Mr. Hunter?

My heart skipped a beat. I turned toward the voice.

At the far end of the corridor, a tall man walked toward me, calm and steady, exuding a dangerous sort of power with every step.

It was really him! The man who nearly killed me that day!

One hand casually tucked into the pocket of his designer slacks, his measured steps carried a quiet, crushing authority.

He was huge—had to be six-foot-three at least—with wide shoulders tapering into a narrow waist, the definition of an athletic, lethal build.

The flickering neon lights along the corridor cast shifting shadows across the sharp planes of his face, accentuating features so finely sculpted they bordered on surreal.

He wore a black shirt of exquisite fabric, the top buttons left undone with calculated nonchalance. His angular jaw tapered into a long, refined neck, beneath which the faint contours of a formidable chest were just visible.

Though his appearance gave the impression of effortless disarray, he exuded a cold, aristocratic poise—a quiet yet commanding authority that required no assertion.

But it was his eyes that struck hardest—piercing, impassive, glacial. They held the detached superiority of someone who deemed the world beneath him.

As though nothing in existence was worthy of acknowledgment.

His presence alone was oppressive—an invisible force that drew the air out of the room.

Even David, our blustering, arrogant manager, fell quiet under that gaze. He stood aside without a word, his tone reverent as he led the man forward.

Two bodyguards followed at his heels—black suits, blank expressions, eyes always moving.

My pupils shrank. My whole body went cold—hands, feet, everything.

These three... these were the men from that night.

The killers. The ones who dumped the body.. The ones who were now hunting me like ghosts from hell.

Talk about bad luck.

My hand trembled violently as I clutched the tray tighter to my chest, trying to shrink into nothing—just disappear.

"Mr. Hunter, Don Romano is waiting inside," David said, bowing slightly and gesturing respectfully as Mr. Hunter approached.

He was now stood directly between me and the only exit.

I tried to slip past him, head down—but before I could get away, David grabbed my arm. His grip was firm, almost mechanical, but he didn't even glance at me.

He was focused entirely on Mr. Hunter.

Inside the lounge, the blaring music seemed to pause for a heartbeat.

Luca, wrapped around two stunning women, lifted his head and looked toward the door.

A sly, testing smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

"Well, if it isn't Mr. Hunter. I was starting to think you were just a rumor."

Mr. Hunter didn't even break stride. He didn't spare Luca a glance.

He walked straight into the lounge, eyes scanning the room once, then casually took the main seat directly across from Luca like it had always belonged to him.

The bodyguards behind him moved in sync.

One of them stepped forward, collecting Mr. Hunter's charcoal-gray coat and scarf, folding them with crisp precision before hanging them on the nearby rack.

Then, the two of them took position behind him, hands clasped, faces unreadable.

The tension in the lounge hit a new high.

But Luca didn't flinch. He just shrugged, like he was used to this kind of treatment.

"You've gotten even scarier over the years," he said with a smile that hinted at something beneath the surface.

Mr. Hunter didn't open his eyes. He leaned back, legs crossed, the very picture of ruthless control.

"And you're still an idiot." His voice was calm, but each word struck with surgical cruelty. "Can't even take a dump like Eastbrook."

Arrogant. Ruthless.

Luca's smile froze for a split second, but he quickly recovered, as if immune to that kind of mockery.

He shrugged, a touch of helplessness in his voice as he explained, "Hey, don't put it like that. Small as it is, Eastbrook's got everything that matters. That juicy piece of meat isn't just on the Bellavita Republic's menu—other gangs have their eyes on it too. This town's waters run deep."

As he finished speaking, Luca's gaze shifted subtly toward Sasha across the room, shooting her a covert look.

Sasha got the message instantly.

She flashed an alluring smile, her hips swaying as she picked up a wine bottle and made her way toward Mr. Hunter, her voice like warm honey.

"Mr. Hunter, let me freshen your drink..."

As she passed me, she shot me a glare, clearly annoyed by my dazed expression.

A flicker of irritation sparked in her eyes.

Smack—

She gave the back of my head a light slap—not hard, but enough to jolt me.

"Why are you just standing there like a statue? Move! You think you have a shot here? Pathetic."

"Oh!" I almost whispered, grateful for the push. The tension in my chest suddenly relaxed.

Clutching the tray, I stepped forward, eager to get away from the chaos.

"Hey! You, ugly freak!"

The room went dead silent in an instant.

Every pair of eyes, once gleaming with indulgence and amusement, turned toward me, full of curiosity and derision.

Was Luca talking to... me?

I froze, unsure of what was happening. I raised a finger, pointing to myself.

"Me?"

"Yeah, you. Ugly freak." Luca repeated it, his tone dripping with disdain and impatience.

Behind me, a chorus of mocking laughter erupted, like a wave crashing over me.

"Pfft... ugly freak..."

"Seriously, who let a peacock in here? Who's even buying drinks from her?"

"Forget drinks. She couldn't sell herself on a street corner if she tried!"

The filthy laughter and crude remarks bounced off the luxurious walls of the private lounge, completely unfiltered.

My hands balled into fists, nails digging into my palms.

I thought I'd gotten used to this kind of treatment, but hearing it still felt like a punch to the gut.

The cruel laughter kept ringing in my ears, and even Mr. Hunter turned his head slightly, his cold, dark gaze landing on me.

I froze, my heart hammering in my chest.

Being caught between these two powerful men felt like the worst kind of nightmare.

My breathing quickened, my legs felt shaky, like they might give out at any second.

Afraid Mr. Hunter would see through me, I decided it wasn't worth wasting time on the women who were still jeering and turned to leave.

"Yes, sir."

"Fetch us a fresh fruit platter," Luca barked, his voice laced with arrogance.

"And make it quick!"

...

Outside the VIP lounge, I clutched my chest, trying to calm my erratic heartbeat..

Get it together, Kaylee. No time to lose it now.

I had to stay calm. Steady. Focused.

My fingertips were ice-cold. I forced a smile onto my lips and gently knocked on the door.

"Sir, your fruit platter."

I kept my voice as steady as I could.

"Come in." A voice—calm, cold—answered from within.

I obeyed, pushing the door open.

"AHHH!!!"

A blood-curdling scream tore through the room as I stepped inside.

Then, a warm, metallic-scented liquid splashed across my face, drenching my hair in thick, dark red.

My blood froze instantly. It felt like I'd been hit with a sledgehammer.

The tray in my hands wobbled. The vibrant fruit inside blurred as my vision tunneled.

I couldn't move. Couldn't think.

Seconds passed, or maybe more, before my mind slowly clawed its way back from the shock.

I lowered my gaze, stiffly, inch by inch, my eyes locking onto the center of the room.

Mr. Hunter.

He was crouched on one knee, hid back to me, his figure casting a long shadow on the plush carpet.

We were terrifyingly close—just a few feet apart.

In his right hand, he held a military-grade knife in a reverse grip. The blade caught slashes of light from the chandelier, glinting with a deadly sheen. Drops of thick, dark blood dripped steadily from the tip.

In his left hand, he held a crystal whiskey glass.

The amber liquid inside, once rich and inviting, was now quickly turning a murky red.

My pupils constricted as I saw it clearly—floating in the blood-soaked drink...

A severed ear. Human ear!

My stomach lurched violently.

But I bit down on my lower lip so hard I tasted blood, refusing to make a sound. No gag, no whimper. I wouldn't give them that satisfaction.

I gathered every ounce of willpower to suppress the nausea and fear that threatened to overwhelm me.

But the scene before me was worse than anything I'd seen before.

Kneeling before Mr. Hunter was a man I didn't recognize, clutching the right side of his face, blood gushing between his fingers. He was sobbing, groveling, slamming his forehead into the floor over and over.

"I'm sorry! Mr. Hunter, I swear I won't do it again! Please... please just let me go..."

Mr. Hunter gave a slow, amused smile, lifting the glass and tapping it lightly against the man's face, making the blood-soaked whiskey swirl, the severed ear bobbing gently.

"Let you go? Sure," he said coolly, "just drink this."

The man's already fragile composure shattered. His eyes locked on the glass—on the piece of himself floating in it—and his entire body began to tremble uncontrollably.

But he didn't dare hesitate.

With shaking hands, he reached for the glass.

I couldn't watch any longer.

My knuckles turned white from the grip I had on the platter. I turned, trembling, ready to flee.

"Hold it."

Luca, who'd been lounging on the sofa watching the show like it was entertainment, looked up at me with a grin and tilted his chin.

"Where do you think you're going?"