1
The alley was quiet until the call came through.
A man with a scar under his eye answered, pressing the phone tight to his ear.
“Boss,” he said, low and rough. “The rich boy just got out of the car. He’s alone.”
There was a pause. Then the sound of someone spitting, sharp and angry.
“Get him, you fools,” the voice barked. “Bring his head. Dead or alive.”
“On it,” the man muttered—and hung up.
No more talking.
The four of them stepped out of the shadows fast, their steps light.
Eyes locked on the man in the dark coat standing by the curb.
Mateo Woods New York most sought after bachelor.
Tall, rich, dangerous-looking. He had the kind of jaw you didn’t punch unless you were paid to. Tattoos crawled up his neck like secrets. His long coat swayed as he shifted, unaware.
They didn’t waste time.
One of them swung first—straight to his gut.
Another kicked his knee out. Mateo grunted, stumbling, but stayed upright.
Blood hit the pavement.
He spit it out. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes—cold lifted to meet theirs.
Another blow came hard to his back. A hand grabbed his arm and twisted it sharply.
Mateo dropped to his knees, breath shaking.
Then—cold metal pressed against the back of his skull.
One of them laughed under his breath.
“Say goodbye, pretty boy.”
But before the assassin could pull the trigger—
A hand shot out of the dark.
Strong. Tattooed. Steady.
It clamped around the gunman’s wrist with a grip that made bones cry.
“What the—?”
CRACK.
A scream. The wrist twisted violently. The gun hit the ground.
They all turned fast—but it was already too late.
One clean punch to the jaw—THUD.
The second attacker dropped flat.
Another came with a knife.
The stranger ducked. Grabbed the guy by the belt. Slammed him into the wall like he weighed nothing.
Air knocked out. Silence.
“Two left,” the stranger muttered, like he was counting.
He turned.
His face was calm. His lips curled slightly—like he was just getting started.
The third guy paused and hesitated.
Bad idea.
He lunged anyway.
The stranger moved smooth—knee to the gut, hand to the collar, elbow to the throat.
The man collapsed. Done.
The fourth one didn’t even try.
He ran.
Fast.
The stranger didn’t chase. Just stood there.
Knuckles red. Chest rising slow. Barely out of breath.
He hadn’t planned to get involved. But Silas, who worked just a block away fixing engines in a tucked-away garage, had heard the sounds and didn’t think twice.
Then he looked down at bleeding mateo.
“You okay?” he asked, wiping blood from his own mouth with the back of his hand.
Mateo groaned softly, still catching his breath, blood trickling down the corner of his lip.
Sila's hand reached out to him—steady, tattooed and firm.
Mateo took his hand. His grip was strong too, but not as practiced.
Mateo stood with a grunt.
“I’m okay,” he said, wiping his mouth. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Silas replied, stepping back slightly, flexing his sore knuckles.
Mateo ran a hand through his messy dark hair. “I’m Mateo Woods,” he said with a faint smile. “Nice to meet you. And thank you again for saving my life.”
“You’re welcome,” Silas repeated, voice calm. Almost distant.
There was a pause.
“I’m in deep search for a bodyguard,” Mateo said, voice dropping low. “My life’s not exactly safe. And from what I just saw... you’ve got the skill.”
Silas looked up briefly and said nothing.
Mateo raised a brow. “Mind being my bodyguard?”
“I’m sorry,” Silas said, wiping sweat off his brow. “No. I did that out of humanity and currently not searching for a job.”
Mateo let out a soft breath, then reached into his coat and pulled out a card.
“Take it anyway. In case you change your mind.”
Silas looked at it for a second, then took it.
Didn’t say anything. Just turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows like he’d never been there.
Mateo stood there alone, cleaning the last streak of blood from his lip. He watched Silas’s back for a moment longer, eyes narrowed.
Then he turned, slipped into his black car, and drove off.
---
Silas dusted his hands off and pulled the metal shutter halfway down.
He’d worked overtime fixing a broken transmission—same as every other night. Grease on his forearm, sweat on his collar, hoodie halfway unzipped from the heat.
He locked up the garage and whistled low to himself as he crossed the street. A habit.
The same three-note whistle he always used when he was heading home to Isabel.
His little sister always heard it—even with the windows shut.
She’d roll her chair to the door or flick the light twice to let him know she was awake. Sometimes she’d sit near the window, waiting with a book in her lap and a blanket over her legs.
But tonight…
Nothing.
The air felt too still. Too quiet.
His boots hit the steps faster. He reached for the knob, heart pounding—and saw the door slightly open.
That wasn’t right.
He pushed it open with his shoulder.
“Isabel?” he called out, eyes darting around.
No answer.
His breath caught. His eyes fell to the floor.
Her wheelchair was tipped sideways. Plates shattered around it. The blanket she always had over her legs was crumpled near the corner of the couch.
Silas’s chest tightened.
He dropped the small bag of food he had brought—takeout they’d planned to share.
“Isabel?” he called again, louder this time. His voice cracked.
Still no answer.
He rushed in, checking every corner—bedroom, kitchen, bathroom.
But the reply never came —
Then his voice ripped out of him, raw and shaking—
“No. No… Nooo!”
His knees hit the floor beside the empty wheelchair.
Just as soon as his knees hit the floor, his phone buzzed in his pocket.
He yanked it out with shaky fingers and answered without checking.
“Hello?”
A voice spoke. Calm. Cold. Male.
“You
wanna see her alive again?”
Silas froze.
“Come to the bar down the street. The 54th Bar.”
Silas’s throat tightened. “Who the hell are you?”
“Tick tock,” the voice said.
Then the line went dead.
