Orange-reddish light crept through the dusty warehouse window slits, hitting the swirling dust particles like specks of gold. The cries of seagulls chattered noisily, feasting to welcome the approaching dusk. The salty smell of the sea grew stronger, mixed with the scent of heated rust and diesel from the day. The sounds of ship engines and harbor activity outside began to fade, replaced by the whisper of the evening wind starting to boldly sweep across the warehouse floor.
Joey sat frozen on the iron chair, his body stiff from the nylon rope bindings that had long since made his wrists go numb, not to mention the injuries he'd received from the accident earlier that morning. Some of his skin was scraped from car glass shards, the bruise on his cheek ached, and the wound on his temple had dried blood covered by disheveled blond bangs.
Joey felt his eyelids heavy, an overwhelming drowsiness attacking. Every time he almost dozed off, the pain from the bindings reminded him to stay awake.
The sudden screech of metal split the silence. The warehouse door opened slowly, the twilight light from outside silhouetting three men entering. Shoe steps clashed against the concrete floor, firm, rhythmic.
All three were Latino men. Joey confirmed, the man walking at the front was the mastermind behind his kidnapping.
Santiago Morales wore a light-colored suit, contrasting with the darkness of the room, making him appear like a shadow deliberately bringing its own light. Two of his men followed from behind—one large-built with a neck hard as steel, the other thin but sharp-eyed, neither wearing a smile.
Joey lifted his head, his gaze immediately locking onto Santiago. The drowsiness vanished instantly, replaced by a tense vigilance behind his eyes. He said nothing, only regulating his breath slowly, as if weighing every move of the opponent.
Santiago stopped before Joey, his smile thin, almost invisible in the moonlight piercing the leaky roof. He slipped a hand into his pocket, observing Joey as if appraising a high-quality commodity.
Joey felt his heart beat faster, forcing his expression to remain cold. He suppressed the instinct to show fear—because he knew, the slightest weakness shown would be used to destroy him.
Joey was the first to speak, his voice low, hoarse, and sharp.
"If you came just to stare at me, you should have brought a mirror. It'd be quicker."
Santiago's two men glanced at each other, almost smiling wryly, but Santiago only gave a short laugh—a low sound that felt colder than the night outside the warehouse.
"Quite brave," he said calmly. "Now I understand why Domenico protects you so fiercely."
Joey did not answer. His gaze remained locked, this time harder, as if trying to pierce through Santiago's thin smile. In his head, he knew; every word, every move must be calculated. Surviving meant restraining himself from being provoked, and remaining a small thorn that couldn't be easily plucked.
Silence hung in the air, filled only by the distant clanging of ship chains on the dock. Joey remained silent, his eyes unblinking. Like a cornered animal not showing its fangs until the most opportune moment.
Santiago smirked, his lips moving slowly, almost mocking Joey's disheveled state.
"Seen in any condition, Domenico's pet is still pretty. No wonder he never gets bored with you."
The Latino man bent down, deliberately aligning his face with Joey's. That dark grey gaze pierced, as if stripping Joey's soul bare, peeling away the layers of defense he had built.
Joey held his breath, his body tensing. He recognized that gaze—the gaze of a predator confident its prey couldn't escape.
When Santiago's hand reached out, his fingers about to touch Joey's face, Joey's reflexes moved faster: his head turned away roughly, as if brushing off the touch without being able to truly avoid it.
Annoyance flashed across Santiago's face. In an instant, his previously gentle fingers turned into a hard grip. He grabbed Joey's blond mane, pulling it back roughly. Joey's neck was forced taut, his eyes forced to stare directly into the cartel leader's eyes.
Pain radiated from his scalp, but Joey gave no complaint. His jaw only hardened. And in a split second—he spat right into Santiago's face.
Saliva dripped on the man's cheek, sliding down his firm jaw.
"Go fuck yourself," Joey hissed, his hoarse voice breaking but full of venom.
Santiago remained silent for a moment, then slowly wiped his face with the back of his hand.
In reality, with the same hand, Santiago threw a hard punch to Joey's cheek. The sound of bone hitting flesh echoed in the empty warehouse, Joey's head jerked to the side, a bitter metallic taste immediately filling his mouth.
Before he could catch his breath, a shoe kick aimed at his shoulder. The iron chair binding his body tilted, then toppled onto the concrete floor with a heavy thud. Joey's body was thrown sideways, his breath choked momentarily.
Santiago didn't stop. With steady steps, he swung his leg again, this time aiming for Joey's stomach. The hard blow made the air seem sucked out of his lungs. Joey's body folded, a rough cough mixed with nausea came out, but he gritted his teeth, suppressing a groan.
Santiago's two men only stood by, watching without intervening. One wore a thin smile, as if enjoying the show.
Joey gasped on the floor, his body still tied to the now sideways chair. His face was bruised, the corner of his mouth bleeding, but his cold eyes still stared at Santiago. Hatred refused to surrender.
With a hoarse voice almost breaking, he forced words out between his ragged breaths.
Santiago pulled a folding knife from his suit pocket, its blade reflecting a faint glint from the moonlight seeping through the warehouse window. His eyes glanced at his two men—a brief signal for them to hold Joey down.
Joey struggled with all his might, his muscles tensing, but the nylon rope restrained his movements. His voice broke, almost snarling. "Get your filthy hands off me, you bastard!"
Santiago gave a thin smile, unhurried. He slowly approached, the open knife blade pointing at Joey's neck. Its tip touched the skin, drawing a drop of blood that flowed down the blond youth's neck.
"You don't want to meet Domenico again with a slit throat, do you?" His voice was flat, but every word felt like a threat that pierced bone.
Joey closed his eyes tightly, holding his breath. Not merely out of fear—that would make him lose control. But because he knew, if he reacted rashly, Santiago would win. Joey's body tensed, the muscles in his neck and jaw hardened, his breathing heavy, but his eyes still held smoldering anger behind closed lids.
Santiago pressed the knife a little deeper, as if measuring Joey's reaction. Another drop of blood appeared, dripping on the young man's right side.
Joey swallowed, his breath hitching, but he still restrained himself from opening his eyes. His body trembled, not from visible fear, but from the immense effort of suppressing the impulse to fight or move his neck.
Santiago leaned his body slightly, his cold voice piercing the warehouse silence.
"This drop of blood is just a small reminder, Carter. Don't make me add more."
Joey remained silent. In his head, he calculated every inch of movement—fighting back could be fatal, though his heart refused to surrender so easily.
One of Morales's men pressed Joey's shoulder harder, but Joey didn't scream. Just a slight gasp, slowly, holding back the pain. He shifted his gaze elsewhere, containing the boiling anger, focusing on one thing: survival.
In that silence, he strengthened his resolve: even though his body was bound, even though his life was at the tip of a knife, he would not give Santiago a psychological victory.
Santiago stared at Joey for a moment, his dark grey eyes sweeping over the young man's body from head to toe. Without lowering the intensity of the threat, he pulled out a coarse rope from his coat pocket. The sound of rough fibers scraping made the air in the warehouse feel thicker, as if the rope itself swallowed the moonlight seeping through the leaky window.
The knife still pressed against Joey's neck, its tip scoring the skin shallowly, letting blood drip that made the cold concrete floor feel even more chilling.
"Remember, don't try to struggle."
Joey's body was forced prone as Santiago's knee pressed on his back. His muscles tensed, but his jaw remained hard. His breath was choked, his chest pressed against the cold floor. The nylon rope originally binding his hands and feet to the chair was removed, replaced with thick rope.
Santiago's men moved quickly, one holding Joey's hands, the other his feet, tying them with stiff, neat knots. This time, Joey was no longer sitting on the iron chair, but lying directly on the floor, his body touching the cold, salty-rust-scented concrete. The floor's temperature bit into his skin, adding to the discomfort, while also making him easier to move if Santiago decided to relocate him.
"You bastard," Joey hissed.
The young man adjusted his body to gain a little freedom of movement even in the new bindings. His eyes remained fixed on Santiago, cold and wary, trying to read the man's intent. Every movement, every breath, had to be carefully calculated—one wrong move could make the knife cut deeper into his neck.
Santiago grunted with satisfaction, then leaned a little closer, his cold voice slipping into Joey's ear. With a calm movement, he took out a phone from his coat pocket. The lens aimed directly at Joey's face.
"Show a sweet smile, this photo will be sent directly to Domenico," said Santiago, a thin smile gracing his face before pressing the camera button.
Click.
The dim light from the room's bulb reflected off the knife blade in his hand, creating a sharp shadow on Joey's flushed face.
Joey sighed, suppressing the pain, and with a hoarse voice, he cursed, full of anger. "Damn bastard!"
Santiago gestured for his men to take a break, he handed over the phone while saying, "Send this photo to Domenico. Make sure he knows who's in control now."
The man nodded and left.
"This is just the beginning, Carter," he murmured. "Every second of this, you'll remember for the rest of your life, and so will your owner."
Joey's molars ground, his jaw tightening. His body ached, was cold, and exhausted, but his eyes still glowed with suppressed anger. He knew one thing: surviving this meant fully restraining himself—and waiting for a chance that might not come twice.
Santiago gave a brief signal to his two men, and they retreated slowly, remaining on guard at the warehouse edge but giving Santiago space to move independently.
The knife previously pressed against Joey's neck was slowly moved by Santiago to the young man's back. The sound of cold metal touching the fabric of Joey's black hoodie was clear in the warehouse silence. With one controlled motion, Santiago pulled the hoodie up, revealing Joey's back. The young man's skin looked pale under the moonlight seeping through the window slits, slightly reddened from the pressure of Santiago's knee and the rope fibers pressing on his wrists and ankles.
"I'm curious," Santiago said, pressing the knife blade against Joey's back, "how this body, so often enjoyed by Cassano, feels."
Joey blinked once. His body tensed, but not from fear—more from suppressing the impulse to fight back, an impulse impossible to realize with his body bound like this.
A short laugh came from his throat, hoarse but sharp. "Funny," he hissed, eyes fixed on the concrete floor, his voice cold and piercing. "I don't know who you are. Judging by your nerve to challenge Domenico, you must be some big boss still busy being jealous of Cassano and cowardly threatening him with someone like me."
Santiago paused for a moment, the knife blade still pressed against Joey's skin. From the corner of his eye, Joey could see the thin smile on the Latino man's face turn bitter.
"Your mouth is still sharp, even with your body under my foot," said Santiago, pressing his knee harder into Joey's back.
Joey hissed in suppressed pain, the ache spreading through his ribs. But he didn't scream. "If you want to scare me, sorry, you're too late. The world already tried first."
In the corner of the warehouse, the shadows of Santiago's men moved slowly, waiting for further orders. The atmosphere was silent except for the sound of ocean waves and ship engines from the dock.
Santiago sighed, his smile returning, this time thinner and colder. He shifted the knife slightly, enough to lightly score Joey's skin, leaving a faint red line. A drop of blood appeared, then dripped to the floor.
Joey closed his eyes for a moment, suppressing the stinging sensation, then opened them again with the same gaze—hard, refusing to yield. "If you think I'll cry or beg from torture, you'll be disappointed."
"You're right," one of Santiago's hands moved to Joey's pants, "so I'll do it the same way Domenico does."
Joey froze for a split second as Santiago's hand moved towards his pants.
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