The courtyard reeked of metal and silence.
Two minutes after the attack, Team A arrived—black vehicles screeching to a halt, boots pounding pavement. Guns were drawn, eyes locked, formation tight.
Fucking two minutes!
Too late.
Ales was already standing over the body.
Covered in blood.
Blade wound still seeping down his side.
He didn't even flinch.
"Shit," muttered Elena, the tactical medic of the group. "You're bleeding bad."
"Leave it," Ales growled.
"You need a hospital," she snapped, already reaching for his arm.
But before she could guide him, her earpiece crackled.
"Escort the client. Priority Alpha."
Elena turned to Celeste, who stood beside the fountain with a look that wasn't concern—just anger masked by pride.
"Miss De Rossi," she said, "we'll take you back to the estate immediately. Agent Voss can be seen separately."
Celeste tilted her head, cold amusement tugging at her mouth.
"I'm hurt," she said flatly.
Elena blinked. "You're not injured—"
"I said I'm hurt," Celeste repeated, louder this time. "Take me to the hospital. Now."
A beat of stunned silence.
Then Ales met her eyes.
She held the stare.
Not with care.
Not with concern.
With command.
And maybe something else.
Something darker.
The car ride to the hospital was suffocating.
Celeste sat with her arms crossed, jaw tight.
Ales leaned against the opposite window, blood soaking through the bandages Elena had slapped on in the car. He hadn't said a word.
Neither had she.
She just watched him.
The way his fingers gripped the seat like he was holding himself upright through sheer will.
The way his veins pulsed along his arms—exposed from the rolled-up sleeves and sticky with blood.
And worst of all?
The way he didn't so much as look at her.
Like she didn't matter.
Like taking a knife for her hadn't even made the day worth noting.
Her nails dug into her palms.
The hospital room was cold, clean, sterile.
Ales sat shirtless on the steel table, muscles tensed, eyes locked straight ahead as doctor stitched him up. No anesthesia. No sound. Not even a twitch.
The needle pierced skin again and again.
Blood pooled along his ribs.
The team stood outside the glass door—watching, half in awe, half in unease.
Only Celeste was inside.
Leaning against the wall like she owned the place.
Watching.
Saying nothing.
Doctor wiped away the blood and pulled the last stitch tight.
"He'll live," she said, muttering. "Psychopath."
She packed her gear and left—muttering curses under her breath.
Now it was just the two of them.
Silence.
Then—
"You're very dramatic, you know that?" Celeste said, voice light but venom-laced.
Ales didn't respond.
He just reached for the black shirt folded beside him and started slipping it over stitched flesh like it didn't hurt.
Celeste pushed off the wall and walked over, slow, calculated.
She stopped just in front of him, eyes flicking over the stitched wound.
"I said you didn't have to bleed for me," she muttered.
"And I said I wasn't bleeding for you," he replied.
His tone didn't rise. Didn't falter.
Just ice.
Flat.
Final.
She tilted her head, mocking now. "I wonder, soldier boy… do you even feel pain?"
His eyes locked onto hers. "Only when I waste time with people who think they're gods."
For a moment, the air between them thickened.
Not heat.
Pressure.
Two egos, two knives, pressed tip to tip.
Celeste smiled.
But there was no softness in it.
"Keep talking like that," she whispered, stepping back. "And I'll make you wish that knife had gone deeper."
"Next time," he said, pulling his shirt over the stitched wound, "aim better."
She laughed as she walked out.
And for the first time since the blade entered him, Ales smiled too.
But it wasn't joy.
It was war.
The ride back to the De Rossi estate was silent.
Not the kind of silence that comes from peace—but the kind that coils, waiting to strike.
Celeste sat like royalty draped in disdain. She didn't speak to Ales. Didn't look at him. Her lips were a tight, bitter line. The stain of humiliation still clung to her like perfume—the mafia princess escorted out under emergency lights, surrounded by security. She hated it.
And Ales?
He was stone.
Bandaged. Stitched. Still bleeding beneath the black shirt.
Still silent.
Still expecting what came next.
The gates shut behind them with a mechanical growl.
Team A was dismissed without a word.
Celeste walked off without glancing back.
And Ales—he was led away.
Not by guards.
By order.
The chamber Vito used for punishment wasn't on any blueprint.
No cameras.
No questions.
No limits.
It was underground—cool, echoing, reeking of blood, oil, and discipline.
Ales stood bare from the waist up. Hands bound above his head by thick iron cuffs chained to a steel beam. His stitched wound burned beneath the strain—but he didn't flinch.
Vito De Rossi stood behind him.
Leather strap in hand.
Not a whip.
A strap—thick, flat, brutal.
Silent punishment.
The kind that didn't scream. Just broke.
"You were ordered to protect her," Vito said, voice quiet but razor-edged.
"I did," Ales replied, low.
"You bled. She was exposed. You brought her to a public hospital. Cameras. Witnesses. Weakness."
There was no time to explain. No space to defend. Not here.
"I accept the consequences."
Vito's eyes gleamed.
"Fifty. You won't scream. If you do—you're done."
Then came the first strike.
CRACK.
It landed diagonally across his back, opening flesh over old scars and fresh stitches.
He didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Second strike.
Third.
Each lash landed like a thunderclap.
By the tenth, blood had begun to mix with sweat.
By the twentieth, his legs trembled—but only barely.
No scream. No sound. Just the metal creak of his chains and the relentless rhythm of punishment.
By thirty-five, the air stank of iron and heat.
At forty-three, the stitched wound tore open again—fresh blood soaking through.
At forty-nine, he bit down on his tongue hard enough to draw blood.
Fifty.
Vito stood behind him, chest heaving.
"You disobey again," he said, throwing the strap aside, "next time it's your tongue."
Ales nodded once.
The cuffs unlatched.
His body slumped forward—but he didn't fall.
He stood.
Back ripped open. Blood trailing down his spine. Shirt forgotten on the stone floor.
And he walked out.
Alone.
Upstairs, Celeste watched from her bedroom window.
She hadn't asked for it.
But she hadn't stopped it either.
She saw him stumble across the back courtyard toward his quarters, blood darkening his back like a shadow dragging him down.
And she felt...
Nothing.
Not guilt.
Not pity.
Just one, cold, twisted thought:
"Let's see how many lashes it takes before he finally breaks."