"MAFIA BOSS NOTICES HIS TERRIFIED MAID SECRETLY HIDING BRUISES, WHAT HE DID NEXT SHOCKED THE ENTIRE CITY

The Rusty Nail was a filthy, windowless tavern squeezed between a derelict laundromat and a boarded-up pawn shop on 18th Street. The air inside smelled of stale beer, cheap whiskey, and decades of dried sweat.

At 1:15 p.m., Marcus Kane sat at a corner booth, a half-empty pitcher of light beer in front of him. He was a small, wire-thin man with a thin mustache and an arrogant, aggressive posture. He was loudly recounting a story to two other low-level thugs about a poker game he had won the night before.

Suddenly, the bar’s front door shattered inward.

The heavy wooden door didn't just open—it was kicked off its hinges with explosive force, splintering against the interior wall.

The bar patron screamed. The bartender reached under the counter for a shotgun, but before his hand could touch the wood, three men in tactical black gear and suppressed submachine guns rushed inside, securing the corners of the room with lethal speed.

"DON'T MOVE! HANDS ON THE BAR!" Mateo’s voice boomed through the tavern.

The bartender slammed his hands onto the sticky wood, trembling violently. The few drunk patrons scattered to the floor, covering their heads.

Marcus Kane scrambled to his feet, reaching for a small revolver tucked into his waistband. "What the hell is this—"

Before his fingers could touch his gun, Damian Reyes stepped through the shattered doorway.

The ambient light caught Damian’s tailored dark suit, his gleaming leather shoes, and the absolute, terrifying aura of death that surrounded him like an armor.

Damian walked slowly across the sticky floorboards, his gaze locked onto Marcus Kane.

Marcus recognized him instantly. Everyone in the Chicago underworld recognized Damian Reyes. His face was the ghost story bosses used to keep low-level punks in line.

Marcus’s jaw dropped, his face draining of all color. He froze, his hand hovering uselessly over his belt.

"M-Mr. Reyes..." Marcus stammered, his arrogant posture dissolving into pathetic terror. "I... I don't... this is Jimmy Russo’s territory, sir! You can't—"

Damian didn't answer. He reached the booth, grabbed Marcus by his jacket lapels with one hand, and slammed his heavy body onto the wooden table!

BEER BOTTLES CRASHED TO THE FLOOR!

Marcus shrieked as Damian leaned over him, his dark eyes hovering inches from the terrified man's face.

"Marcus Kane," Damian said, his voice a low, terrifying growl. "You have something that belongs to me."

"I... I don't have anything of yours, Mr. Reyes! I swear to God! I don't mess with the Reyes family!" Marcus cried out, his hands waving frantically in the air.

Damian reached out with his left hand, grabbed Marcus’s right wrist, and twisted it until the bone groaned.

Marcus screamed in agony. "AAAGH! STOP! MY WRIST!"

"Does that hurt?" Damian asked calmly, his grip tightening. "Does it hurt when someone grabs your wrist and twists it until you feel helpless?"

Marcus’s eyes went wide with sudden, horrific realization. "Elena..." he gasped out. "This... this is about Elena?"

"She works in my home," Damian said softly, his voice colder than the Arctic wind. "She breaks her back cleaning my floors. And she comes to work every morning with your fingers bruised into her skin."

"She’s my wife! Well, my fiancé!" Marcus spat, trying to regain a shred of bravado through his agony. "She owes my boss two hundred thousand dollars! Her dead beat father's debt! I'm just collecting what's owed! You can't tell me what to do with my own woman!"

Damian’s eyes flashed with a dark, demonic fury.

He let go of Marcus’s wrist, grabbed him by the throat, and lifted him completely off the table, slamming him against the brick wall behind the booth!

Marcus gasped for air, his legs kicking uselessly in the air as Damian held him up with a single arm.

"She doesn't owe you a penny," Damian whispered into Marcus’s ear. "And as of five minutes ago, her father's debt is settled."

Damian reached into his suit jacket, pulled out a certified cashier's check for two hundred thousand dollars—drawn directly from the Reyes Empire bank—and slapped it against Marcus’s bloody chest.

"That pays off Jimmy Russo," Damian spat. "And as for you..."

Damian drew his SIG Sauer pistol, racked the slide with a metallic CLACK, and pressed the cold steel barrel directly against Marcus Kane’s right kneecap.

Marcus whimpered, tears pouring down his greasy cheeks. "Please... Mr. Reyes, please! I'll leave her alone! I swear to God I'll never touch her again! Please don't shoot me!"

"If I ever see your face in Pilsen again," Damian said slowly, holding the gun pressed against his leg, "if you ever say her name, if you even think about looking in her direction, I won't put a bullet in your knee. I will skin you alive and hang you from the 18th Street bridge. Do you understand me?"

"YES! YES! I UNDERSTAND! I PROMISE!" Marcus sobbed hysterically.

Damian slowly lowered the gun. He tossed Marcus onto the filthy floor like a sack of trash.

Damian turned to Mateo. "Pack up her things from his apartment. Everything she owns. Bring them to the estate."

"Right away, boss," Mateo replied, gesturing for two soldiers to grab Marcus and drag him toward the back alley to ensure he left the city immediately.

Damian straightened his tie, smoothed down his dark suit jacket, and walked out of the ruined bar into the crisp afternoon air.

He pulled out his cell phone and called Rosalind.

"Is she still at the house?" Damian asked.