C-4

"Move out, get off my tail," Dean barked as he watched the bold woman slip into the club's depths.

The driver, a silent shadow in the background, obeyed without a word. Dean's eyes twinkled with amused disbelief. That coffee girl—so unabashed, so unflappable—had not even thrown him a flirtatious glance. Instead, she'd simply walked away like a mystery he'd yet to solve.

"Not even a peep," he muttered under his breath, his lips curving into a smirk. "I helped her out because she's Pete Sky's favorite—makes the best damn coffee in town. And she didn't even recognize me? It's like not knowing Beyoncé!"

Dean strode into the exclusive corridor reserved for New York's elite. The marble-lined hallways hummed with quiet opulence as he passed portraits of men who ruled empires from behind closed doors. In his mind, these men—power brokers juggling deals between Italy, Mexico, and America—were nothing more than children playing high-stakes games, while he orchestrated the playground.

"Welcome to my realm," he whispered, half to himself, as he navigated past discreetly conversing clusters.

Within minutes, Dean reached his private booth at the hall's end—a dim, soundproof control room bristling with CCTV monitors. He keyed in his passcode, settling into the plush leather chair as the screens flickered to life, each panel showing a different segment of the club. The subdued soundtrack of murmurs, bursts of laughter, and occasional moans from behind closed doors formed a constant backdrop.

Just as Dean unbuttoned the top of his crisp shirt, his phone buzzed sharply. Glancing down, he saw the familiar name flash on the screen: ABUELITA. Without hesitation, he swiped to answer.

"Hola, Cariño, buenas noches, ¿cómo estás?" came the warm, lilting voice of his grandmother.

Dean's rigid expression softened instantly. "Abuelita, how are you?" he replied, rising from his swivel chair and ambling over to a small refrigerator in the corner of his booth.

"Ahh, chiquito, I am healthy—so healthy, in fact, I just came back from a holiday in the Maldives with your tia. A marvelous trip, te lo juro," she chirped, her voice bright and full of mischief.

A soft chuckle escaped Dean as he retrieved a can of energy drink. "Sounds exciting," he said absentmindedly while closing the refrigerator door with his leg.

"Uh-huh! And I hope you're not at work again, mi vida. You must cut down on your workload. No mujer wants to marry a workaholic, obsessed with his job!" Abuelita scolded with playful exasperation.

Dean leaned forward, propping his phone on his shoulder while cracking open his drink. "I'm not in an office, Ma—I'm at the club," he explained, glancing at the large television screen displaying the live feeds of every private room.

"At the club, your work! It's the same thing, I tell you! I know you're cooped up somewhere, buried in files and deals. Work, work, work! Mi amor, you are not getting any younger. You need a family!" Her tone was a mix of stern reproach and loving insistence.

"Abuelita, I have you, Mami, Papi, and Tia. I have a family," Dean retorted defensively, though his smile betrayed his fondness for her relentless teasing. "Besides, who's going to handle my business if I'm not here? These men are like spoiled babies, always making a mess."

"Babies, huh?" she scoffed, and in the background, a soft ruffle of fabric and a distant, amused snort reached his ears. "You're the Mafia King, the most feared man in America and beyond. You can't be bothered by those small fries. Accept that you're controlling and obsessed with your work! Clean up their mess, indeed."

Dean laughed, a low, amused sound. "You're always right, Abuelita. Speaking of babies, I need a grandchild too. You know my birthday is next month—my glamorous seventy. You'd better see to it that I come home with a serious girl in tow this time."

"Ah, simple," she declared, her voice rising with excitement. "I want you to bring me a girl who isn't just another fleeting hookup. I know you youngsters do emotionless flings—don't think I don't know."

Dean's eyes wandered back to the CCTV screen, and his heart skipped a beat. On one of the feeds, the coffee girl he'd noticed earlier appeared in a private room. The tension in that room was palpable. He zoomed in on the footage, focusing intently.

"What do you want for your birthday, Abuelita?" he asked, his voice lowering as he continued to watch.

"Hmm! Simple, chiquito. I want you to come with a girl—a serious relationship. I know a fake when I see one, and I just need proof you have something going. And if you already have someone, which I highly doubt, bring her. Your abuela wants to meet her, simple as that."

Dean paused, caught off guard by his grandmother's candid assessment. "Consider it done, Abuelita," he promised.

"Oh, chiquito, my sweet. I knew you loved me after all…" Her words trailed off as something on the screen caught his eye.

On the monitor, the coffee girl was moving toward the door. But as she neared the exit, a group of men converged. One of them—a stubby, rough-looking fellow—swiftly intercepted her. Dean leaned closer, his focus sharpening.

"Hey, get off her!" a muffled voice sounded from the room, but Dean could barely make out the details through the grainy footage. Instead, he saw the coffee girl drop her bag on the floor, and a couple of men rummaged through it. Their laughter—harsh and mocking—filled the frame.

Dean's grip on his energy drink tightened. "What the hell…?" he muttered under his breath. His mind raced as his Abuelita's chatter faded into the background. He watched as a stubby man approached the coffee girl. In one swift, brutal motion, the man grabbed her jaw and delivered a heavy slap. The sight made Dean's blood boil.

"Abuelita, I've got an urgent situation," he said abruptly, his tone shifting from playful to steely. "I need to call you back, okay?"

"Better be quick, chiquito," she replied, her voice softening with concern before the call ended.

Without a moment's hesitation, Dean sprang from his seat, tossing the empty can aside. He strode out of his booth, leaving behind the comfort of his surveillance screens. His mind was a whirl of indignation and protective fury—not only for the coffee girl, who was inexplicably linked to Pete Sky's team, but also because he couldn't tolerate the abuse of someone he'd come to respect.

As he navigated the inner court and descended into the outer hall, Dean's pace quickened with purpose. The private room number from the footage burned in his mind. He reached the heavy door and could already hear the muffled cries and desperate pleas emanating from within. Anger flared in his chest, mingling with a sense of responsibility.

"Enough is enough," he growled to himself. With a powerful kick—a reminder of his rigorous military training—the door burst open.

Inside, chaos reigned. The room was dimly lit, and amidst the swirling haze of smoke and staccato music, a figure writhed. The coffee girl, her eyes wild and face streaked with tears, was in the midst of a violent struggle. Her dress was torn away, and the stubby man's grip was all too evident as he sneered down at her.

"Let her go!" Dean roared, storming into the room.

The man's eyes met Dean's, and for a split second, time seemed to freeze. "Who the hell—" he began, but was cut off by Dean's low, commanding tone.

"Don't even think about it," Dean snapped, stepping forward. "This ends now."

The room fell silent for a heartbeat as the perpetrator hesitated. Then, with a final sneer, the man spat, "You don't know who you're messing with, Dean."

Dean's eyes flashed with red-hot anger. "I know exactly who you are," he replied coolly, his voice laced with menace. "And I know exactly what you're going to do if you don't back off."

The coffee girl whimpered, "Please… help me," her voice trembling.

"Don't worry," Dean said, softening just a touch as he knelt beside her. "You're safe now." He reached out, helping her stand, his tone both firm and reassuring.

From the far corner of the room, the stubby man grumbled, "This isn't over, Dean," as he backed away slowly with his cohorts.

Dean's gaze hardened, and he barked, "I said, enough! Now, get out of my sight."

As the men retreated into the shadows, the coffee girl looked up at him with watery eyes. "Th-thank you," she stammered.

Dean's reply was steady and resolute. "Don't thank me yet. Stay here until you're safe, and then we're going to make sure this never happens again."

A tense silence filled the room, punctuated only by the fading echoes of the departing thugs. Finally, as if compelled by some unspoken understanding, the coffee girl whispered, "I—I'm scared."

Dean's eyes softened just enough to betray his concern. "Listen," he said firmly, "no one will hurt you while I'm around. Now, tell me—what happened here?"

Before she could answer, a low voice from behind broke in. "Dean, you shouldn't have interfered," someone snarled, but it was too late. Dean's stance was unyielding, his protective anger blazing.

The intruder's words faded as the room filled with the sound of the coffee girl's soft, quivering plea and Dean's determined reply. "I'm here, and I'm not letting you get away with this. You have one chance to leave—now."

"Get out," Dean repeated, his voice echoing like a final verdict.

In that charged moment, the dialogue between protector and victim, aggressor and avenger, reverberated in the room. The coffee girl's trembling, "Please… help me," met Dean's resolute, "You're safe now. I won't let them hurt you," sealing the fate of the night.

As the door creaked in the aftermath, the room held its breath—awaiting the next words that would decide the course of a broken world. "Dean, thank you," the coffee girl whispered once more, and in that final exchange, Dean's eyes burned with a promise: "I'll make sure justice is served."