Shit. Why did he have to show up here? Why am I always the one dealing with my father's mess?
The moment I saw Izac walking toward me, I knew this night was about to go from bad to worse. His smirk was like a knife twisting in my gut, and I could feel the weight of his presence before he even spoke.
"It's been a long time, Marco. Where have you been hiding?" Izac said, his voice dripping with mockery.
I clenched my jaw, my fists tightening at my sides. "The fuck do you want from me? If you've got a problem, go deal with him. You know damn well I'm not part of his business."
Izac's smirk widened, and he gestured toward the door. "Let's take this outside. No need to make a scene in here."
I should've known better than to follow him. But I did. And I regretted it the moment his goons slammed me against the wall, their fists connecting with my ribs before I could even react.
"So, what were you saying? It's not your business, huh?" Izac's voice was cold, his words slicing through the pain like a blade.
"Pass this message to your father: if he doesn't back off from my clients, don't blame me for what I'll do next."
I spat blood onto the ground, my vision swimming. "How many times do I have to tell you? If you've got a problem with that man, take it up with him. I want no part of this."
Izac leaned in his breath hot against my ear. "Trying to look unbreakable, huh? Beat him again."
The blows came harder this time, each one driving the air from my lungs. I lost count of how many times I hit the ground, how many times I forced myself back up. And then, just when I thought it wouldn't end, Izac raised a hand, signaling his men to stop.
"I was nice this time," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "I let you live. But remember my words, asshole: there is no next time."
With that, he was gone, leaving me crumpled on the ground like a discarded piece of trash. I lay there, my body screaming in pain, my mind a haze of anger and frustration. Why did it always have to be like this? Why was I always the one paying for my father's sins?
I don't know how long I stayed there, but eventually, I heard footsteps. Light, hesitant. A pair of shoes came into view, girl's shoes. I tried to lift my head, but the movement sent a sharp pain through my skull. My vision blurred, but I could make out the faint outline of a figure kneeling beside me.
"Are you okay?" Her voice was soft, worried, and familiar, too familiar.
I nodded weakly, not trusting myself to speak. My pride screamed at me to push her away to tell her I didn't need help. But my body wasn't listening. I was too broken, too tired to fight.
"Let me help you," she said, her hands gentle as she helped me sit up. I wanted to protest, to tell her to leave me alone, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, I let her guide me, her touch steady and sure.
"I'm fine," I muttered, my voice hoarse. "I don't need help."
She didn't buy it for a second. "Are you waiting for someone else to come and punch you again? Stop playing the hard-to-get card. You're already in a messed-up situation, so just accept my help."
Her words shut me up. There was something about the way she said them, firm but not unkind, that made me listen. She helped me to my feet, her arm around my waist as she flagged down a taxi. I didn't resist. I couldn't.
The ride was a blur, I caught glimpses of her out of the corner of my eye, her dark hair, the way her dress caught the light, the faint scent of her perfume. It was sweet, intoxicating, and somehow calming. She made a call, her voice low as she spoke to someone, probably a friend. I didn't catch much of what she said, but her tone was reassuring.
When we arrived at her apartment, my brain short-circuited. Wait. How did I end up here? I looked at her, my confusion written all over my face. She must've noticed because she smiled, a small, knowing smile that made my chest tighten.
"Why are you so shocked? Am I that different from the last time you saw me?" she asked, her tone teasing but gentle.
I blinked, trying to process her words. The last time I'd seen her, she'd been in sweatpants and a messy bun, her face pale from stress and exhaustion. Now, she looked like she'd stepped out of a magazine, confident, radiant, and completely out of my league.
"Well," she continued, "the last time you saw me, I was a total mess. Exams, you know? This is more like my usual self. Anyway, come on. Let's get you inside."
She was still holding me, her grip firm but not uncomfortable. I wanted to protest, to tell her I could handle myself, but the truth was, I couldn't. Not right now, and for some reason, I didn't mind letting her take the lead.