C-10

"Sorry, boss," Pete Sky said, his voice low as he tore his eyes away from the woman lying on the cot.

"Better," Dean grunted, his tone clipped as he surveyed the room. "The doctor's on his way to check her out, and she's staying here until everything settles."

Pete Sky shifted uncomfortably. "What exactly did you do?" he pressed, as if expecting details he hadn't heard before.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "You didn't catch anything I said earlier?" he snapped. For anyone else, he might have lost his temper—but not Pete Sky. They'd been through hell together, and though Dean didn't trust anyone completely, he trusted Pete Sky enough to speak plainly.

"I shot Jake myself," Dean repeated, the words heavy in the stale air. Pete Sky's eyes widened, mirroring the shock of a saucepan left on high heat.

"That's heavy. You couldn't have forgiven him just one last time?" Pete Sky ventured as they reached the quiet confines of Dean's office. Dean pivoted sharply, closing the distance between them until Pete Sky's back hit the wall.

"In the past two weeks, I've had rape allegations against Jake—every single one true," Dean spat, his voice rising with fury. "The first victim even died in the hospital. They were escorts—paid whores, maybe—but they're human. They didn't deserve to be raped and savagely carved with a knife." His words cut through the silence, a raw indictment of Jake's brutality.

Dean's eyes hardened as he continued, "Today, I caught him with someone I'm not supposed to. Someone who belongs to me. You heard right—the girl in my room is mine!" He slammed his fist into the wall behind Pete Sky, who remained as stoic as ever—perhaps because he knew Dean would never truly harm him. There was a strange mix of love and loathing in that unyielding loyalty.

"What's our next move?" Pete Sky asked after a long, heavy pause.

Dean sank back into his chair, his voice low and measured as he said, "Baal should have gotten the news by now. He's already planning an attack—probably on Sterling Corp, our biggest shareholder." He paused to steady his thoughts, his eyes dark with inner turmoil. "But someone like him won't stop at Sterling. He'll come after me personally."

Pete Sky leaned forward. "And when he does—?"

"We'll be ready," Dean interjected, nodding slowly. His respect for Pete Sky grew as the subordinate's calm presence reassured him in the midst of chaos. "I'll go check on Sterling, get a bearing on what's coming, and then I'll get back to you."

"Pete Sky," Dean called, and the man turned.

"Thank you," Pete Sky replied softly, a small chuckle escaping him as he headed out. Without waiting for more, Pete Sky departed the office, leaving Dean alone with his turbulent thoughts. Dean rested his head on the back of his chair for a moment. He despised being in this position—living and breathing chaos was his reality, but the fact that he'd started it all weighed on him.

His hands moved to his face, rubbing the tension away, and as his fingertips brushed his lips, his thoughts turned dark. He remembered her soft, pink, plump lips on his—a taste so sweet it should have been forbidden. He groaned, raking his fingers through his hair. "She should be arrested for tasting so sweet," he muttered bitterly under his breath.

Dean reached beneath his desk and produced his favorite candy from the secret compartment. Unwrapping one, he tossed it into his mouth and closed his eyes, savoring the sweetness—a small comfort in a world of bitter regrets. Next, he retrieved a small box. With a heavy sigh, he opened it to reveal a delicate necklace adorned with diamond petals. The sight of it brought a pang to his chest.

He didn't know if he'd ever see her again. The memories of her were fading, piece by piece, like pages of an old book worn by time. Soon, she'd be nothing more than a fleeting encounter—a momentary distraction that, for a few precious hours, had meant more than he cared to admit. With a resigned sigh, Dean carefully closed the box and returned it to its hiding place. He knew he'd never have the chance to return the necklace to her.

Lost in these dark thoughts, Dean was startled by the shrill ringing of his phone. He rose, moving toward the door, when the display made him smirk darkly. He answered silently, letting the quiet tension fill the gap between words.

"An eye for an eye, isn't it, Dean?" came a voice laced with anger—a voice unmistakably belonging to Baal.

Dean snorted at the attempt to rattle him. "Yes," he replied curtly, "an eye for an eye." He repeated the mantra under his breath as if it were a shield.

"You will rue this day, Dean. The hands you used to shoot my son dead—you'll use those same arms to shoot yourself in the head," Baal threatened, his tone venomous.

A low chuckle escaped Dean. "Somebody must have lectured you on those lines, Baal."

"You know the dark kinks your son had—and not once did you check him. He deserved what he got, and I wished I'd tortured him more before his weak heart finally gave out," Baal continued, his words dripping with cruel satisfaction. "This is a mafia world—we don't fight gun with stick. We fight gun with gun and fist with fist. If you thought I'd see you cowering at my feet, you're mistaken. Bring on whatever you have."

"Did you just say you wished you tortured him more?" Dean's voice broke, tinged with incredulity.

"What?" Baal barked in reply before Dean could stop himself from speaking further.

Dean's pulse pounded as he realized the magnitude of their exchange. Words blurred, and for a moment, the room's cold silence pressed in on him.

Once he ended the call, Dean's mind returned to his responsibilities. He recalled the image of her—her face, soft even in anguish, lingering in his mind. He could not shake the memory of her taste, the way her presence had sparked something in him that he both craved and despised.

With a heavy heart, Dean rose from his desk. His hands still trembled as he steadied himself and reached for the door. Just then, his phone rang again. He hesitated before answering, opting for silence. The quiet worked to his advantage as he listened.

"Are you done taking care of the bodies?" he asked into the receiver. The reply was immediate and curt.

"There's one more for you," came the flat response.

"I'll be right there," Dean said, and before the call ended, he added, "Get the others ready for war."

As he ended the call, Dean's gaze hardened, taking in the room as if imprinting every detail. Killing a fellow mafia son carried consequences, but Dean had never feared the prospect of war. He'd faced blood and betrayal before, and he welcomed the challenge if his enemies dared to escalate.

Carrying the girl in his arms, Dean strode out of the building and into his sleek car. The drive to his mansion was a blur of dark thoughts and whispered regrets. Once there, he was met at the gate by his trusted subordinate, Pete Sky.

"What's going on, and why are we prepping for war?" Pete Sky asked, his tone laced with cautious concern.

"Jake is dead," Dean stated flatly as he carried the girl inside.

"Okay. The bastard got what was coming to him," Pete Sky replied, his words punctuated by a brief chuckle. Despite the grim news, Dean felt little remorse; the act was just another part of the brutal business they ran.

Inside the mansion, Dean brought the girl to his private room. Pete Sky's eyes lingered on her as Dean gently laid her on the bed and covered her with a soft blanket. "She's taken—back off," Dean snapped when he noticed Pete Sky's lingering gaze.

"By who?" Pete Sky asked, genuinely curious.

"By me," Dean growled, his possessiveness unmistakable. "She's mine, and no one else gets a say."

Pete Sky sighed and muttered, "It doesn't look like that, Boss."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "What does it look like?" he demanded, his tone seething with indignation. "You know exactly what I mean."

"Sorry, Boss," Pete Sky mumbled, quickly diverting his gaze from her delicate form.

Dean's mind raced as he considered the mounting tension. The world they inhabited was a brutal one—a place where power was measured by blood and loyalty, and every misstep carried a heavy price. He rose from his chair and paced for a moment before speaking, his voice low and dangerous.

"Today, I caught him with someone I'm not supposed to. That girl in my room… she's mine. And if anyone dares to cross that line, they'll face the consequences."

Pete Sky's voice was steady as he asked, "What's the next line of action?"

Dean's reply was curt. "Baal should have gotten the news by now. He's our biggest shareholder at Sterling Corp, and I wouldn't be surprised if he's planning an attack." He paused, his jaw clenching. "For someone like him, he won't stop at Sterling—he'll come for me."

Pete Sky stepped closer, his voice quiet yet firm. "And when he does—?"

"We'll be ready," Dean confirmed, his tone resolute as he nodded. "I'm going to check on Sterling and get a bearing on things. I'll get back to you."

"Alright, Boss," Pete Sky replied, turning to leave.

"Pete Sky," Dean called after him.

"Thank you," came the reply, accompanied by a soft chuckle. With that, Pete Sky departed, leaving Dean alone with his thoughts.

Dean slumped into his chair, rubbing his face wearily. The memory of her—her soft, pink lips—lingered in his mind. "She should be arrested for tasting so sweet," he muttered to himself, running his hands through his hair. In a moment of rare tenderness amid the chaos, he retrieved his favorite candy from the compartment under his desk, unwrapped one, and savored its sweetness as if it could remind him of her.

He then produced another small box—a necklace with diamond petals—and sighed deeply. "I don't know if I'll ever see her again," he thought, regret and longing mingling in his eyes. The memories of her were fading, becoming nothing more than fragments of a night that had meant everything. With a heavy heart, he returned the necklace to its place.

Just then, his phone rang once more. Dean smirked darkly as he answered in silence. The voice on the other end was unmistakable.

"An eye for an eye, isn't it, Dean?" Baal's voice was cold and laced with venom.

Dean snorted. "Yes. An eye for an eye," he repeated, his tone even as he clung to that mantra.

"You will rue this day, Dean. The hands that shot my son dead will soon have you begging for mercy," Baal threatened.

A chuckle escaped Dean. "Somebody must have lectured you those lines, Baal."

"You know the dark kinks your son had—never once did you keep him in check. He deserved every bit of punishment, and I wish I'd tortured him more before his weak heart gave up," Baal continued.

"What?" Dean blurted out before he could stop himself, his voice edged with defiance.

The call ended abruptly, leaving Dean alone in the silence of his thoughts. He shook his head, steeling himself against the oncoming storm.

Standing up, Dean took a deep breath as he prepared to check on the girl in his room. He walked out of his office, every step heavy with the promise of war and the burden of his dangerous obsession.

"Stay with me, and together we'll face whatever comes," he murmured as he reached the door, his final words echoing softly in the quiet corridor.

"Never," came the trembling reply from the darkness beyond—a whispered vow that set the stage for the war brewing in silence.