The black SUV cut through the darkened streets of Madrid, its tinted windows concealing the men within.
Rocco Montenegro sat in the backseat, his fingers tapping idly against his thigh as the city blurred past.
The scent of leather and expensive cologne filled the air, but beneath it, the metallic sting of blood still lingered on his skin.
"¿Está arreglado el cerdo?" (Is the pig settled?) Rocco asked, his voice cold, eyes fixed ahead.
Vicenzo, seated beside him, gave a curt nod. "Sí, jefe." (Yes, boss.)
Rocco exhaled through his nose, disinterested. The woman from the hotel lobby—whoever the hell she was—had been nothing more than an inconvenience.
The audacity.
No one spoke to him like that, let alone touched him. And yet… something about her lingered in his mind, an irritation he couldn't quite shake.
But there were more pressing matters.
The SUV pulled into an abandoned construction site on the outskirts of the city.
A skeletal structure loomed over them, its unfinished steel beams casting long shadows beneath the moonlight.
The vehicle came to a halt, and without a word, Rocco stepped out.
His polished shoes met the dirt with a quiet crunch.
Inside the hollowed building, the air was thick with damp concrete and the unmistakable scent of fear.
A single overhead bulb flickered, casting a dim glow over the man bound to a chair in the center of the room. His face was swollen, his lip split, dried blood painting his skin in grotesque patterns.
Luciano.
Rocco sighed as he unbuttoned his suit jacket and handed it to Vicenzo, who stood at attention beside him. He methodically rolled up his sleeves, revealing forearms corded with muscle and ink.
He approached the captive slowly, like a predator circling prey. He could hear the man's breath—uneven, ragged, desperate.
"¿Creías que eras listo, eh?" (You thought you were smart, huh?) Rocco murmured, dragging a blade across Luciano's jawline, applying just enough pressure to make him flinch.
The man's chest heaved. "Por favor, jefe… tengo familia." (Please, boss… I have a family.)
Rocco let out a breath of amusement, shaking his head. "¿Familia?" He leaned in, his voice dangerously soft. "¿Y qué carajo me importa a mí?" (A family? And why the fuck would I care?).
Luciano whimpered but didn't reply.
His silence was wise—speaking out of turn would only prolong his suffering.
Rocco stepped away, pacing.
"Los pecadores siempre esperan que se les perdone sus pecados." (Sinners always think they deserve forgiveness.)
His voice echoed in the empty building, blending with the distant hum of the city. "Pero la realidad es otra. El león no perdona a la gacela, Luciano." (But reality is different. The lion does not forgive the gazelle.)
He turned, slow and deliberate, his expression unreadable. Then, without hesitation, he drove the knife into Luciano's thigh.
The man screamed, his body jerking against the restraints as agony overtook him. Rocco twisted the blade cruelly, watching as blood pooled beneath the chair.
"¿Duele?" (Painful?) He tilted his head, studying Luciano as if he were a specimen beneath glass. "Eso es lo que pasa cuando me joden." (That's what happens when you fuck with me.)
Luciano gasped, his body trembling. "¡Lo juro! Hice lo que pediste… Todo iba bien hasta que nos emboscaron…" (I swear! I did what you asked… Everything was fine until we were ambushed…)
Rocco's jaw tightened.
Lies.
His world ran on precision, on absolute control. And this pathetic excuse for a man had the nerve to sit before him and spew deception?.
He released the knife, letting it clatter to the ground. His patience had worn thin.
"Sigues mintiendo." (You're still lying.)
He strode toward a control panel near the wall.
The wires had been rigged hours ago.
Electricity was a beautiful thing—painful, relentless, and effective. He hovered over the switch, then glanced at Luciano one last time.
"Lo curioso es que, aunque no me digas nada, lo descubriré de todas formas." (The funny thing is, even if you don't tell me anything, I'll still find out.)
Luciano's eyes widened.
He knew what was coming.
"Saluda al diablo por mí." (Say hi to the devil for me.)
Rocco flipped the switch.
A violent current surged through the bucket of water, sending jolts of electricity coursing through Luciano's body. His screams tore through the night, raw and inhuman.
The acrid scent of burning flesh filled the space.
Rocco watched for a moment, impassive, before turning away. The job was done. He reached for his jacket, slipping it back on as he addressed Vincenzo.
"Limpia este desastre." (Clean this up.)
"Sí, jefe."
Without another glance at the corpse, Rocco strode out of the building. The night air greeted him, crisp and unbothered by the horrors inside.
He pulled a cigarette from his pocket, lighting it with a flick of his lighter.
As the first drag filled his lungs, he exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl into the sky.
This was his life.
The blood.
The fear.
The control.
And he fucking loved it.