The door didn't open—it exploded inward.
Elias stormed into the grimy compound like a goddamn hurricane, still in his stained bartender uniform, sweat drying on his neck, fury in every line of his body. The fluorescent lights above flickered as if even the electricity was too scared to stay steady in his presence.
Three men lounging by the entrance barely had time to register the sound before Elias slammed a crowbar from the hallway into the first one's face. The crack echoed like thunder.
"WHO THE FUCK—" the second one shouted, but Elias was already there, spinning low, shoulder crashing into his ribs and sending him toppling into a table.
The third drew a knife—too slow. Elias grabbed the broken leg of a stool and brought it down on his wrist, then again. Bones crunched. He screamed.
More men came running.
Elias didn't hesitate.
Fists flew. Blood sprayed. A blade slashed across his shoulder. He didn't flinch—just roared like an animal, slamming the attacker into the wall so hard the plaster cracked.
One grabbed him from behind. Elias threw his head back, heard the satisfying crunch of a nose. He turned and drove his elbow into the guy's jaw. Someone else kicked him in the ribs—Elias stumbled, spit blood, and kept going.
Bruises bloomed along his jaw, his lip split and painted his chin red, his knuckles raw and pulsing with fire. But the rage kept him moving.
He wasn't here to make a point.
He was here to make a promise.
Down the hallway, through the chaos—there he was.
Lucio.
Sitting behind his desk like a smug rat in a gold cage, flanked by two suited thugs. Cigar smoke curling lazily into the air.
Elias locked eyes with him.
Lucio smirked. "You've got some nerve—"
But then the bodyguards raised their guns.
Elias dove.
BANG!
The bullet scraped the wall behind him as Elias rolled behind a tipped-over metal shelf. One of the goons advanced—Elias grabbed a piece of pipe from the floor and swung. It connected with the man's shin, sending him down with a howl.
The other fired again—missed.
Elias rushed him, tackling him straight into the desk. The gun skittered across the floor.
A knee to the stomach. A punch to the neck. Then the guy was out.
Lucio stood now—backing away slowly.
"You—you crazy fuck—"
Elias turned to him, panting, bloodied, half-wild.
"You call this your protection?" Elias spat blood onto the floor. "They can't fight for shit."
Lucio's hands went up, trembling.
"I told you," Elias growled, stalking forward, grabbing the man by his collar and yanking him forward until their faces were inches apart. "I told you not to touch them. Especially my sister, you son of a bitch."
"I—it was just business—!"
Elias slammed him against the wall.
"You want your money? HERE IT IS!"
He yanked out his phone, opened his account, and with bloodied fingers, sent the full amount—plus interest—into Lucio's account.
Ping.
Lucio's phone chimed.
"There," Elias snarled. "Now we're even."
He shoved Lucio hard. The man stumbled backward, fell into the chair behind him like a broken puppet.
"But if you ever go near my family again," Elias continued, voice like steel over fire, "I won't stop at bruises."
His eyes gleamed like a blade drawn slow.
"I'll break your fucking legs. And then I'll come back for your spine."
Lucio's mouth opened—but no sound came out.
Elias turned.
The whole room was groaning. Bodies littered the floor. Blood dripped in slow, lazy drops onto the tile.
He stepped over one groaning thug—literally stepped on his hand. Bones cracked beneath his boot.
The man howled.
Elias didn't even look back.
The doors slammed behind him.
And the entire building, for a moment, was silent. Like it had just been visited by a storm that didn't care who it broke—as long as it never came back.
The room was soaked in dim, sensual lighting—a sanctuary dressed in velvet shadows and hushed danger. It was more than just a bedroom; it was a stage, and Riven, as always, was the star. A cathedral of decadence and discipline. Every inch spoke of violence wrapped in elegance: antique sabers crossed above the fireplace, abstract oil paintings that bled emotion, and bookshelves lined with rare volumes bound in leather and silence. Cold steel glinted behind glass cases, each weapon more exquisite and deadly than the last.
The velvet-draped windows framed a garden shrouded in moonlight, but it was the fire that ruled the night—crackling softly in its hearth, casting flickers of gold across the black marble floors like silent applause. The scent of aged wine, cedarwood, and faint tobacco hung in the air like a whispered promise.
In the center of it all, lounging like a crowned predator, Riven reclined on a midnight-blue leather chaise. A silk robe clung lazily to his frame, open just enough to reveal the faint tattoo slithering over his collarbone and the lithe muscle beneath. In one hand, he cradled a long-stemmed crystal wine glass. He sipped, slow and deep, letting the vintage coat his tongue with its complexity. He didn't need the label—he could taste the region, the soil, the blood of the harvest. Every note sang.
Then—a knock.
He didn't flinch. Didn't even glance at the door. He simply tilted his chin, voice low and honeyed with steel.
"Come in."
The door opened with a gentle click. In stepped Gallo.
Tall, birdlike, and impeccably dressed in his signature black trench, Gallo carried an air of silence with him. His face was pale, sharp, and deliberate, like something carved out of stone and ink. He held a sleek tablet under one arm, but his eyes drifted first to the untouched meal set by the low table—steamed oysters, herbed risotto, and a roast so tender it practically sighed.
Riven hadn't touched a bite.
"What did you find about him?" Riven asked. The question was soft, but it moved like a knife through silk.
Gallo stepped forward, flipping open the tablet. "His name is Elias Lewandowski."
Riven turned his head slightly at last, eyes narrowing as if the name itself had weight.
"Polish-born. Warsaw. Parents both deceased. Car crash. Thirteen years ago. Elias was eleven. Has a younger sister—Mathias. They were relocated here to Italy. Rome, specifically. Taken in by their uncle, Giovanni. Works out of a shabby auto-repair shop in the industrial district. Keeps to himself. The family's in debt. Deep."
Riven's fingers drummed lightly against the wine glass, his mind already moving faster than Gallo's tongue.
"And Elias?"
"Underground boxer. Started at sixteen. Fights under the alias Ghost. Raw talent. Fights clean when he can, but isn't afraid to get dirty. Brutal fists. Even more brutal reputation. No sponsors. No affiliations. Strictly independent."
"Why?"
"Pride. Or stubbornness. Maybe both. Doesn't fight for glory. Just money. Most of it goes to medical bills, school fees for his sister, and loan sharks." Gallo paused. "Which brings us to tonight."
Riven's eyes lifted.
"Lucio. Debt enforcer. Ruthless. He and his men paid a visit to Elias's home. Beat the uncle bloody. Left a bruise on the sister."
The wine glass paused mid-air.
"Elias showed up at Lucio's compound. Still wearing his bartender uniform. No backup. No warning. Just walked in like a storm. Beat up at least eight men before reaching Lucio himself. Paid the debt. Left the room in pieces."
A silence fell.
Then—Riven laughed.
Not a snort. Not a chuckle. A full-bodied, cold, delighted laugh. It bounced off the walls and echoed in the corners of the room.
"In his uniform?"
"Yes, sir."
"Incredible."
Gallo cleared his throat. "There's more. The men who attacked you at Club Lux—they weren't rivals. They were hired. Anonymous account. Blockchain scrubbed. Extremely clean. Too clean. We caught one alive. Before we could question him… he was shot. Silenced sniper round. Professional."
Riven's amusement dissolved into something colder. He rose slowly, robe slipping off his shoulders, revealing a loose black shirt tucked into leather pants that glistened in the dim light like oil on water. He walked to the tall window, wine in hand, staring out over the glittering sprawl of the city.
"So someone hired mercs to hit me. Then erased their own men. And he just happened to be there."
Gallo hesitated. "You think it was planned?"
"No," Riven murmured. "I think it was fate."
He turned around, a dangerous smile blooming across his lips.
"And I told my father I found my bodyguard."
Gallo blinked. "You were serious about that?"
Riven raised his glass in a mock toast.
"Deadly."
The fire cracked behind him, casting a halo around his form.
"Find him. Watch him. Don't touch. Not yet. I want to see what happens when I step into his ring."
And with that, Riven drank—the wine darker than blood, his smile sharper than any blade on his wall.
The apartment was small — not run-down, but lived in. Worn leather couches patched over the years, wooden floorboards that creaked like old friends. A faint scent of lavender oil and old books lingered in the corners. There was a softness to everything, a fragile peace held together by time, memory, and love. Despite the silence that had settled since Elias left like a storm on wheels, the place felt like home.
And then—
The door creaked open.
Elias stepped inside, the dim hallway light catching on the blood smeared across his bartender uniform. His sleeves were torn, shirt clinging to him with sweat and dried dirt. His knuckles were red and cracked, hands trembling slightly from the strain of the fight. A split lip, a purple bruise forming beneath one eye, and a gash above his brow completed the picture.
Before he could even call out—
"Elias!!"
Mathias, his younger sister, came running barefoot from the living room. Her oversized hoodie trailed behind her, sleeves flapping like wings. Her eyes widened with horror and worry the second she saw him.
"Brother, are you okay?!"
She wrapped her arms around his waist before he could respond, hugging him tightly, trying to feel if he was still whole.
Elias exhaled, resting his hand on her head, ruffling her curls gently despite the sharp pain shooting through his ribs.
"I'm fine," he said softly. "It's nothing I couldn't handle."
Mathias pulled back, teary-eyed, and without another word sprinted to the hallway cabinet. "Sit down! I'll get the first aid box. You're gonna get blood all over the couch, idiot!"
He chuckled, wincing at the pain it stirred. He slumped down onto the couch like a man who had wrestled with hell and barely limped back. The old leather squeaked beneath him.
Uncle Giovanni stepped into view from the hallway. He looked older somehow — slouched, greying, eyes hollow. He leaned against the wall, eyes scanning Elias like he was afraid of what he'd find.
"Elias... my son... what did you do?"
Elias glanced at him. His voice, though low, held a weight that made the air feel heavier.
"Don't worry, Uncle. From now on... there are no debts."
He looked down at his own bruised hands, then back up.
"Let's just focus on ourselves now. On you. On Mathias. On your health."
Mathias returned with the first aid kit, kneeling beside him like she'd done it a hundred times. Her hands were steady now as she began cleaning his wounds, cotton soaked in antiseptic.
Giovanni took a shaky step forward, voice cracking.
"I'm sorry, Elias. I'm so sorry. I dragged you into this mess. I thought I could fix it myself. I thought maybe one more win, one more lucky night... but I made it worse."
Elias didn't look at him at first. He stared at the ceiling, teeth clenched as Mathias touched a raw cut.
"No, Uncle. You did what you had to do. You kept us together. You fed us. You gave us a roof when nobody else would."
He finally turned to face Giovanni.
"If anyone should be sorry, it's me — for not stepping in sooner."
Mathias hissed quietly as she pressed alcohol to a particularly nasty gash.
"God, Mathias. Are you trying to murder me now?"
"Shut up and sit still, drama queen," she said with a huff, though her hand softened.
Giovanni rubbed his temples.
"I'll stop gambling. I swear. From tonight. I'll change. You shouldn't be the one bleeding to clean up my messes."
Elias grabbed a fresh bandage, holding it to his ribs.
"If I have to work three jobs... if I have to fight every night in an underground pit with nothing but duct tape and adrenaline, I'll do it. But you and Mathias? No more worrying. No more running."
Mathias hesitated. She looked at both of them, then finally spoke.
"Brother... school starts next week. Tuition still isn't paid. I didn't want to say anything before. You're already doing too much. I thought... maybe I could quit school. Learn a trade. Help out."
Elias shot up a hand.
"No."
Mathias blinked.
"You're staying in school. Some kids never get that chance. You do. You're smart, Mathias. Way smarter than me. Don't throw it away."
"But—"
"No buts."
She smiled faintly, brushing her hair behind her ear.
"Okay, brother."
Elias leaned his head back, finally allowing himself to breathe. He turned to look at Giovanni, who was already drifting toward sleep, eyelids heavy.
"Uncle, you look dead on your feet. Go to bed. We'll handle the rest."
Giovanni gave a slow nod and disappeared into his room.
Mathias began packing the first aid supplies.
"Anyway..."
Elias stretched with a dramatic groan, wincing but grinning.
"Is there food in this house, or am I gonna pass out like some tragic anime protagonist?"
Mathias giggled.
"Of course there is. I made lasagna."
Elias grinned wider.
"You're my favorite sibling."
"I'm your only sibling."
"Exactly."
And for the first time in days, the apartment felt a little more like home again.