Rosalia

The door swings inward on a tired hinge, and I take half a step before metal kisses my skin.

A gun presses against my temple. Cold. Impersonal. Precise.

The message isn't loud. It doesn't have to be.

Don't scream. Don't run. Walk.

I do as instructed.

I move like a puppet someone else bought.

The room smells of stale smoke and an expensive bottle that's been sweating in a bucket too long. Amber lamps burn low, gilding everything with a dirty kind of gold. There's a couch, a small table, and a stack of napkins too white for a room that has probably seen too much red.

Three men sit slouched across the couch, all broad shoulders and busted knuckles. The kind of bulk carried more by violence than by gyms. Their faces wear bruises the color of bad fruit. They look like men who learned too late that laughter can be sharper than a knife, and so they stopped laughing altogether.

The man with the gun prods me toward the center of the carpet.

My knees hit the ground harder than I planned.

The carpet is too soft. It swallows the sound.

My heartbeat is louder than the club outside. I can feel the bass through the floorboards and the barrel at my head, and both make the same argument.

Submit.

One of the men on the couch rolls his shoulders, stands, and walks toward me. Up close he looks older. Late forties maybe. His skin stretches too tightly across a face that has smiled at the wrong things for too long.

He keeps his own gun loose at his side and lifts my chin with the barrel.

"So you're the new dancer," he says.

The voice is fake-friendly, a salesman's voice grafted onto a predator's jaw.

Terror tries to weld my tongue to the roof of my mouth.

I don't answer.

The silence tastes like pennies.

"When I ask a question," he says, nudging the gun harder, "you answer. Or I'll blow your pretty little brains all over this nice rug."

I nod so fast my neck aches.

The barrel lowers from my chin and points lazily toward the floor. It feels like sunlight breaking through clouds just because the shadow shifted.

I know better.

"Good," he says. "Me and my guys need a little show before we take you to see the boss."

I swallow because I have to.

The sound is too loud in the quiet.

The club's song changes. A cheer rolls through the wall and dies.

No one can hear me in here.

The walls are thick on purpose.

Words don't leak.

Screams don't either.

You can get out of this, Rosa.

Move first. Move fast.

Hurt him before he decides where to hurt you.

The gunman beside me fists my elbow and jerks me up.

"Either you do as we say," he mutters, breath sour and too close, "or we reverse the case and have fun with your little friend down there."

He gestures between my legs with the muzzle.

My stomach drops.

A cold shiver slides down my spine.

"Let me go!" I shout, and my voice sounds wrong. Too high. Too thin.

"Help—!"

He smiles.

Small.

Crooked.

Cruel.

"Scream all you want," he says. "Nobody hears a thing in here. That's the point, baby."

Three against one.

Twice my size.

Doors with locks.

A hallway full of men who don't care what happens once a door closes.

There's a point where calculations stop helping.

They only tell you how bad things are.

This is that point.

But there's another point where you stop being soft in your own head.

I am tired of being the girl men choose because I look like I won't fight.

I am tired of charts someone else drew where I'm the footnote.

Not this time.

I shift my weight as if I'm standing normally.

Then I go limp.

His grip slips for a fraction of a second.

My elbow slams backward into the soft spot above his hip.

He grunts.

Doubles slightly.

I pivot and drive my knee upward with everything I have.

The hit lands.

His breath leaves him like someone snatched it.

I don't wait.

I shove into him with my whole body and rake my nails across his face.

Skin breaks beneath my fingers.

I should feel ashamed.

I don't.

He roars, clutching his eyes.

The other two leap off the couch.

Hands grab my arms.

One twists my shoulder so hard something protests inside the joint.

I keep kicking.

I will always keep kicking.

A hand cracks across my face.

Stars explode behind my eyes.

Nausea rolls through me.

I taste copper.

The first man wipes blood from his cheek and studies it.

"So she likes the hard way," he mutters.

"Good."

"Let's see what the boss thinks of that."

The word drops like a stone.

Boss.

That means a car.

Another room.

Another locked door.

Darker places.

Worse men.

I can't go there.

"Shut up," one of them snarls.

A thick hand clamps over my mouth.

The smell of his palm is something I will never forget.

They drag me down the hallway.

The sconces throw long shadows like broken fingers across the walls. The thud of the club grows distant, like the world has decided not to care.

This is where deliveries happen.

This is where secrets move.

This is where women disappear.

The door beside us suddenly opens.

A man steps out.

He doesn't raise his voice.

He doesn't need to.

The gun in his hand doesn't shake or flash. It simply exists.

Pointed where it matters.

It's him.

Luca.

He looks like the coldest part of the city decided to live inside a single pair of eyes.

"I believe the lady said let her go," he says calmly.

The man gripping me snarls.

"Who the hell are you to—"

His eyes meet Luca's face.

Recognition hits.

He swallows the rest of the sentence.

"You," he spits. "Why do you care about this slut?"

The word lands inside me like a stone dropped into a well.

My pride sparks back to life.

Luca's expression never changes.

"You're going to let her go," he says calmly. "And I'll let you walk away with your legs working."

The second man raises his gun.

The third presses the barrel harder against my head.

The first smirks.

"We're supposed to be scared because you're Luca Romano?"

He laughs.

"Looks like three against one."

"Be smart. Walk away."

"Don't play innocent saving this bimbo. You're just like us."

Something twists inside my thoughts.

Just like us?

What does he mean?

Is he saying Luca takes women too?

"Shut up," Luca says quietly.

"We are not alike."

A pause stretches between them.

"Do you know why?"

His voice drops.

"Because I don't force women to do what they don't want."

He never looks at me when he says it.

He doesn't need to.

"Enough," he continues.

"You have five seconds to let her go."

"What are you going to do?" one man snaps.

The answer is not a sentence.

It's a gunshot.

BAM.

The sound cracks through the hallway.

Warm blood splatters across my cheek.

The hand over my mouth disappears as the man collapses.

The second man grabs me as a shield.

I twist and duck.

I run.

"Here," Luca snaps.

My body obeys before my mind does.

I hide behind him.

Another shot.

Then another.

Screams echo from the main room.

Then silence.

I open my eyes.

Two bodies lie motionless on the floor.

Blood spreads across the carpet.

Luca stands perfectly still.

Like violence is something ordinary to him.

Footsteps thunder down the corridor.

"Boss!"

Angelo appears moments later.

Dressed in black.

Gun ready.

He slows when he sees the bodies.

Luca sighs.

"Beh, ci hai messo il tuo dannato tempo, Angelo."
(Well, you took your damn time, Angelo.)

Angelo nods slightly.

"Mi dispiace, capo."
(I'm sorry, boss.)

Then he adds,

"Pensavo che fossi ancora occupato con la rossa."
(I thought you were still busy with the redhead.)

"You're lucky I had it under control," Luca replies calmly.

Relief crashes through me.

I'm not in a van.

Not in another room.

Not behind another locked door.

He was there.

He always seems to be.

And that thought terrifies me more than the gun did.

Angelo glances at the bodies.

"Vuoi che pulisca?"
(Do you want me to clean this up?)

Luca nods slightly.

"Chiama Rocco. E Carlos. Nessun casino. Porta fuori la spazzatura."
(Call Rocco and Carlos. No mess. Take out the trash.)

"Subito."
(Right away.)

Angelo immediately pulls out his phone.

Luca turns back to me.

"Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," I say quietly.

His eyes fall to the bruise forming on my cheek.

His jaw tightens.

"Who put their hands on you?"

"You already asked that," I whisper.

"And I already said it's none of your business."

His voice lowers.

"Anything that threatens you becomes my business when it happens in a building I can walk into and silence."

"I'm not asking to own you," he continues.

"I'm asking to help you

Heat moves through my chest.

"I can handle it," I say.

He glances briefly at the bodies.

"You did," he says quietly.

"Until you couldn't."

He steps aside.

"Go home, Rosalia."

My name sounds dangerous in his voice.

"How?"

He nods toward Angelo.

"He'll drive you to the bus station ."

Then he adds quietly,

"Non discutere."
(Don't argue.)

Angelo approaches.

"Vengo con te."
(I'll go with her.)

Luca nods once.

"Tomorrow," he says.

"Stay away from places where men with guns wait behind doors."

"Is there such a place?" I ask softly.

"For you," he replies.

"There will be."

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