Page 10 of Bound to the Enforcer

"It never is," I mutter, motioning for Sophia to stay close as we walk through the entrance.

The interior of the warehouse is exactly what I expected—dim, grimy, and reeking of rust and oil. The flickering overhead lights cast long shadows across the crates and chains lining the walls. The faint metallic scent of blood hangs in the air, enough to make anyone's stomach turn, but I am used to the scent of death.

Sophia's steps falter as we move deeper into the space. Her eyes dart around, taking in the scene. It's clear this isn't a world she's used to, no matter how much she tries to pretend otherwise. Her body is rigid, and her face, once filled with color, is now paling.

This is a terrible idea. I knew it had been a bad idea before we left the mansion, and now that I am looking at her face, my initial guess is proven correct.

"Still think you can stomach this, princess?"

She doesn't speak. She just stares straight ahead, taking in what is in front of her.

I watch her carefully. "Reality."

In the center of the room, a man sits bound to a chair, his head slumped forward. Blood streaks his face and shirt, and his breathing is shallow but steady. Two of my men stand on either side of him, their stances rigid, their expressions unreadable.

"I see. So what? We are going to kill him or…" Sophia asks in a softer tone than I am used to.

This is a mistake. She isn't ready for this, and I had been overzealous to think that she was. Letting her stay here and witness what I am about to do will break her psyche. I need to ease her into this world. Not throw her in head first and hope she swims.

"Right, you're heading home." I come to a resolution and turn to face her fully. "You don't belong here."

The initial hesitance melts from her face, and irritation takes form on her features. Her jaw tightens, but she doesn't back down. "Maybe I don't, but that doesn't mean I'm leaving."

"You're not staying." I motion to Matteo, who has been silently following behind us. "Take her back to the estate."

Sophia's expression hardens, her defiance flaring brighter. "You don't get to decide?—"

"I do," I growl, stepping closer to her.

She opens her mouth to argue, but Matteo steps in, his hand firm yet careful on her arm. "Let's go, Sophia," he says softly.

Her fiery heat burns into mine as Matteo leads her toward the exit. There's no mistaking the anger in her eyes, but beneath it, there's something else—worry, maybe even fear. I watch until the door closes behind them, then turn back to the room and the man tied to the chair.

"Time to work," I mutter to myself and remove that woman from my mind. With what I'm about to do, I will need to tap into a darkness that no person should ever see—least of all her. I want to keep her uncorrupted for as long as possible.

The room falls into a heavy silence as I step closer to the informant, my boots scuffing against the concrete floor. He doesn't lift his head, but his shallow, ragged breaths echo off the warehouse walls. One of my men leans in, nudging him upright,and the man groans weakly. His face is a mess of blood and sweat, his eyes barely able to focus.

"I don't have all night," I say, my tone low but sharp enough to cut through the haze of pain surrounding him. "Start talking."

The man coughs, flecks of red staining his lips. "I... I don't know... what you're talking about." He quivers, but there's a faint trace of defiance—a spark he's clinging to, however foolishly.

I glance at my men, giving them a brief nod. One of them steps forward, delivering a calculated strike to the man's already bruised ribs. He howls, the sound echoing like a warning across the walls.

"I won't ask again," I say, crouching in front of him, my face level with his. "Domenico, I know that he has something to do with Trevor. His plans. His alliances. Start talking, or I will make this very unpleasant."

The man wheezes, his eyes darting around as if searching for an escape. "He's... he's building something big," he finally gasps out. "Expanding the network. But I swear, I don't know the details."

I stand, keeping my expression impassive. Lies are easy to sniff out, and fear makes men predictable. "Who's helping him?"

"I don't know?—"

Another strike cuts off his protest, and this time, he slumps forward, barely conscious. My patience wears thin, but I know there's a limit to how much he'll give me before he shuts down completely.

"Names," I demand. "And don't make me repeat myself."

He swallows hard, his breath hitching. "Domenico is… is into some nasty shit. The kind of shit that goes against everything the outfit stands for. If you get what I mean. There's a shipment... coming through the port next week. He's... using it to make connections with someone outside the families. That's all I know, I swear."

I glance at my men, who nod in silent confirmation—they've heard enough. As I step back, the informant sags against the chair, his body slack with relief.

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