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He flinches, eyes snapping toward the sound. “Che cazzo…”

He reaches for the button, rolls the window down in frustration.

“What the fuck do you want? I am busy here.”

Bea’s face appears.

Her face is framed in the open window, her features tight with fury, her hair mussed from running, her eyes gleaming like cold steel under the streetlight.

“Open the door,” she says, her voice lethal. “Now.”

Rafaele scoffs. “Oh, it’s you. What, you brought your claws? You think you’re scary, gattina?”

“I’ll carve my name into your face if you don’t let her out,” she says calmly. “Open it.”

He laughs mockingly and starts to roll the window back up.

In a blink, Bea lunges.

Her hand slams through the open window and grabs a fistful of his hair, twisting it so violently his head jerks sideways with a strangled yelp.

“Agh—che cazzo—let go—!”

But she doesn’t let go.

Her other hand grabs the edge of the window frame for balance, her knuckles going white with strain. And then—

She bites him. A full, monstrous bite.

Her teeth sink into the side of his nose—deep, vicious, grinding into cartilage and flesh.

He screams, a sound that doesn’t sound human—high, ragged, laced with agony. His whole body jolts, thrashing in his seat, arms flailing wildly.

“GET OFF ME, YOU CRAZY BITCH, GET OFF—!”

Bea’s jaw clamps tighter. I see blood spill from her mouth where her teeth tear deeper into his skin. She snarls through her bite, shaking her head just slightly like a dog ripping through prey.

Rafaele’s hand smashes against the dashboard, slapping for the lock. His foot slams the brake, his other hand pounding at her arm—but she doesn’t let go.

His screams turn guttural. He’s sobbing now. “LET GO, LET GO—!”

The lock finally pops.

I shove the door open and scramble out, falling onto the pavement, scraping my palms as I catch myself.

My chest heaves. I crawl away from the car, my knees catching on the hem of my skirt, breath breaking into sharp, panicked sobs. My whole body is shaking—from fear, from shame, from the terror I didn’t understand until it was too late.

Rafaele is still howling when Bea finally rips her teeth from his face with a sickening, wet sound. Blood drips from her mouth—his blood—and she spits hard onto the pavement.

He’s holding his nose, hunched over the steering wheel, weeping now. “You lunatic—my face—you bit my face—!”

She glares at him with a fury I’ve never seen before. Her lips are stained red, her chest rising fast.

“You touch her again,” she growls, “and I’ll finish the job.”

He scrambles to hit the gas, the car jerking forward with a violent jolt, tires skidding crooked down the road. His taillights vanish into the dark.

Bea stands there for a second longer, then lifts her chin and licks her own palm, wiping the blood off with disgust. “Rotten little dog,” she spits in the direction he fled.