A killing machine

~ KAIA'S POV ~

“Please can you tell me of any high-class bar around?” I ask the receptionist, forcing my voice steady even though my nerves buzz under my skin.

“Yes, of course.” She responds with a smile too casual, too polite, as though danger doesn’t exist in her world. “La Dolce Vita is a few streets away. They serve nice wines and alcohol of high class,” she adds.

Great.

“Thank you.” I return a small smile, turn, and walk out of the hotel, my pulse beating faster than it should.

I’m not going for a drink. No, I’m out to gather information about Vittorio.

At least someone in that bar must know of him. Or is he so terrifying that no one even dares to whisper his name? The thought alone makes my chest constrict.

I hail a taxi and slide into the back seat, trying to hold myself together.

“La Dolce Vita,” I say to the chauffeur, and he nods without a word.

Everything here feels different—the taxis, the hotel, even the air of the city itself. It all gives off a different kind of energy, foreign and overwhelming. But I’m not here for all that. I’m here for one thing only.

I just want my Kai.

—---------

The taxi halts in front of a building with La Dolce Vita boldly written across it in gold.

I step out, hand the driver his fare, and walk straight in.

The air inside hits me like a wave. Rich. Heavy. The sharp scent of expensive wine mixed with cologne and polished wood lingers everywhere.

“Benvenuta,” the security greets.

I give a smile in return and walk toward the bar counter. My translator app vibrates faintly, and the word flashes—welcome.

I sit on a stool, trying to look natural, when a tall, handsome man walks over. His apron marks him as the bartender, but his presence is sharper than just that.

“Cosa desidera ordinare, signora?” he asks.

My translator doesn’t respond. Seems the signal is slow, and the silence stretches.

“I don’t speak Italian,” I say quickly, embarrassed at the helplessness in my voice.

The man smiles kindly and clears his throat.

“What would you like to order, ma’am?”

“Something cool and not too strong,” I reply, grateful for his shift to English.

He nods, starts mixing, glass clinking against glass. The chatter in the room rises and falls around me, accompanied by soft Italian music weaving through the air like smoke.

The bartender finally slides the glass toward me. “Enjoy.”

I take it and carry it with careful fingers to a chair in the corner. My eyes scan, restless, pretending calm.

Beside me, two men sit at a table, their shoulders tense, their faces sharp. They’re deep in conversation, voices low but urgent, each word pricking my ears.

I cross my legs like a queen and lean back, holding my glass. Outwardly calm, but inside I’m a storm waiting for a crack of thunder.

“Vellaccio clan foolishly want to marry off their daughter to that monster Vittorio,” one man mutters bitterly.

My heart jumps. My ears widen, straining for every syllable. His name. Vittorio. Finally.

“It’s a peace wedding,” the other counters. “What do you want them to do? Play stubborn and get wiped off the face of the earth?”

“All those who challenge him have their lives brushed by the edge of his knife,” the first says, voice grim, full of fear.

The other gulps his drink, eyes reddened from the burn.

A wedding. My mind sharpens. That’s it. That’s a perfect opportunity. A chance to make my first appearance before him. A way in.

“I’d love to be in attendance,” one says, bitterness thick in his voice, “but invites are not common.”

“You’re among the cowardly, I see,” the other sneers before drowning his glass.

“You need to let go of your pain. È morta, è morta!”

The words sting sharp and strange in my ears until my translator whispers: “She’s dead, she’s dead.”

My stomach knots.

“That Vittorio killed my wife… he’ll pay dearly for it!” the man roars, voice torn between grief and fury. His pain is raw, terrifying in its honesty.

“Dearly or not, you can’t hurt him. He kills ruthlessly, and you know this. Your wife died because of your greed,” the other shoots back. His tone is cold, merciless.

I sip my wine slowly, pretending to scroll through my phone. My eyes stay low, but my ears devour every word.

“I don’t know what made you think you could deceive him. He is a killing machine,” the man continues, voice steady as though carving truth into stone. “He senses deceit from a mile, and without hesitation, he kills.”

The words ring like a curse in my ears.

My chest folds in on itself. His last words echo again and again, a drumbeat I cannot silence.

I clutch the hem of my dress so tightly that the fabric bites into my fingers.

A killing machine? No wonder Rodriguez cannot face him directly.

But killing machine or not, I don’t have the luxury of fear.

For my son's sake.

I have Kai. My child. My reason.

My fingers ache from clenching, but I hold tighter. Because if fear is the price, I’ll pay it. If danger is the path, I’ll walk it.

I will do whatever I must to save my child from Rodriguez. Even if it means stepping right into the lion’s den.

And even if that lion’s name is Vittorio.