Giordano’s POV, Party at Giordano House

"Pop the fucking bottles!" I roared, slamming my fist into the marble bar just as champagne spilled down the jiggling ass of a blonde grinding on my lap.

She squealed, laughing, not caring that half the bottle had poured down her bare back. Her fingers trailed across my chest, sticky with sweat and Dom Pérignon. Around us, the world burned gold. Bronzed skin glittered under the Mediterranean sun, cocaine dusted the rims of wine glasses like snowflakes from hell, and the prettiest whores Naples had to offer wiggled their oiled tits for whoever had the biggest bankroll or the meanest face.

The pool shimmered like liquid sapphire beneath their feet. And tonight? Tonight was supposed to be the night I claimed my virgin prize. Katarina Delgado. Bought. Paid for. Waiting for me to break her.

The thought of her—sweet, untouched, trembling—tightened something dark and greedy in my gut. She was supposed to be tied up by now, locked in my private suite, a red ribbon around her pale throat like a Christmas gift no one else would ever unwrap. Just me. Mine.

The music pounded so loudly that the walls of my villa shook.

I leaned back in my custom throne, shirt half open, chains heavy around my neck, looking like the goddamn king of Naples.

The scent of roses, weed, sweat, and sex filled the air, sweet and filthy all at once.

This wasn’t a party. It was a fucking coronation.

Tonight wasn’t just for champagne and oiled tits. Tonight, someone was going to bleed.

Perfect. Innocent and Sweet. Bought and paid for.

She was supposed to be here by now, trembling, gagged, tied up pretty with a fucking red ribbon around her neck.

I swirled the dark liquor in my glass, watching the ice melt into the whiskey, a smile playing on my lips.

My fucking paradise. Or it should have been…

Until Scarface showed up empty-handed—dragging his failure behind him like a corpse on a leash.

The second I saw their faces, my good mood shattered like glass.

The music still blasted around us, but the men closest to me—my captains, my dealers, my killers — felt the shift.

You could taste it in the air. Sharp. Metallic. Like fresh blood.

I stood up slowly, setting my glass down with a quiet click.

Scarface fidgeted, shifting from foot to foot, sweat dripping down his temple even though the night air was cool.

“You,” I said, loud and slow, slicing through the bass like a blade, “were supposed to bring me a fucking gift.”

Scarface licked his cracked lips.

“The girl… she—she slipped away, boss. We—”

I crossed the distance between us in two slow, deliberate steps.

One slap.

One fucking slap across Scarface’s mouth so loud it echoed over the speakers.

He stumbled back, blood already beading at the corner of his lip.

No one breathed.

“Excuses,” I said with a grin that didn’t reach my eyes, “are for men who’ve already lost their tongues.”

I grabbed one of the worthless idiots he’d brought with him, a skinny little runner with wide eyes, and slammed his face into the pool’s edge.

The women screamed and scattered from the water as blood splattered across the marble.

I held the kid by his hair, baring his neck.

“Next time you come back without my fucking girl,” I growled in Scarface’s direction, “I take an ear.”

Scarface nodded furiously, hands shaking. Fucking disgrace.

I shoved the bleeding kid aside like garbage.

Then I turned to Mikey the Hammer, sitting near the bar and swirling his drink.

Mikey, my other lieutenant. My favorite hammer when things needed smashing. Scarface’s competition.

“You want the job done right?” I called across the pool.

“Give it to a man who knows how to spill blood.”

Mikey stood up, cracking his knuckles lazily and grinning like a wolf.

Scarface’s face turned red with rage, but he said nothing.

Because he knew. They all knew. Fail me once, and you’re fucking done.

“You have forty-eight hours,” I said, voice low enough to curdle blood. “Find Katarina Delgado. Bring her to me untouched—or don’t come back.”

Mikey nodded, sharp and precise. Scarface stared at the ground, his fists clenched.

Scarface wiped the blood from his mouth, swallowing whatever pride he had left.

Then he muttered, voice shaking:

“Her brother…” he said. “The kid, Mateo… he offered to pay ten times the money you gave her father.”

The whole pool area went dead silent.

Even the coke whores stopped laughing.. I stared at Scarface. He still had the audacity to talk.

For one long second, nobody breathed.

I stared at him, dead still, every muscle in my face frozen.

Then I laughed.

Low. Ugly. A bone-deep, lunatic laugh that crawled out of my chest and shook the stars overhead.

“Ten times?” I laughed. Slow. Unhinged. “That little bastard thinks he can buy her back?”

I stepped close to Scarface again, my breath hot against his face.

“You tell that little shit something for me,” I said, voice low and deadly.

“There’s not enough fucking money in this world to save her now.”

I turned away, facing the pool and all the terrified men and women standing there, frozen in horror.

My voice boomed through the night:

“GET THE FUCK OUT.”

A roar. Not a request—a command from a god.

“Find her. Bring me my virgin bride,” I snarled. “Alive. Untouched. And if anyone lays a finger on her before I do… I’ll cut off both their hands.”

Panic exploded around me.

Men scrambled, and the Women screamed. Bottles shattered.

Within minutes, the backyard was empty, the party ruined, the night heavy with rage.

I stood alone, staring out over the glittering water.

My party was over.

But the hunt had just begun.