne room."
The words landed like hammer blows, destroying every last vestige of William's self-worth and confidence.
William began shaking violently, because suddenly, terrifyingly, he realized he never knewLuciano at all. Not the man. Not the myth. Not the terrifying monster. He had been a player in a game he didn't even know he was losing.
Luciano stepped closer, his platinum hair shimmering under the bright lights, eyes glacial and unreadable—like twin blades carved from arctic frost.
He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a whisper colder than a grave.
"I was going to let you go after you talked. Truly." He shrugged. "But then I just remembered that my soon-to-be fiancée promised you she will make you regret ever hurting her."
He paused, recalling the fiery little dove at the restaurant. The way she walked through ruin like a queen rising from ashes. The way her rage had tasted like a pre-ordained destiny.
His lips curved faintly.
"But," he continued, "I'm a very possessive man. I don't share well." His tone dipped into something dark and velvety. "Even her thoughts of revenge are too precious and too beautiful to be wasted on someone like you."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper edged with frost.
"So I will do the honor myself."
William froze, terror flooding his veins. He blinked rapidly, then stammered, terrified, desperate. "I swear—I swear, sir, I never went near Miss Marcia. Never even spoke to her."
Luciano stilled.
The room tightened.
Slowly, he straightened, tilting his head with eerie calm.
"Who," he said softly, "said anything about Marcia?"
The blood drained from William's face.
Before he could form another word, Luciano's voice echoed across the room—smooth, calm, casual.
"Dr. Alvarez."
Footsteps approached.
The doctor—tall, composed, and unnervingly impersonal, wearing sterile surgical gloves as if stepping into a pristine surgery ward instead of a concrete torture chamber—entered the light.
Luciano gestured toward William with the effortless authority of a king ordering the weather to change.
"Please take out his balls," he said. "Very slowly. Make sure it's excruciating. I want him awake for the whole process." He offered a pleasant, polite smile. "It's a gift for my future fiancée. Since William values them far more than his loyalty."
William emitted a raw, animal sound, trapped between a scream and a plea for death.
"Luciano—NO—PLEASE—"
Luciano didn't look back.
He simply picked up his Frappuccino, signaled to his men, and walked calmly toward the exit—his platinum hair catching the industrial light, his shadow stretching long and elegant across the concrete floor.
Behind him, William's prolonged, agonizing cries began to crack and echo through the cold, concrete room.
Luciano took another slow, sip of his sweet drink.
Hummed again in satisfaction, savoring the taste of caramel.
"Perfect," he murmured.
And the door slammed shut behind him.