The Art of Breaking

Some men break under pain. Others break under silence

Celeste....

I had seen interrogations before. I had been trained for them. I had even conducted some of my own. But this—this was something else.

Marco was tied to a steel chair in one of the underground rooms of the estate. A single bulb swung overhead, casting sharp shadows across his bruised face. The scent of sweat and blood thickened the air. He wasn't broken yet, but he would be soon.

Adrian stood at the far end of the room, arms crossed, silent. He hadn't touched Marco—not yet—but the mere presence of his cold, unrelenting stare was enough to make most men beg for mercy.

Dante and Lorenzo flanked the walls, both watching. Waiting. They had seen this before.

I, however, was the variable in the room.

I stepped forward, heels clicking against the concrete. Marco's swollen eye barely opened as he looked at me. "You're wasting your time, princess," he muttered. "I got nothing to say."

I crouched in front of him, resting my elbows on my knees. "See, I don't believe that," I said, my voice soft but edged with steel. "Because if you really had nothing to say, you'd already be dead."

His jaw twitched. A subtle flinch. Good. He was afraid.

"Tell me something, Marco," I continued. "Was it worth it? Selling out the only man who ever kept you breathing?"

His bloodied lips curled into a smirk. "You think I'm scared of him?"

I smiled back, but there was no warmth in it. "No. But you should be scared of me."

Adrian shifted slightly. I could feel his gaze, burning into me like he was seeing something different. Something unexpected. But I didn't break focus.

"You know what happens when men like you betray their own?" I leaned in, just enough that my words became a whisper. "They disappear. No grave. No closure. Their names erased like they never existed."

Marco swallowed hard. He was cracking.

I could feel Adrian watching, could sense Lorenzo's amusement. But I didn't care. This was my game now.

"Tell me who you were working with," I said, voice still calm, still patient. "Tell me now, and maybe—just maybe—I'll convince him to let you keep a few fingers."

Marco's breathing was uneven now. He looked past me, to Adrian. Looking for mercy. Looking for anything.

Adrian stepped forward, his voice like ice. "You have one chance, Marco. One name."

Silence stretched.

Then—

"C—" Marco's mouth opened, a name forming on his tongue, but—

A gunshot rang out.

Blood splattered across the floor, and Marco's body slumped forward, lifeless. Dead before the truth could leave his lips.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then Lorenzo cursed. "Fucking hell."

I spun around, heart hammering. The shooter was gone—whoever had pulled the trigger had been fast, too fast. Adrian's men were already shouting, moving, trying to lock down the exits.

But it was too late.

The traitor had silenced their only lead.

Adrian exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. His anger was controlled, but I could feel it crackling beneath the surface.

"We were close," I said, my own frustration leaking through. "Damn close."

Adrian turned to me, his gaze unreadable. "Not close enough."

His jaw clenched, and for the first time, I saw something in his eyes that almost looked like regret. Like he had let something slip through his fingers.

The weight of this moment settled between us. The realization that we were playing against someone who was just as smart, just as ruthless. And the stakes were higher than ever.

I forced myself to breathe, to focus. "What now?"

Adrian's lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Now? Now we stop waiting for them to make a move."

I met his gaze, and something passed between us—something sharp, something final.

We go hunting.