Chapter 21
Blaze
The last time I was here was three years ago.
The old man had his back to me, smoking like he didn’t have a fucking care in the world. I was sent to the race that ruined my life.
And now I’m back.
He sits comfortably this time, cigarette in one hand, whiskey in the other, his brows drawn together as he looks at me with that intense, cold stare.
And I’m kneeling in front of him.
Like a fucking dog.
"Long time no see, my boy," he says, his voice smooth, almost fucking soft. It makes my skin crawl.
I don't speak. My jaw is clenched so tight my teeth fucking hurt.
"You were my favorite," he continues, swirling his drink like we’re old friends catching up. "I bet the highest fucking amount on you." His voice hardens. "And you went and messed it all up."
His leg, stretched lazily over the table, drops to the floor. The sound echoes in the room like a fucking gunshot.
"I let you go," he mutters, standing up slowly. "But now you've grown wings and you're messing with my money."
The room is silent as fuck except for the faint crackling of his cigarette and the pounding of my own heart.
I swallow hard, keeping my head down. There’s no need to act strong. Not here. Not now.
"Please," my voice cracks before I can stop it. Fuck. "My mother is too sick to get involved in all this."
I hate how fucking weak I sound.
I hate this feeling—begging.
But my mother... I can’t let her go through this.
The old prick smiles, takes another slow drag from his cigarette.
"You should have thought of that before trying to run and hide with my money." His voice is cold, fucking lifeless.
I clench my fists. "I didn’t—"
"Your incompetent father recklessly left this debt to your mother," he cuts me off. "But even she was unable to pay. What should I do, huh?" His tone is mocking, like he finds this shit entertaining.
I stay silent.
He steps closer. "I have to get my money by force."
His words send a chill through my fucking spine.
He walks back to his seat. Three of the men standing by the door start moving.
Fuck.
I feel my throat tighten. "I swear I’ll pay it off. Just give me one more year." My voice is shaking, but I don’t care.
He raises an eyebrow. "One more year?" He chuckles, taking another sip of his whiskey.
"Yeah," I swallow hard. "Just one more year, I—"
"Right," he interrupts, nodding as if he’s considering it. Then his lips curl into a fucking smirk.
"But I can’t let you do that without a taste of what happens when you mess with me."
Fucking hell.
"First," he continues, dragging his cigarette along the ashtray, "your mother stays here till you pay off the money."
My stomach fucking drops.
"And second…" he trails off, looking up at the men behind me.
I don’t even get a second to react before the first fucking blow lands.
CRACK.
Pain explodes from the side of my head.
I stumble, my vision blurring.
A second later, another blow slams into my ribs. I gasp, pain ripping through my body like a fucking blade.
More.
Fists slam into my stomach. My knees give out, but they hold me up—just to keep fucking hitting me.
My mind flashes back to that morning.
That morning when Carlo saved me from his men.
Fuck.
I can’t believe I’m actually wishing for that bastard to show up right now.
The old man exhales, the smoke curling into the air above me. "Just enough to give him a lesson," he mutters.
My head is spinning. I can barely fucking breathe.
Another punch. This time to my gut. My body folds, but the bastards hold me up. The sharp taste of blood fills my mouth. I cough, spitting it onto the floor.
They keep going. A kick to my ribs—a fucking sharp, burning pain shoots through me. I groan, but I don’t scream. I won’t fucking scream.
The old prick leans forward, watching like this is some fucking entertainment show.
"Satisfied?" I croak, voice barely there.
He smirks. "Not yet."
Another hit.
Another.
Fucking hell, I can’t—
My body sags, but they hold me up again. My knees scrape against the cold, hard floor. Everything hurts. My breathing is ragged, uneven. I can’t even fucking see straight anymore.
But I feel it—the heat of their stares. The mocking amusement.
The Chairman sighs dramatically. "That’s enough for now. Don’t let him die." My stomach twists. "That little dick would be on my neck if anything happened to him, although he asked for it."
Who?
Who the fuck is he talking about?
Who asked for this?
Didn’t he bring me here because I was staying too long to pay him?
What the fuck does he mean—someone asked for this?
I can’t think. Everything is fading. My body is heavy. Pain pulses through every fucking inch of me. That’s the only fucking thing I can feel.
It swallows me whole, wrapping around my body like a vice, suffocating me. My ribs are screaming, my face is throbbing, and my vision is fucked.
I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here, half-conscious, barely breathing.
The taste of blood is thick in my mouth, coppery and disgusting. I can feel it dripping from my busted lip, pooling in the corner of my mouth, but I don’t have the strength to spit it out.
The room is quiet now.
I can still hear them moving around, their boots scraping against the floor, their low voices muttering shit I can’t make out.
"Still breathing?" someone asks.
A boot nudges my side. Not hard, but enough to send a sharp fucking jolt of pain shooting through my ribs.
I don’t react.
I can’t.
Even breathing feels like a fucking battle.
"Yeah, he’s still alive," the guy mutters. "Tough bastard."
I hear the clinking of glass, the sound of liquid being poured. A chair scrapes against the floor.
"You’re lucky," a voice cuts through the silence, deep and amused. "The old man would have finished you off, but he’s feeling generous tonight."
Generous?
Fucking hilarious.
I don’t even bother trying to lift my head. I know better.
The last time I tried moving, I almost blacked out again.
Footsteps approach me. Slow. Deliberate.
I brace myself.
A firm grip on my hair yanks my head up, and a sharp stab of pain shoots down my neck. I groan, my body too fucking weak to resist.
"Look at you," the guy sneers in my face. "Not so cocky now, huh?"
I barely hear him.
Everything is a blur—his face, the dim light, the thick haze of cigarette smoke curling in the air.
I can’t fucking focus.
"You should be grateful," he continues, his breath stinking of whiskey and cigarettes. "If the boss wanted, you’d be in a ditch right now."
Grateful?
I let out a shaky, bitter laugh.
That pisses him off.
His grip tightens in my hair, yanking me higher, forcing me to meet his gaze. "You think this is funny, you little shit?" he growls. I don’t answer. I don’t have the fucking energy. He waits, like he expects me to beg or some shit.
When I don’t, he clicks his tongue and slams my face into the floor.
White-hot pain explodes in my skull. My ears ring. My vision goes black for a second. I don’t move. I can’t.
"Pathetic," he mutters, finally letting go. My head drops back onto the cold floor with a dull thud.
"Enough," another voice speaks up, calm and bored. "Boss said that’s it for now."
The guy sighs dramatically. "Fine. Let’s get him the fuck out of here."
Rough hands grab me.
I try to move, try to resist, but my body is completely useless.
They drag me toward the door, my feet barely touching the ground.
Every fucking movement sends fire through my ribs, my stomach, my arms.
I bite my tongue, forcing myself not to make a sound.
I won’t give them the satisfaction.
The door creaks open, and the cold night air hits me like a slap.
They drag me down a set of stairs, my body bumping against every step.
I feel like a fucking corpse.
When we finally reach the bottom, one of them grunts, "Dump him in the back sit."
I hear the car move, where are we going to? I can't tell.
Soon we arrived because the car stopped, they carried me out and dump me on the ground.
They let go.
I collapse onto the rough ground, my cheek pressing against the rough, filthy ground.
I can hear them drive away, the car engine fading, the smoke trailing off behind them.
And then—silence.
Just me. Lying in the dark. Bleeding. Barely breathing. Fuck. I don’t know how long I will be there, my body is too broken to move.
Minutes? Hours? I can’t tell.
The pain is overwhelming, a constant fucking pulse in every inch of my body.
But through the pain, one thought burns in my mind. I need to get the fuck out of here. I have to. I grit my teeth, tasting blood, and force my fingers to move.
Just a little. Then more. I start crawling.
Pain rips through me with every inch I move.
One fucking movement at a time.
Because I don’t have a choice. Because if I stay here, if I close my eyes— I might never wake up again.
I collapse finally, unable to move. Hah! Shit!