❝𝑳𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝑶𝒃𝒔𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏, 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒐𝒃𝒔𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆.❞
In the blink of an eye, she became my obsession, a dazzling enchantress I couldn't resist. From that very moment, I swore to make her mine. Even if it meant faking m...
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One Year Later | New York
The air was thick with smoke, gunpowder, and blood.
Glass crunched beneath my boots as I stepped over shattered crates and broken chains. Another one of Bianco dens reeked of rot and cruelty-filthy mattresses, rusted locks, and the desperate silence of those who'd been voiceless for too long. What happened here?
My men moved with precision around me, clearing the last rooms, securing the exits. All the women and girls were already rescued. Men beaten by those fuckers were also rescued. All that was left, chaos.
And in the middle of it all, my eyes moved to a small figure, in the farthest, darkest corner.
A child.
Curled up near a pillar, his clothes tattered, his skin bruised and too pale. No older than five. Too small. Too silent. Unmoving amidst the chaos. He didn't flinch when more of my men burst through the door. Didn't cry when they cleared the space around him. Just watching. His large, hollow eyes were too vacant for a boy his age.
I was supposed to lead the final raid tonight-gather intel, retrieve hostages, dismantle what remained of the trafficking wing we had been tracking for months before I go back to my Precious.
My men swept the place with precision. But something made me stop. Something pulled me back to that corner.
Him.
I should've walked away. Let protocol handle him.
But I didn't.
I couldn't.
Something made me stop. Something made me walk to him.
I crouched. Held out my arms, reaching out for him.
And he let me pick him up.
He didn't hold on.
But he didn't resist either.
His tiny body was limp as I lifted him into my arms, weightless like he'd given up on being real.
But his silence felt louder than any scream.
..
Two hours later, we were at a private hospital on the Upper East Side.
Everything smelled of antiseptic and expensive sterility-too clean, too quiet, too cold. But nothing could wash away the stench of where I'd found him.
I stood just outside his room, watching him through the glass.
He lay there like he didn't know how to exist in a bed that soft. Like he didn't know how to breathe without chains around his limbs.
The doctors had said he was stable. No fractures. No internal damage. Just minor bruises and signs of long-term malnourishment.
