A single gunshot shattered the silence.

The sound echoed through the grand estate, reverberating off the marble floors and high ceilings. Rocco Montenegro stood frozen, his small eight-year-old body rigid with fear. His father, the mighty and merciless Don Montenegro, lowered his smoking gun with a satisfied smirk.

At his feet lay a woman Rocco knew all too well.

Sienna's mother.

Her lifeless body was sprawled on the floor, eyes wide open, frozen in eternal terror. Blood pooled beneath her, staining the expensive Persian rug a deep crimson.

The air was thick with the acrid scent of gunpowder and death.

Rocco couldn't move.

His chest rose and fell in rapid succession, but no breath filled his lungs. His throat burned with the urge to scream, but no sound escaped. His wide, tear-filled eyes darted between his father and the body. 

This isn't real. 

This isn't real.

His father turned to him, still gripping the gun in his hand. His sharp features were carved from stone, his expression unreadable except for the wicked gleam in his cold, dark eyes.

"Te lo advertí." (I warned you.)

Rocco flinched at his father's voice, deep and laced with menace.

"I told you, boy. The moment she found out what I do—the moment she learned what kind of man I am—would be the moment she died."

His father stepped closer, his polished dress shoes sinking slightly into the blood-soaked rug. "And look at her now."

Rocco's tiny fists clenched at his sides.

"What's going to happen to Sienna?" His voice was barely a whisper, but it cracked under the weight of his emotions.

His father's lips curled into something resembling amusement. "Sienna?" He chuckled darkly. "She's nothing. She's a problem that has been dealt with."

"No," Rocco whispered. "¡Papá!"

A scream tore through the room.

His mother—Isabela Montenegro, burst into the study, her golden-brown eyes widening in horror as she took in the scene.

"Dios mío…" (My God…)

She rushed toward her best friend, but two of his father's men grabbed her before she could collapse by the body.

She thrashed against their hold, screaming Sienna's mother's name.

"¡No! ¡Suéltame!" (No! Let me go!)

His father barely spared her a glance.

"You knew the rules, Isabela. You knew this day would come if she got too curious."

His mother sobbed, struggling against the iron grip of the guards. "She was my friend—my sister! She had a child!"

His father sneered.

"She should have thought about that before sticking her nose where it didn't belong."

Rocco stared at his mother, his young mind trying to make sense of her pain, of the situation. Then his father turned back to him, leveling him with a hard stare.

"Look closely, son," he said, his voice devoid of sympathy. "This is who we are. This is what we do. Kill or be killed."

Rocco's little hands trembled at his sides. He wanted to look away, but he couldn't.

"She was going to go to the authorities," his father continued, tilting his head. "She would've destroyed everything I built. They would've taken me away, left you weak and defenseless. Do you want to be weak, Rocco?"

Rocco didn't answer.

The silence earned him a sharp slap across the face. His head snapped to the side, a stinging pain blooming across his cheek.

"Talk to me when I'm speaking to you, boy."

His father's voice was sharp, slicing through him like a blade. Rocco swallowed down his cry, his small fists clenching so tightly that his nails dug into his palms.

"No, sir."

His father nodded approvingly. "That's my boy."

His mother was still screaming, still pleading, still crying for the woman who lay lifeless on the ground. His father waved a hand, dismissing her agony like an afterthought.

"Take her away."

The guards dragged his mother out of the room, her sobs echoing in the halls long after she was gone.

His father sighed, glancing down at the body with mild disinterest before flicking his fingers at his men.

"Get rid of it. Make sure she's never found."

Rocco's stomach twisted into knots as he watched the men move. His father crouched in front of him, gripping his chin in his firm grasp.

"This is the life we live, son. Get used to it."

Then—darkness.

Rocco shot up in bed, gasping for breath.

His chest rose and fell in rapid succession as beads of sweat trickled down his forehead. His hand flew to his face, fingers pressing against his throbbing temple.

That dream. That goddamn dream.

Twenty years later, and it still haunted him.

He exhaled sharply, his jaw clenching as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His bare feet met the cold floor, but it did nothing to ground him. His mind was still trapped in the past, still hearing the gunshot, still smelling the blood.

He pushed himself to his feet and walked toward the massive window of his penthouse bedroom. The sky was still dark, the city of Madrid sprawled beneath him in an endless sea of lights.

His gaze flicked to the antique clock on the wall.

4:00 AM.

A humorless chuckle escaped his lips. Of course.

He turned away from the window and strode toward the mini-bar in the corner of his room. He grabbed a crystal decanter, poured himself a generous amount of whiskey, and took a long, slow sip.

The burn was welcome.

It grounded him, reminded him that he was alive, that he was in control.

Control.

That was what mattered.

He hated these nights, the ones where the past clawed its way back into his mind like a relentless ghost. He had long accepted his father's lesson. He had to. In this world, love was nothing but a weakness—a weapon others could use against you.

Rocco had no intention of being weak.

He placed the glass on the bar and ran a hand through his dark, tousled hair. The faintest flicker of a memory surfaced—a pair of bright, curious eyes. A little girl who used to follow him around, giggling at his every word.

Sienna.

He hadn't thought about her in years. He had no idea where she ended up. Probably forgotten him entirely. That's if she was still alive.

And yet, for some reason, she was on his mind tonight.

Rocco scoffed and turned away from the bar, shaking off the unwelcome thoughts. It didn't matter. The past didn't matter.

Only power. Only control.

And he would never let anyone take that from him.

He set the empty glass down and walked toward his bathroom. It was going to be a long day.

And he would make sure that no ghosts from his past would interfere with it.