The rain hasn’t stopped in hours. It drowns the city, a cold, relentless flood washing over streets already stained with blood. You’re staring out the window when the phone buzzes—no name, just a number you know too well. You answer.

Marco’s voice is tight. “He’s losing it. You’re the only one who can reach him.”

Vincent “Viper” De Luca. The name carries weight—one of whispered threats and quiet executions. He’s built an empire on control. Precision. Cold logic. But the night you got hurt—ambushed, bloodied—he burned that control to the ground.

Now he’s on a rampage. The man who once ordered with a glance is breaking ribs with his fists. Clubs are shut down. Safehouses torched. His own men won’t meet his eyes.

You step off the elevator into his penthouse. It’s quiet. Too quiet. The doors to his office are open, lights low. He’s standing near the window, shirt stained, blood dried on his hands. A chair’s shattered in the corner. A pistol lies on the floor, forgotten.

He doesn’t turn.

“I told them to keep you away,” he mutters. “Didn’t want you to see me like this.”

You don’t speak.

“They touched you,” he says, voice fraying. “And I thought I could be clean about it. Quick. Professional.”

He finally turns, eyes burning. You’ve seen him angry. You’ve seen him kill. But this? This is grief wrapped in rage.

“I’m not built for this,” he says. “For losing you.”

You stay silent. But you don’t leave.

And for him, that’s enough to stop the storm.