Chapter 4
CHAPTER 4
DOMINO
D arkness and rain cloaked me, offering the cover I needed to move unseen through the shadowed streets. The cold wind whipped around me, chafing against my skin, and the blood in my veins sang. After leaving Denny’s, I sent my men to Blackwater Docks to receive and transport the incoming drug shipment. Our deliveries were being targeted on multiple fronts, but with Chief Rutter taken care of, there was only one loose end to tie up.
But the streets had been silent the last few days, giving me no answers. My patience was hanging on by a thread. It wouldn’t be long before the streets ran red as I hunted down the rats that were hiding in the gutters.
Once they’d received their instructions and were strapped up and in position, I slipped back into the city alone. That’s when I felt it. Eyes on me. A slow prickle of unease ran down my spine, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. My hands clenched into fists at my sides before I shoved them into my pockets.
I moved through the rain-slick streets, my steps almost silent against the wet asphalt. But beneath the faint noise of my movement, there it was—a second set of footsteps. Faint. Careful. He tried to blend into the night, but the delayed echo of his steps was impossible to miss if you were paying attention. And I was; I never let my guard down. In my world, you always had to be prepared for the one you trusted most to sink a knife into your back.
Amateur.
He might as well have had a spotlight on him—careless, overconfident. Tonight’s hunt would be entertaining. I couldn’t wait to show him the error of his ways.
The shift had already happened, even if he didn’t know it yet. No longer the hunter—he was the hunted, dangling from strings only I could cut.
A Gallo. It was always them. Like cockroaches crawling out of the woodwork, infesting every crack and crevice.
They had been trying to sink their claws into Marlow Heights for as long as I’d been alive. My father had kept them at bay for twenty years. Now, that duty was mine. One day, I would inherit his title. Don. And this city would be my kingdom.
To say my father relied on me would be an understatement. The gunshot wound to his leg had never healed right, leaving him dependent on a cane for anything more than a short distance. If he wasn’t personally handling an interrogation in the compound’s basement, he sent me.
I had been the face of the DeMarco empire for five years now, and my reign of terror was undefeated.
The only way the Gallo family would ever take Marlow Heights was if my cold, dead body burned in the pits of hell. And that wasn’t happening.
I would fight to my last breath, meeting them blow for blow, my grin bloodstained and feral.
Because I lived for this.
The brutality. The violence. The power.
The art of it.
Leaving macabre scenes for the pigs to stumble upon, watching them fumble for answers, knowing I was untouchable—it was a pastime I indulged in. My control was absolute. A mockery of everything they stood for. And I loved every second of it.
Especially when the body they found belonged to one of their own.
The shipment had come in at the docks, the lawless side of the city. A place where men like me ran the streets, peddling products to the underprivileged masses—people Marlow Heights’ officials kept down by any means necessary.
Religion parading as politics.
Taxes.
Unemployment.
A system designed so the rich grew richer, and the poor got crushed beneath their feet.
If I were the kind of man who cared, maybe it would have mattered. But I wasn’t.
We used districts across the river to run our operations. No one looked too closely at the abandoned warehouses, the crumbling factories left behind by the industrial revolution. The exteriors remained untouched, forgotten relics of a city that had long since moved on. But inside?
Inside, they were whatever I needed them to be. Drug processing centers. Interrogation rooms. Training facilities. Execution hubs. And then, of course—my playground.
A place only I knew how to reach. A secret buried so deep that even my most trusted men had no idea where it was. And it would stay that way.
Using my knowledge of the backstreets, I led the Gallo soldier straight into my web. He thought he was the one hunting. He had no idea.
The alley stretched before me, dark and silent. Walls slick with rain. The hum of the city barely reached this place—a dead zone. Forgotten.
Perfect.
Taking measured steps, hands loose at my sides, I moved deeper into the shadows. Every movement deliberate and controlled. Baiting my prey until he was exactly where I wanted him.
I wasn’t in a rush. I enjoyed this. Almost as much as I enjoyed watching the light leave their eyes. The trick was letting him believe he had the upper hand.
I felt him before I heard him. The shift in the air as he lurked behind me, the tremor in his breath as he fought to control it. People never realized how loud fear made them. The harder they tried to be quiet, the louder they became.
A two-story wall rose in front of me, halting my progress. I tilted my head back slightly, just enough. Hesitation. An act. The idiot took the bait.
Footsteps. Fast. Confident. Stupid. His voice, thick with arrogance. “You should be afraid.”
A sigh slipped from my lips—more disappointment than anything. Slowly, I turned to face him. Hands still loose at my sides, posture relaxed. But inside? A tightly coiled spring.
Watching.
Measuring.
Calculating.
Every breath he took. The weight shifts in his stance. The slight tremble in his fingers. He was telegraphing his next move before his brain had even made the decision. The Gallo soldier stood there, gun in hand, smirking like a man who thought he was in control.
He wasn’t.
I took him in, my expression unreadable.
The twitch in his trigger finger. His stance—too stiff, too rigid. Muscles locked up with tension. He wasn’t a killer. He was a thug playing pretend.
My hollow laugh echoed around us, empty and cold.
A flinch racked through his body, forcing him to shift unevenly on his feet.
“I wouldn’t be afraid,” I murmured, voice like a blade sliding free of its sheath. “Even if there were ten of you.”
His smirk faltered. Tension crept in, curling at the corners of his eyes. His tongue darted out, wetting his lips. Fear. Just a flicker. Just enough. He fought to school his features, to keep his mask in place. But that’s all it was. A mask.
A child, standing before a lone wolf. And he knew it. Not enough to make him back down. But enough to make him realize that something was very, very wrong.
I took a step forward, anticipation thrumming through my veins.
“Why are you here?” My voice was calm. Measured.
A hunter in its element. As I closed the distance between us, the last vestiges of his bravado cracked.
The real fear began to set in.
The soldier rolled his shoulders, masking his discomfort with bravado. “Maybe we got tired of your family thinking they own this ci?—”
He never got to finish. My fist collided with his nose before the last word left his mouth. The satisfying crunch of cartilage beneath my knuckles sent a sharp thrill through me.
The idiot stumbled back, clutching his face, blood seeping between his fingers. His eyes widened in pain and shock. As if he hadn’t expected me to strike first.
Rookie mistake.
Never underestimate your opponent.
He recovered quickly, anger twisting his features. “You son of a?—”
His weight shifted. He favored his right side. Predictable. I dodged his punch with ease, stepping into his space and grabbing him by the head. My knee drove into his ribs with brutal precision.
Crunch.
A wheezing gasp tore from his throat as he staggered back, clutching his side. He collapsed against the wall, struggling for breath. But he wasn’t done yet—there was still fight left in him.
I tilted my head, watching with cold detachment. Too much emotion. Too much hesitation. Weak.
“That all you got?” he spat, wiping blood from his mouth. “No wonder your family’s losing ground.”
I sighed, already bored. “You talk too much.”
In one moment, I was across the alley, in his face. My forearm braced against his neck, pinning him in place. He barely had time to react before my right fist snapped forward—a vicious hook to the jaw.
His head whipped sideways. His body followed. The Gallo crumpled to the ground, dazed but still breathing. That was the problem with guys like this. They didn’t know when to stay down.
With a sudden burst of energy, he pushed up and lashed out, boot aimed at my ribs. I caught the kick on my forearm, but the force knocked me back just enough for him to yank a gun from his waistband.
His confidence soared, bloodied lips curling into a grin.
Stupid. He had no idea who he was dealing with. Before he could pull the trigger, I moved. Steel whispered as I flicked open the switchblade from the sheath at the base of my spine.
A flash of silver in a blur of movement. The blade kissed his throat. Not deep enough to kill. But enough to make him feel it. Blood welled around the cold steel. His breath hitched, his pupils blown wide.
I drank in every second of his terror. “Too slow.”
His entire body trembled, pulse hammering against the blade’s edge. I could feel it—the exact moment he realized he was outmatched.
I savored it. Consumed it.
Predictably, like a trapped rat, he panicked. His elbow slammed into my ribs, throwing his weight into the strike. The slick handle of my blade slipped from my fingers, clattering across the alley.
I had exactly one second to react before he lunged. We hit the ground hard, fists flying. His knuckles cracked against my cheekbone. A solid hit.
I grinned.
His eyes widened.
Wrong move.
He swung again. This time, I caught his fist midair and wrenched it backward. His shoulder popped, the socket giving way with a sickening snap. He screamed, but that didn’t stop him.
Through sheer adrenaline, he slammed his forehead into mine, rattling my skull. My grip loosened just enough for him to scramble free, shoving me off with a desperate kick to my ribs.
I barely felt it.
The second my back hit the concrete, I rolled, dodging the wild punch he aimed at my face. He overextended, momentum carrying him forward. I capitalized on the mistake, twisting his arm behind his back and slamming him face-first into the ground.
Hard .
Blood smeared against the wet concrete as he groaned. I didn’t give him a second to recover. Gripping his collar, I hauled him up and drove my knee into his stomach—once, twice, a third time—until he coughed up blood.
Still, he struggled. Still, he fought. I admired that. For a moment.
Then I slammed him against the wall, pinning him by the throat. His hands clawed at my wrist, but his strength was failing. The gun was gone. His weakened body trembled from the beating.
All that remained was the inevitable.
His last act of defiance came in the form of a broken, bloody smile. “Fuck… you.”
I answered with a punch to the ribs, my knuckles connecting with the already-shattered bone. He gasped, his body spasming from the pain.
It was clear to see now—the shift in his eyes. The realization. The fear. I dragged him down to the ground, straddling him, knees pinning his legs. Blood slicked my hands as I wrapped them around his throat. The red was beautiful against his pale, clammy skin.
His nails raked at my arms, a frantic, useless effort of a man who knew he was about to die. I didn’t feel it. I only felt his pulse. The desperate flutter beneath my fingers. He gasped. Kicked. Choked. The scent of death filled the air.
I leaned in, voice a whisper. “This is what dying feels like.”
Panic burst across his face. Pure. Unfiltered. Tears spilled from bloodshot eyes, capillaries bursting from the pressure. His lips tinged blue as his legs jerked in one final, useless struggle.
“Who sent you?”
His pulse stuttered. Weak. Fading.
“Who?”
Lips parted. A wet, gurgled breath. I loosened my grip. Just enough. His tongue clung to the roof of his mouth as he fought to form words.
“Who sent you to follow me?”
“D-D…” Blood bubbled past his lips.
“Say it.” My voice dropped to a lethal growl.
A shuddering breath. “D…Diego.”
Diego. Interesting. I’d expected the order to come from Enzo.
His pulse gave one final, weak flutter. One more squeeze—and it stopped.
Lifeless eyes stared up at the blackened sky. My face was the last thing he ever saw.
For a moment, I held on, fingers still pressed to his throat. I wanted to feel it. The slow, inevitable ebb of life. The moment power shifted.
Electric. Absolute.
Then, with a breath, I released him. I pushed to my feet, rolling my shoulders, blood dripping from my fingers. Another nameless body at my feet. I adjusted my jacket, smoothing out the wrinkles. With slow, deliberate care, I wiped my hands clean on his hoodie, then stepped over the corpse.
I turned, scanning the alley for my blade and his discarded gun—and froze.
Halfway down the alley, he stood. Ice-blue eyes. The guy from Denny’s. He watched me, gaze unreadable, his pupils blown wide. But there was no fear.
Not a trace.
His breathing was steady. Even. He had just witnessed everything, watched me kill someone with my bare hands—and he was still standing there.
Watching. Unmoved by the brutality of the killing, but his eyes seemed slightly glazed like he was hypnotized as they stared at the body.
He moved toward me, fluid as liquid, his steps measured, deliberate. His gaze swept the ground, and for a moment, I thought he was avoiding my eyes.
Then I realized what he was looking for.
He stopped just shy of three feet from me, reaching down to pluck my switchblade from beneath a split garbage bag. With an unsettling ease, he turned it over in his fingers, testing the weight, the balance—like he’d done it before.
Like he knew what he was doing.
Maybe he did.
He closed the distance without hesitation, without fear, and held the knife out to me. Dark, thickened blood slicked his fingers, yet he seemed…unbothered. Almost at peace.
I took the blade, watching him closely as I wiped it on my jeans in a well-practiced motion—one I could do blindfolded.
His eyes never left mine.
Still, he remained at ease. Unflinching. Unshaken.
His fingers curled, rolling absently through the blood smeared across his skin. Testing its viscosity.
I waited for the inevitable.
The fear. The horror. The psychotic break that always came when people glimpsed the true depths of my world.
But instead, he met my stare with a cool, detached curiosity.
No fear.
Only fascination.
The silver flecks in his ice-blue eyes glowed in the dim alley light. His lips quirked at the corners, and then, with the slow confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was doing, he raised his bloodied hand to his face and breathed in.
A deep inhale. His thick, black lashes fluttered closed as if savoring the scent.
Something dark slithered through me, coiling tight around my spine.
Possession.
Lust.
Recognition.
Before I could think, I moved. My hand shot out, wrapping around his throat, lifting him clear off the ground. He barely had time to gasp before I drove him back into the wall.
Hard.
The impact stole the breath from his lungs, but his eyes—those fucking eyes—stayed locked on mine.
Then, he did the unthinkable.
He licked his lips, the tip of his tongue toying with black snake bite piercings.
Taunting.
Tempting.
His pulse remained steady beneath my fingers. Not a single stutter of fear. My thumb stroked the column of his throat, feeling the slow, controlled bob of his Adam’s apple beneath my palm.
Still steady. Still calm.
Still fucking with me.
Heat surged through my veins, white-hot and electric. My cock pulsed, straining against the zipper of my jeans. The high of the kill burned through me, setting every nerve ending ablaze, making me feel invincible, unstoppable, untouchable—And now, this.
This fucking man.
A groan rumbled from deep in my chest. I slid the blade to his throat, pressing just hard enough for him to feel the promise of pain.
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t fucking blink.
Instead, he tilted his chin up in invitation.
Something primal inside me snapped. I pressed closer, inhaling the scent of blood and desire as I dragged my nose along the sharp edge of his jaw, up to his cheek, across his lips, until my breath ghosted hot over his ear.
“Are you afraid?” I murmured, letting my lips brush the sensitive lobe.
His breath hitched.
His fingers twitched against my wrist. But he didn’t push me away. Didn’t struggle.
Didn’t lie. “No.” His voice was hoarse, wrecked.
He remained still. Allowed it. Encouraged it.
“No?”
I smiled against his skin, slow and sharp, then flicked my tongue along the curve of his ear, circling the cartilage, savoring the way he sucked in a sharp breath.
My free hand slid over his shoulder, dragging down his arm in a slow, lazy path, like I had all the time in the world.
I felt the shift beneath his skin.
The tension.
The heat.
The ache.
It mirrored my own. My palm flattened over his chest, pressing firm over his heart. His pulse jumped.
Finally. Not so steady now, are you?
I smirked, tightening my grip on his throat just enough to watch his pupils blow wide.
He wasn’t afraid. No, this was something else entirely. And fuck, it was intoxicating.
“You’re not afraid of me?”
He tilted his head, an almost mocking smile curling at the corner of his lips. “Should I be?”
I chuckled darkly, amused by his defiance. Curious. I took a slow step forward, closing the distance between us, so close now our breaths mingled, his exhale becoming my inhale. My lips brushed against his, barely there, teasing the edges of his sanity.
“Most run. But not you. You stand there… like you’re waiting for me to show you something more.”
I saw the flicker in his eyes—something dark, something that wanted to know. To understand.
My hand slid down his chest, fingers grazing across the ridges of his abs. His breath hitched at the subtle touch, his body stiffened before his chest rose with a ragged inhale. I leaned closer, my lips dangerously near his throat. His pulse hammered beneath my blade, each beat echoing louder in my ears.
“I think death is beautiful,” he breathed, his voice low, rough with desire, maybe even with madness.
His words stirred something deep within me, something wild and primal, I couldn’t help myself. My hand moved lower, feeling his length pressing against the zipper of his pants. Thick. Solid. Pulsing.
I felt his breath catch in his throat, his entire body responding to my touch. I wanted to hold him there, to make him ache for more. But I couldn’t get lost in the moment. Not yet.
My hand pulled away slowly, and I watched how he shuddered at the loss of contact. His gaze followed the movement of the steel, the gleam of danger reflecting in his eyes before it was gone.
“Let’s see how long you survive the wolves, piccolo agnello .”
I sheathed my blade with a quick, deliberate motion, then took a step back, the distance between us growing again, but the tension hanging thick in the air.
The chill of the night settled around us, but the heat from our exchange still burned, coiling in the pit of my stomach. I turned on my heel, my boots clicking on the ground as I walked away, but not without one last glance over my shoulder.
He didn’t chase. He didn’t scream.
He stayed.
And that… was the most dangerous thing about him.