1
The projector flashed on.
A massive screen lit up the dark room with the image of a dangerously handsome man.
A woman’s voice echoed through the room.
“This is Mateo Woods,” she said clearly. “The youngest—and most sought-after—bachelor billionaire in New York City.”
She paused.
“He’s got a big, bad secret... and because of it, he’s the most targeted man in the city.”
“Yes, boss,” a few men replied in sync, dressed in all black with dark shades on.
The woman’s tone sharpened.
“He’s at the City Bar right now. I want him brought in. Dead... or alive.”
She snapped her fingers once.
The men stood. No hesitation.
Guns loaded. Eyes cold.
They were already moving before she spoke again.
“Go get him.”
Outside the City Bar...
A sleek black Mateo Wood's car pulled up to the curb.
He stepped out, adjusting his coat as he glanced around casually.
No bodyguard in sight.
Just him.
Across the street, the men watched from the shadows.
One of them smirked.
“Well, well… the rich boy’s all alone tonight.”
“Perfect,” another muttered, cracking his knuckles. “No bodyguard. Time to strike.”
They moved like shadows—fast, silent, ready.
This was the moment they’d been waiting for.
Mateo had just turned toward the entrance when—
Click.
A gun cocked behind him.
“Don’t move,” one of the men said, stepping out from the shadows, gun aimed at his back. “And don’t try anything smart.”
Three more appeared, surrounding him.
All armed. All ready.
Mateo froze, hands slowly lifting.
One of them chuckled.
“Look at you. Rich, pretty, and stupid enough to walk around without protection.”
“Start walking,” another growled. “Nice and easy.”
Mateo’s eyes were wide now.
He was breathing harder.
“I can fucking pay you!” he shouted. “Any amount you want. Just fucking let me go!”
One of the men punched him in the stomach—hard.
Mateo doubled over, groaning in pain.
Another man grabbed him by the hair, forcing his head up.
Scarface stepped in close, eyes cold.
“You still think money can save you?”
He raised his hand.
SMACK.
Mateo’s head jerked to the side.
“Wrong answer.”
They weren’t playing anymore.
One of them grabbed Mateo and shoved him back hard—
Straight into the wall.
Another pulled out a rope and tied his hands behind him, tight.
His back hit the cold bricks. He winced but didn’t speak.
Scarface stepped back slowly, admiring their work.
He lit a cigarette and exhaled.
“Say your last wish, pretty boy,” he muttered.
He took one more step forward, face close.
“Daddy’s money isn’t saving you this time.”
Scarface raised the gun and pointed it straight at Mateo’s head.
His finger rested on the trigger.
He was ready to end it.
He smirked, expecting cheers from his men—some stupid laugh, maybe even applause.
But when he turned around…
Silence.
All of them—his men—were on the ground.
Bleeding.
Lifeless.
His smile faded.
“What the—”
A slow clap echoed through the alley.
Scarface turned, confused.
Out of the dark, a blonde-haired man stepped forward.
Tattooed arms. Cold eyes. Hoodie half-zipped.
Silas.
He stopped just a few feet away and smiled faintly—like he wasn’t even trying.
“You might wanna join them too,” Silas said, cracking his knuckles and adjusting his hoodie sleeves.
His voice was calm—but it made Scarface’s knees weak.
Scarface’s gun hand shook.
“P-please,” he stammered. “I was just following orders. I swear—don’t kill me.”
Silas tilted his head. “Then run.”
Scarface blinked.
“Run,” Silas repeated, voice sharper now.
Scarface didn’t waste another second.
He turned and bolted, tripping over himself as he disappeared into the night.
Silas watched him for a second, then turned to Mateo like nothing just happened.
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 at Mateo—bruised, tied up, blood trailing down the side of his face.
Silas walked over, calm and quiet. Without a word, he crouched down and started untying the ropes.
Mateo winced, letting out a shaky breath. “Took you long enough,” he muttered, trying to joke through the pain.
Silas didn’t respond. Just loosened the last knot and stood back up.
Mateo rubbed his sore wrists, breathing hard. “Thank you.”
Silas wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and gave a short nod.
Mateo slowly stood on his own, grunting as he did. “I’m Mateo Woods,” he said, his voice a little rough. “Nice to meet you. And seriously… thank you for saving my life.”
“You’re welcome,” Silas said, flexing his bruised knuckles.
There was a small pause.
“I’m in deep search for a bodyguard,” Mateo said, his voice quieter now. “My life’s not exactly safe. And from what I just saw... you’ve got the skill.”
Silas looked up, his face unreadable.
Mateo raised a brow. “Mind being my bodyguard?”
Silas wiped sweat off his brow and shook his head. “No. I did that out of humanity. I’m not looking for a job.”
Mateo let out a breath and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a card.
“Take it anyway. In case you change your mind.”
Silas stared at it for a second, then took it without a word.
He turned and walked off, fading into the shadows like he was never there.
Mateo stood alone, wiping the last streak of blood from his lip. He watched Silas’s back disappear, his jaw clenched in thought.
Then he turned, slid into his black car, and drove off.
Back at the garage.....
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....
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.
