ZYLA

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The door slams open with a force that makes the walls tremble.

I flinch so hard, I nearly drop the phone in my hand.

Tarin comes in.

Dragging a man by the collar, one arm wrapped tightly around the stranger’s blood-soaked chest.

The man’s face is battered and slick with crimson, his legs scraping uselessly against the floor as if they have forgotten how to work. He looks unconscious. Or worse.

Tarin lets him drop like trash, the man landing with a bone-deep thud that echoes through the apartment.

Tarin’s shirt is stained. Not splattered, not dotted, but soaked. The sleeves are rolled up and dark with sweat and blood, veins bulging along his forearms like warning signs.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just stands there, chest rising and falling, eyes trained on the man on the floor… until they slowly lift and lock on me.

His voice is dead cold.

“Fiore. Room. Now.”

I want to argue. Want to scream something about what the hell is going on, why he is dragging a half-dead man into the apartment, why he looks like he just walked out of a warzone.

But as my eyes coast to him, the dark storm that looks back at me makes me change my mind.

There is something in his eyes. Something dark. Something ruthless.

Like the man who gently wrapped the bandage around my palm a while ago has been skinned away, and what stands now is something older, colder.

His voice goes down an octave. “Zyla.”

The second time, he uses my real name. No nicknames. No softness. And it hits me like a slap.

I back away. I don’t stop until I reach the bedroom. My fingers tremble as I shut the door.

The silence after that is loud. I press my ear to the door.

Then I hear it.

A punch. Wet and heavy. Followed by a scream.

Then another.

And another.

The apartment has never felt smaller. Or more dangerous.

~~~

Tarino

My knuckles crack against the bastard’s cheekbone again. This time, I feel something snap. His jaw, maybe. Or just my patience.

I growl out the words.

“È stato Mancini a mandarti?”

The man chokes on blood, spit pooling at the corner of his mouth. But he doesn’t answer.

I grab him by the collar, lift him halfway, and slam him back down.

“Did. Mancini. Send. You?”

He coughs, face pale. “Not this time,” he rasps. “No… non lui”

My heart stalls. Then drops. “What?”

He laughs. Or tries to. It comes out like a wheeze. “You think you only have one enemy, Principe?”

That word. Principe.

I ignore the sting in my gut. “Then who?”

The man looks me dead in the eye.

“La tua famiglia.” He coughs, “Your family.”

I stare at him. “They sent you to my home? To spy on her?”

He nods. Barely.

I frown, “But the previous threats… The notes. The guy in the restroom?”

“Mancini.” His eyes roll slightly. “They’re still watching her. But your people… they want her gone.”

The silence that follows burns.

I yank him toward the iron radiator and bind him there, his wrists straining against the metal.

Then head to the bedroom.

She is sitting at the edge of the bed, in a white nightdress, when her eyes find mine, wide and unblinking.

She opens her mouth, but I say nothing. Just cross to the wardrobe and pull out the suit. The one I never wanted her to see. Then head out to the bathroom.

I step out of the bathroom and back into the room with the weight of the suit wrapping around me like armor.

Black tailored blazer, silk lapels. Buttoned sharp. Black tie. Black shirt. Black leather gloves.

The Ferretti crest is stitched subtly above my inner cuff, one most people never live long enough to see.

The Beretta at my hip gleams beneath the hem.

Zyla stares. Not blinking. Not breathing.

Like she’s just realized the man who wrapped her bleeding wound earlier is gone.

And this… this is someone else entirely.

Someone forged in fire and blood.

Someone who doesn't have to speak. Whose presence does all the talking.

She swallows, eyes locked on mine. A mix of fear. Awe. Maybe even something softer she doesn’t understand yet.

But I understand perfectly.

She is starting to see it… Who I really am.

And what I’d do to protect her.

Even if it is burning the whole damn world down.

I walk over, take her phone from her, open the back, remove the SIM, and crush it beneath my heel.

“They hacked it. That’s how they knew.”

She flinches but doesn’t argue. Just clutches the blanket tighter.

~~~

Zyla

The car is quiet.

Tarin doesn’t speak once.

And in the trunk, a man bleeds through a gag.

By the time we reach the mansion, my nerves are splintered. My fingers shake as I step out into a driveway lined with black expensive vehicles and marble lion statues. The kind of estate that whispers power with every breath.

Guards lift rifles. But then they see him.

“Principe,” one says, bowing his head.

I freeze. Principe?

What is he?

The bleeding spy leads us inside, with Tarin’s gun to his head.

The halls are drenched in gold. Velvet furniture. Massive chandeliers. Everything screams money and mafia.

We enter a grand room.

A man sits on a throne-like chair, legs crossed. Like some underground king.

He looks up and smiles.

“Tarino Dante Ferretti.”

I blink. Tarino…? Is that his full name?

“Our blood prince.” The man continues. “Finally decided to come home.”

Blood prince? He’s the… heir?

Tarin ignores him. “Why is she a target?”

The man’s eyes drift to me.

A glint sparkles in his eyes. One I recognize from the familiar lingering gazes of men. Lust.

“Che bellezza…” The man drawls, eyes roaming all over me.

Something ticks in Tarin's jaw. His gaze darkens. “Ti ho fatto una dannata domanda!”

The man immediately tears his gaze away. “The Don is worried, so the Underboss sent me.

“She's a Rosewood. That name alone paints a target. Add Mancini to the mix? She’s toxic. And now she’s distracting you.”

Tarin steps forward. His voice is low. Controlled. “She’s mine to protect.”

“Exactly,” the man says. “You were never meant to protect. You were meant to destroy.”

Suddenly, gun metal touches my temple.

I gasp.

While we were distracted, the spy secretly broke loose.

One of his arms is now locked around my neck, the other hand gripping a gun to my forehead.

My body trembles. The cold barrel against my temple… is real. This is real. I’m going to die.

“Drop. It.” The spy hisses at Tarino.

The man in the chair laughs. “Looks like your weakness got ahead of you, Principe.”

Tarino's eyes lock on mine.

And for the first time since I met him—

I see fear.

He drops his weapon. My heart stutters.

Then without warning… CRACK!

Glass shatters. A sniper bullet tears through the window, hitting the seated, laughing man.

He jerks. Blood explodes from his chest.

Tarino moves swiftly.

He pulls a hidden pistol from his waistband and shoots the spy in the head.

BANG!

The blood comes fast. Hot. Wet. It sprays over my face, into my hair, and down my chest.

The man’s arm falls from me, and a heavy thunk sounds as he hits the ground.

I don’t scream.

I just stand here, frozen in my white nightdress—no, red now, as numbness floods me.

The gunfire still echoes in my ears when I realize it.

I’m not a bystander anymore.

I’m in this. Just like my big brother was. Just like the reason he got killed.

I'm knees-weak and fingers-trembling in.

Tarin—or should I say Tarino—reaches out, gently now.

But he hesitates to touch me.

His eyes are hollow. Apologetic. Haunted.

My dress clings to me like a second skin, soaked in a world I didn’t choose but can no longer leave.

Something in my brain whispers: “Welcome to this world, Zyla Rosewood. This time, the stains won’t wash off.”