Chapter 2 Glove retrieval

Rafael stepped into his mansion, the weight of the night pressing down on him. He shrugged off his bloodstained jacket, the fabric sticking to his skin from the dried blood not all of it his own. His muscles ached, but he ignored it.

He needed to go underground. His men were waiting. The ambush had left them scattered, and he had to regroup. But as he reached for the hidden door to his private bunker, something gnawed at him. His glove. His hand froze midair.

"Shit." he Cursed. He had forgotten it.

A sharp exhale left him as he pulled out his phone and quickly typed a message.

"Will be there soon. Got something to handle first."

He sent it to Mason. No need for explanations. Mason knew better than to question him.

Without wasting another second, Rafael turned on his heels and strode back outside. One of his cars, a sleek, black Maserati, waited in the driveway like a predator ready to pounce. He slid behind the wheel, fingers gripping the leather, and started the engine.

He tore through the empty streets like a storm brewing on asphalt. The city whipped past him in a blur of neon and shadows, but Rafael didn't see any of it. His focus was razor-sharp, locked onto one thing, the gas station. Every second counted.

When Rafael pulled up, his gut clenched. The place was unrecognizable. The once-quiet gas station now looked like a war zone.

Shattered glass glittered like a field of broken stars beneath the harsh overhead lights, crunching under Rafael's boots as he stepped forward, The air was heavy with the acrid scent of gasoline, mixed with the sharp tang of blood, fresh, unmistakable.

The front counter, the very one where that stubborn girl had stood, rolling her eyes at him with that infuriating defiance, was smeared with crimson. A streak of it trailed downward as if someone had been dragged.

The shelves were overturned, their contents scattered across the floor, abandoned like the aftermath of a struggle. A single chair lay on its side, one of its legs snapped clean off.

The girl was gone.

And whoever took her had made damn sure he knew it.

Rafael stepped out, his boots crunching over the wreckage. His cold gaze swept over the destruction, his mind working fast.

He exhaled slowly through his nose, his control razor-thin.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out his phone and activated the tracker embedded in his glove.

A small, blinking signal appeared on his screen. A few kilometers away.

His eyes darkened, "They had taken it. No, they had taken her."

His jaw clenched, his blood simmering beneath his skin. He had been in this business long enough to know what happened to people who got caught in the crossfire. She wouldn't last the night.

But what they didn't realize was that what they had just done was make this personal. His grip on the steering wheel tightened.

Rafael slid back into his Maserati, slamming the door shut. His pulse was steady, controlled, but his anger was anything but.

He punched the gas, tires screeching against the pavement. The car roared as it surged forward, hunting the signal, hunting them.

----

Celia's head throbbed from where she had been thrown onto the cold concrete floor. The ropes around her wrists burned, biting into her skin with every small movement. Her heartbeat slammed against her ribs, but she refused to let them see her fear.

The room was dimly lit, reeking of gasoline, sweat, and blood. Rusted chains hung from the ceiling, and a metal table stood in the corner, stained with something dark.

This wasn't just some abandoned warehouse. This was a place where people disappeared.

She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to breathe evenly. She wouldn't panic. Panicking would only make things worse.

The men standing around her weren't in a rush. They weren't afraid. Because they had done this before.

"Boss said to keep her alive for now," one of them muttered, pacing. "But I don't see the point."

Another grunted. "She's bait. Mercer will come for her."

Celia's stomach twisted. It didn't make sense. She didn't know him. He was just a customer. A terrifying, bleeding customer, sure,but still a complete stranger.

"What if she really doesn't mean anything to him?" someone else asked. "We would be wasting our time."

"Doesn't matter."

A new voice. One she hadn't heard before.

He was the one who sent the gang to trail Rafeal, a mafia lord.

His boots echoed as he approached. The men around him straightened instinctively. Even in the low light, Celia could tell he was different. More dangerous. More ruthless.

He crouched in front of her, gripping her chin.She flinched, but he held her still, forcing her to meet his gaze. Cold. Amused. Calculating.

She refused to look away.

"Mercer left something behind," he murmured, tilting his head. "And yet, he didn't come back for it." His thumb brushed against her jaw. "That tells me... you are important."

Celia swallowed hard.

He let go of her abruptly, standing to his full height.

"I don't know him."

His expression didn't change. He exhaled slowly, almost disappointed.

Then, without warning... a blow

Pain exploded across Celia's face as his fist connected with her cheekbone, sending her sprawling onto her side. The world blurred for a second, her ears ringing.

She gasped, tasting blood.

The man stood over her, shaking out his hand like he had simply swatted away an inconvenience.

"Wrong answer," he muttered.

Celia coughed, breathing through the pain as she forced herself upright. Her cheek throbbed, but she glared up at him anyway.

The man sighed as if this was all so exhausting. He pulled a gun from his waistband and cocked it.

"She's the only lead we have right now," he said to his men. "If Mercer doesn't care... we will make him care."

The gun slid from his holster. Slow. Deliberate.

Celia's breath hitched.

"Or," he continued, voice dangerously calm, "we will see how much he values a stranger's life."

The gun cocked.

The barrel pressed against her temple.

Celia's entire body went rigid.