ZAYAN — POV
"Now," I say, watching him fall apart in real time. "Smoke."
I let the silence stretch.
Long enough for his breathing to turn loud and ugly.
"All of them."
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
"What?" Luca whispers.
I don't look away. I don't blink.
"You didn't hear me?" I ask.
"Yes—yes, I did, but—"
"Then do it."
The words land flat. Final. No room to negotiate.
He breaks.
Not instantly. Not cinematic. It's worse than that. His face caves in on itself. Eyes glassy. Jaw shaking like it's trying to run away from the rest of him.
"Please, sir," he says, voice cracking all over the place. "Please. Spare me. I'll do anything. Anything."
Anything is such a stupid word. People throw it around like it doesn't have weight.
I stand up.
Slow.
I step into his space until there's nowhere for his fear to go. I tilt my head just enough to catch his eyes.
"Do it."
Two words. No volume. No anger.
Something in him snaps quiet.
He stops begging.
His hands move on their own. Muscle memory. Survival mode. He opens the first box. Pulls out a cigarette. Fumbles with the lighter like his fingers don't belong to him anymore.
Before he lights it—
"And one more thing," I say, almost casually.
He freezes.
"Don't let the smoke out," I continue. "I don't like it."
His eyes lift to mine.
Confused. Horrified. Like he's finally seeing the shape of me.
"So swallow it."
For a second, he just stares. Like he's looking at something that shouldn't exist in the same world as him.
I hold his gaze.
"Start," I say. "Stop when you finish ten packets."
Ten.
Not all.
Not yet.
He lights it.
The first drag is wrong. Too deep. Too desperate. His cheeks hollow. His eyes water instantly. He doesn't exhale.
He swallows.
His throat works like it's rejecting the idea. His face turns red. Veins jump in his neck.
He coughs. Hard. Ugly. Bends at the waist but keeps the cigarette in his mouth like letting it drop would be worse.
I sit back down.
Same spot. Same posture.
I pull out my phone. Scroll. Answer a message. The glow lights my face while he destroys himself three feet away.
The room fills with heat and the faint smell of burning tobacco trapped where it shouldn't be.
He makes it through two.
Then three.
By the fourth, his eyes are bloodshot. Tears streak down his face without permission. His coughing turns wet, panicked.
"Please," he chokes out. "Sir. I can't—"
I don't look up.
"I will do anything for you," he blurts. "Anything. Please."
I sigh. Slow. Like he's inconvenienced me.
"What will you do for me?"
Hope explodes on his face. Messy. Desperate.
"I'll give you everything," he says. "All my assets. The properties. Accounts. Everything."
I glance up.
"No," I say. "I already have enough.Not intrested, Next?"
His mouth opens again.
"I'll disappear," he tries. "I'll leave Italy. Europe. I'll vanish."
"Too dramatic," I say. "And unreliable."
"I'll testify," he says, voice breaking. "Against anyone you want."
I tilt my head.
"Not useful. I don't need noise."
He's shaking so hard now the cigarette trembles between his fingers. Ash falls on the floor. He doesn't notice.
"I—I don't know what else," he whispers.
I study him for a second.
Really look.
"You done?" I ask.
He drops his gaze to the floor. Shoulders collapsing in on themselves. A small, broken sound slips out of him.
I lean forward.
"Do it, then."
He nods.
Lights another.
Swallows.
Coughs so hard his whole body jerks. Tears drip off his chin. His face is blotchy, eyes wrecked, chest heaving like it's trying to claw its way out.
I sit there. Calm. Still.
Watching.
"Wait," I say.
He jerks like the word hit him in the spine.
"You said you'd give me anything, right?"
His head nods violently. Too much. Too fast. Like if he stops, he dies.
"Yes. Yes, sir. Anything."
I stand.
Close the distance again. Slow enough to make it worse.
"You looked at my wife," I say, voice even. "Filthy. With your eyes. Right?"
He shakes his head immediately. Hard. Panic everywhere.
"No—no, I swear—I didn't—I wouldn't—"
"I want those," I say.
The words are simple. Clean.
His body understands before his brain does.
He stumbles back a step.
Then another.
His heel hits something solid.
Izar.
Before Luca can turn, Izar moves. One sharp kick to the back of his knee. Efficient. No emotion in it at all.
Luca goes down hard.
Hits the floor right in front of me.
I step forward.
Black lace-up boot. Polished. Heavy.
I place it on his hand.
Not yet pressing.
Just resting there.
He screams anyway.
High. Broken. Humiliating.
I look down at him.
"Is the apartment soundproof?" I ask calmly.
He keeps screaming. Words lost. Breath gone.
I press down.
Slow.
Measured.
Bones complain. Tendons scream before he does.
"Answer me."
"YES—YES—YES," he sobs. "It is—please—yes."
"Good."
I lift my foot.
He collapses in on himself, clutching his hand, howling now like something wounded and feral.
I step back.
Straighten my cuff.
"And Now ,
I'm taking what you offered,"