In the following twenty-four hours, Alessandro's fury swept through every filthy back alley of the city like a silent plague. There were no large-scale shootouts, no gunfights that alarmed the police, only precise, efficient, and chillingly mysterious disappearances. His anger was not like molten lava, but rather liquid nitrogen below zero degrees—wherever it reached, all signs of life instantly froze, then shattered in silence.

The body of the thug whose neck was broken, along with his accomplice waiting in the car, were dissolved in barrels of strong acid before daybreak, without even a single hair left behind. And the so-called "boss" who gave the order, Marco, a smuggler of some repute in the dock area, had no time to regret his foolish provocation before the iron grip of vengeance had already seized his throat.


Alessandro did not kill him; death would have been too merciful. He had Marco's limbs broken, all his teeth pulled out, and then had him thrown naked like a piece of luggage at the entrance of his biggest competitor's casino. It was a living warning, a trophy that could breathe and moan, announcing to the entire underworld: not even a single hair of The Vitale Family's property should be touched.

That night, every boss in the city who had ever been associated with Marco received an exquisite black velvet box. Inside the box was neither a bomb nor a severed finger, but only a small card with a sentence written in elegant Italian calligraphy:

"Those who cross the line shall cease to exist."


Overnight, the name Alessandro Vitale transformed from a symbol of awe into a nightmare that could wake even the toughest men at midnight. Using the most classical yet cruel methods, he redefined the boundaries of this dark kingdom, and that blood-red border line happened to pass right in front of Isabella's small bookstore.

Yet, at the center of this storm, there was only deadly silence.


After being brought back to the estate, Isabella became like a puppet whose soul had been extracted. She locked herself in the luxurious bedroom prepared for her—as opulent as a princess suite—refusing the food and water brought by the maids, rejecting any form of communication. She curled up on the enormous bed, wrapping herself in blankets like a cocoon, trying to shut out all external light and sound.

But she could not shut out the echoes in her mind.

"Crack."

That crisp yet dull sound of breaking bone, like an endlessly looping curse, echoed in her ears again and again. Following that came the expression of terror instantly frozen on that man's face, and the light rapidly fading from his eyes. Then there was that pool of warm, sticky blood slowly spreading across the carpet at her feet. The metallic smell of blood seemed to have penetrated her skin, crept into her lungs, making each breath she took bring a wave of nauseating sickness.

She kept her eyes tightly shut, but that scene was clearer than ever before. Luca's expressionless face, Alessandro's order, cold and devoid of any warmth—"Erase his entire family from this city. Completely."

Erase them.

That word pierced through all her fantasies like an ice pick dipped in poison. This was not the power game she and Alessandro constructed with silk and leather in that private playroom. There, pain was controllable, fear was safe, and submission was voluntary. There were safe words, boundaries, and tender embraces after it ended.

But in the real world, there were none.

In the real world, human lives were as cheap as ants being stepped on. In the real world, Alessandro wasn't a Dom playing the role of a tyrant; he was an actual tyrant, a devil with hands stained with blood who maintained his absolute authority through others' fear and lives.

She sat up abruptly from her bed, rushed to the bathroom, and leaned over the cold toilet bowl, violently retching until only bitter bile remained in her stomach. She raised her head and looked at the woman in the mirror with a pale face, unfocused eyes, and disheveled hair, feeling utterly unfamiliar.

Who was she? Isabella Thorne, a quiet bookstore owner, a romantic who believed in love and beauty? No, that Isabella was already dead. Dead from her ex-boyfriend's comment that "you're boring," dead from the suffocating feeling of day after day of mediocre life.

It was she herself who had pushed open the gates of hell with her own hands. To escape that "beige" life, to experience the ultimate passion and adventure, she was like a gambler, staking her soul on the roulette wheel, and the pointer ultimately landed on the black that represented destruction. She longed to be "seen" by someone powerful, longed to be affirmed and cherished by him. Now, she was seen, in a way she had never imagined—she had become a trophy in his kingdom that needed to be wiped clean and properly stored.

An immense fear seized her. This time, it was no longer that trembling mixed with excitement and anticipation, but the most primal, instinctive fear of a predator. She feared Alexander-dro. Feared those eyes that could see through everything, feared that power which could easily decide others' life and death, and even more, she feared that body which had once made her sink into depravity but now made her feel utterly filthy.

She scrubbed her skin frantically, as if trying to wash away all the marks he had left on her body. His kisses, his caresses, the feeling when he entered her body... Every moment that once made her feel ecstatic now turned into the most filthy memories, making her feel disgusted and ashamed.

How could she have thought it was beautiful? How could she have been addicted to a devil who killed without blinking an eye?

"No... no..." She slid down against the cold wall to the floor, hugging her knees, sobbing helplessly like a lost child. She finally understood that what she had been seeking wasn't excitement, but self-destruction. She had stepped into an abyss that she simply couldn't bear, and now, the abyss had begun to gaze back at her, ready to devour her completely.

Late that night, when Alessandro had finished dealing with all matters, still carrying the chill of the outside world and the lingering scent of blood, he came to Isabella's door.

The entire manor was terrifyingly quiet. He knew she had locked herself inside, not having a drop of water all day. An emotion he had never experienced before was restlessly colliding within his chest. He wasn't accustomed to this feeling of losing control. Everything should be under his control, including her. She should be waiting for his arrival as usual, with a touch of fear and anticipation, rather than shutting him out with a door like now.

He raised his hand and knocked on the door. The heavy oak door produced two muffled sounds.

"Isabella."

His voice wasn't loud, but it sounded particularly clear in the silent hallway.

There was no response from the room.

He could feel her just behind the door. Her breathing, her heartbeat, her fear like that of a startled bird, all seemed to penetrate through the heavy door panel, transmitting onto his skin.

"Open the door." His tone carried an undeniable command. This was his habitual way, using absolute authority to crush all obstacles.

Yet, inside the door remained complete silence.

Alessandro's brows furrowed tightly. He could easily have his bodyguards smash this door to pieces, but he didn't. He knew that would only push her further away. Physical possession was so easy, but at this moment, he discovered that what he wanted seemed to be far beyond that.

This was an unfamiliar feeling of powerlessness that made him extremely displeased. He could wipe out an entire family, could intimidate the entire underworld, yet he couldn't make an unarmed woman open a door for him.

For the first time, because of a woman, Alessandro Vitale felt helpless and irritated.

He pressed his palm against the cold door, as if trying to sense her presence through this gesture.

"Isabella," his voice lowered, shedding its commanding hardness, revealing a hint of what could be called... pleading... that even he himself had not noticed, "open the door. We need to talk."

The answer he received was still silence. A stubborn, fearful, yet absolutely determined silence.

Alessandro stood outside the door, his tall figure casting a long shadow in the dim light of the corridor. For the first time, an expression resembling defeat appeared on his face, which was as perfect as a sculpture of a deity. He realized that although the bullet aimed at her in the bookstore had been blocked by Luca, another invisible bullet had precisely struck and completely shattered the fragile and dangerous bond between them.