"I wasn't really going anywhere, Don Romano. The fruit platter's dirty—I was just going to get you a fresh one..."

I lifted the crystal plate, its edge stained with tiny drops of crimson, trying to come up with an excuse.

Luca was lounging lazily on the couch, a sly grin playing on his lips. His eyes roamed over me—teasing, appraising.

"No need," he said with a dismissive wave. "A little blood just adds to the flavor."

Then his gaze moved to my heavily made-up face, lingering with clear disapproval before shifting to my cheap, glittery dress.

"Ugh."

He didn't even try to hide the mockery in his voice. "You look like a corpse dragged out of a grave. And that dress? Trashy."

He paused, as if something had just clicked in his mind and a spark of amusement lit up his eyes.

"Ugly freak."

He said it again, like a nickname he'd just decided to stick with.

"I'm sick of those strippers gyrating around like robots. Boring. Can you sing?"

My heart skipped a beat.

Sing?

In a place like this, in front of guys like them?

But I didn't dare hesitate. Survival instincts kicked in, and I nodded quickly.

"A little."

Luca's smile grew wider as he watched me—terrified, yet trying to go along with it, cautiously clever in my submission.

It was the kind of reaction that seemed to amuse him, like he was seeing something in me he hadn't expected.

He studied me like a predator inspecting its prey, and muttered under his breath:

"Did they really train this one at the club?"

He raised a long, elegant finger and crooked it at me with a casual, commanding gesture.

"Shut the door. Come here."

A wave of cold fear washed over me.

Stiffly, I turned and closed the heavy door behind me. It shut with a dull, final thud that seemed to seal me into another world.

I lowered my head and moved toward the seating area, each step heavy, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure everyone in the room could hear it.—could see the fear etched across my face.

But just as I passed by, Mr. Hunter suddenly stood up!

His broad, solid back bumped into the fruit platter I was holding, and the small jolt shattered my already fragile composure.

The knife in his hand was still dripping blood.

And I thought of that night—the severed head, the pool of blood.

My knees buckled.

I collapsed to the floor with a loud thud.

The fruit platter clattered from my hands, sending a mess of brightly colored fruit tumbling across the floor.

The sharp, sickly-sweet scent of fruit mixed with the iron tang of blood—it filled the room, suffocating.

My mind blanked.

The only words in my head were: I'm screwed.

Mr. Hunter looked down at me, his gaze chilling.

My pupils trembled violently, dilated with terror, on the verge of dissociation.

His lips curled into the slightest of smirks, almost imperceptible, but there nonetheless.

The look of a predator who had just spotted something... interesting.

Slowly, he crouched down next to me, towering over me, casting a long shadow that seemed to swallow me whole.

The bloodstained knife glinted coldly as it twirled effortlessly between his long, strong fingers. A bead of crimson slid down the blade, leaving a dark, eerie streak in its wake.

Then, without missing a beat, he gripped the handle firmly again.

The next moment, the blade—still slick with blood—shot straight toward my right shoulder.

No hesitation. Just a clean, decisive motion—

Riiiip—

The sharp sound of tearing fabric echoed through the room.

The knife sliced easily through my thin down jacket over my dress.

Cheap white stuffing burst out of the gash like a sudden, grotesque snowfall—feathery tufts floating in the air between us, drifting and scattering like surreal confetti.

But it didn't stop there.

The blade didn't just cut through the jacket.

It also severed the strap of my bra.

The fabric slipped, and a chill ran across my now bare shoulder.

There it was.

The blue butterfly.

The six-thousand-dollar tattoo I'd gotten to cover a gunshot scar—now fully exposed under the cold, clinical light.

Vivid. Alive. Like it might fly away any second.

Mr. Hunter's eyes darkened, clearly intrigued by the unexpected reveal.

Instead of pulling the blade away, he pressed it against my skin—tracing the intricate pattern of the butterfly with unsettling precision.

The cold metal slid from the soft curve of my shoulder down toward my collarbone, its icy bite sending shivers through my skin.

Though my makeup was cheap and heavy, my skin beneath my clothes was smooth and soft.

The contours of my collarbone were sharp and clean, and the butterfly resting there—striking, almost sinister in its beauty.

I saw it—his throat moved slightly, the faintest shift in his Adam's apple.

Something dark, something hungry flashed in his eyes, so quick it could've been a trick of the light.

My body trembled even harder.

No. My appearance wasn't the same as that night.

He couldn't recognize me. He had to be testing me.

The fear was overwhelming, a monstrous wave threatening to consume me. I tried to keep my face composed, but instinct drove me to shrink away from him ever so slightly.

My right hand trembled as I reached up, clutching the torn edge of my jacket, trying desperately to cover the butterfly again.

Above me, his voice came—cool, detached, yet there was a trace of amusement.

"You're scared of me?"

I looked up, startled.

The first time I saw him, he was a demon with a gun at a murder scene.

The second time, he was slicing someone's ear off without blinking.

How could I not be scared?

He stood so tall, so imposing, like a wall, completely blocking my view of anything else.

The blade came closer again, and his voice dropped even lower, sharp as the edge of the knife.

"Answer me."

My lashes fluttered as tears welled up, spilling down my cheeks before I could stop them.

I pointed, barely, to the man whose ear he had cut off, and whispered, "I... I am. I—I was scared when you... cut off his ear... Mr. Hunter, I was terrified..."

I made sure to cry pitifully, making sure my mascara smudged, making myself look even worse—ugly, pathetic, harmless.

He smiled faintly, like he was indulging me.

"He heard something he shouldn't have. No reason for him to keep those ears."

Then he paused.

His eyes locked on mine, unblinking, calculating.

And then, with a weight behind his voice that made my blood run cold, he asked:

"Same logic. Tell me... if someone saw something they weren't supposed to, or said something they shouldn't... what do you think I should do?"

He was testing me again.

Or... had he already figured out who I was?

I swallowed hard, my throat dry as dust. I spoke carefully, "You'd... gouge out their eyes? Cut off their tongue?"

"Clever girl."

He smiled, clearly pleased, yet his voice was cold, and the dangerous glint in his eyes made my heart sink.

I knew that once a cold-blooded killer decided to act, all my feigned ignorance and weakness would be useless.

Death was closing in, and there was no way out.

I closed my eyes in resignation, waiting for whatever punishment he had in store.

But Mr. Hunter didn't do anything.

Instead, he reached for a tissue from the table. His movements were slow, almost gentle, as he wiped the blood from my neck, my collarbone, and my face. Then he put away his knife, stood up, and returned to the couch.

A bodyguard stepped forward, bent down, replacing his empty glass with a fresh one, pouring him another drink.

I was still too stunned to react.

When I looked up, Mr. Hunter was sitting with his long legs stretched out, lounging like a king surveying his domain. His right arm rested lazily on the armrest, fingers wrapped around the glass, swirling the liquor inside.

The ice clinked against the glass, a sharp sound in the otherwise quiet room.

He tilted his head back, sipping the drink with a satisfied look, then popped an ice cube into his mouth.

"Luca's still waiting for you."

Seeing me frozen in place, he crunched the ice between his teeth and gave me a faint smile, as if offering a friendly reminder.

In this line of work, I'd met more than my share of dangerous men. But someone like him—calm, calculating, effortlessly cruel—was rare.

I stared at Mr. Hunter, slightly dazed.

Across the room, Luca saw me staring at Mr. Hunter like some lovesick fool. He chuckled and leaned forward, waving me over.

"Hahaha, this is too good. Seriously, this is hilarious! Ugly freak, get over here."

"Yes."

I snapped out of my daze and nodded quickly, hand pressing against my shoulder as I stood.

Off to the side, the man who'd had his ear sliced off had finally managed to swallow the bloody mess in his mouth. Now he just sat there, gagging repeatedly, lips tightly pressed together.

Mr. Hunter looked over at him and spoke in a detached tone. "Joe, you know what to say when you go back, right?"

"Yes, sir. Absolutely." Joe nodded frantically. "I'll tell them everything you said, word for word."

Mr. Hunter's eyes narrowed slightly as he said, "Then get lost."

At his word, Joe, bloodied and trembling, scrambled out of the room, dragging himself along the floor in his haste.

I quietly took a seat next to Luca, my hands folded neatly over my knees like an obedient schoolgirl. Under the dim, wine-red lighting, I stole glances at the man lounging so comfortably across from me.

Someone like Mr. Hunter would never show mercy.

If he recognized me as the one who escaped that night, his hesitation in acting could only be explained by one thing: Luca's presense.

It was obvious now—whoever Mr. Hunter killed that night had some connection to Luca.

And whatever it was, he didn't want Luca to find out.

I lowered my lashes, looked away, and cautiously turned to glance at Luca...

"The mafia prince—maybe he's my only chance of walking out of here alive," I thought to myself.