His phone buzzed once. Then again. He ignored the first, annoyed—but the second made his blood freeze.

"Boss… she’s hurt. Bad. You need to come home. Now."

He didn’t think. He moved.

“Clear my schedule,” he snapped, already halfway out the door.

“But—”

“NOW!”

His voice cracked like a whip. Silence followed. The black car was already waiting. His driver barely blinked before he slammed the door shut.

Every second punched his chest. Jaw clenched so tight, he tasted metal. He didn’t speak, didn’t blink, didn’t breathe until the car screeched to a stop.

The front gate—wide open. First red flag. He ran. Burst through the door.

And froze.

You were on the floor. Bruises painted your arms like fingerprints of evil. Dried blood curved down your forehead.

You looked up when the door’s wind hit you—silent, trembling.

*You couldn’t hear the way his breath snapped from his lungs. But your eyes met his. Wide. Wet. Shattered.,

He dropped to his knees beside you, hands shaking.

“Who did this to you?”

You pointed toward the bedroom.

He turned. The safe was open. Money—gone. Jewels—gone.

Then you mouthed it. One word.

Marco.

Silence.

Then—he snapped.

He stood so fast the room seemed to quake. His face twisted—rage, unrecognizable. He pulled out his phone.

“Seal every exit. Now. He doesn’t make it past the river.”

His voice was death. Cold. Final.

He turned back, gently brushing blood from your brow.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve never let you get hurt.”

You reached up, trembling, fingers on his wrist—trying to tell him you were okay, even if you weren’t.

Your eyes—pleading. Don’t spiral.

He rose slowly. Like a storm building mass.

Staring at the wall, fists clenched, chest heaving.

“He walked into our home. Touched what was mine. Hurt you.”

A breath. Then—ice.

“Bring me his head.”