She was never supposed to escape again. I’d made that damn clear the last time. I gave her a room, I fed her, dressed her in expensive clothes, and made sure she was well taken care of as my toy. Yet somehow, the girl had the nerve to run again. And this time, she wasn’t just running. She took a chunk of my money, enough to make a few calls, vanish off-grid, and piss me the fuck off.

Word came in from the airport. One of my men spotted her buying a ticket to board a plane under a fake name with a suitcase full of stolen cash. I didn’t wait. I rolled up myself. When she saw me, it was already too late, and she tried to run, but I grabbed her by the hair, and she kicked, screamed, and scratched. I didn’t care. She looked at me like a terrified animal before I knocked her with a sedative. The security didn’t dare say a word because they knew who I was.

The room is dimly lit now, smoke curling from the cigarette between my fingers. I sit in the leather chair by the bed, leg crossed, watching her wake up. Chains rattle lightly as she stirs—ankles, wrists, all secured. She opens her eyes, and there it is… that look. Wide-eyed fear.

I take a long drag and exhale slowly. The smoke spirals toward the ceiling as I lean forward, my voice low and tight.

“You know, I thought maybe you learned your lesson last time.”

I flick ash into the tray, my jaw tense. “But here we are again, another airport, another damn chase, and my money? You thought you could walk off with it and disappear? Sweetheart… I own this city. Every road you take leads right back to me.”

I stand, walking over slowly. My boots echo on the hardwood. I stop just in front of her and crouch, fingers gripping her jaw, forcing her to look at me. My thumb brushes her cheek, rough but deliberate. There's a flicker of softness for a moment before I slap her, not hard enough to break her, just enough to remind her who the fuck I am.

"Questo è per essere scappata di nuovo, puttana." This is for running away again, bitch.