Page 5 of Filthy Little Fix

My body begins to relax, despite the awkward position. That persistent tingling in my wrists becomes a cruel pulse—reminding me exactly where I am, what's been done to me. Of what I'm doing here. That warmth now pools lower, in my groin—a quiet, persistent buzz I know too well.

The anticipation sparks. Subtle. Twisted.

What will they do to me?

The question doesn't come from fear. It comes from hunger.

My skin sticks to the dirty, grimy floor. And I feel it. Every speck of dust, every bit of rust—reminding me how far from home I am, and how absurdly alive I feel.

A kick to the gut? A dry slap across the face, sharp enough to make me laugh? An improvised whip made of old phone wires lashing down my back until my spine sings?

Yes.

An interrogation? With knives, maybe. Pliers. A chainsaw, just to scare me—or, hell, maybe to actually use. I've seen the movies. Always lacked eroticism. Maybe a strong hand gripping my jaw, asking, "You gonna talk, or moan louder?"

Fuck. Maybe it'll be nothing. Maybe just a bullet. In the dark. To the back of the head. A cold execution. Almost merciful. That has its charm too. The surrender. The final offering. Hot blood soaking the collar, mouth hanging open in silence.

Anything to shake me out of this lukewarm, tasteless life.

And then—I hear it.

Footsteps.

Not like before. Not the men who brought me here. These are different. Slower. Heavier.

Let them kill me. Let them use me. Let them tear me apart.

Someone's coming.

CHAPTER II

FOUR

DANTE

Rage consumes me.

Nyx—that son of a bitch—not only breached my systems and bled me dry of millions but also left me that damn ASCII art. A "find me" note, cynical in the way only a sick mind could think was clever. And hell, I did find him. But not before my guys, led by Sal, turned his little world inside out.

While I was giving final orders, Sal and his team were unraveling Nyx's digital trail. Every byte, every log, every digital footprint he thought he'd erased—they found it. They uncovered surveillance footage, bank transactions, internet records—everything. And here's the worst part: the bastard wasn't an easy mark. Even the most mundane bits of his personal data were locked up tight, encrypted under layers that made my so-called "experts" break into a sweat. No active social media, no simple online history. Hunting him was like chasing an invisible ghost—flickering in the shadows—straining my eyes.

And with every encrypted file, every digital wall, my rage grew. The fact that this little shit was good at hiding, smug in his obscurity, infuriated me.

And now... he's just meters away.

My footsteps echo through the warehouse. Luca trails behind. The stench of mold and concrete clogs my throat, and the moment I open the door, it's tainted by something else. A hint of sweetness. A misplaced perfume.

There he is. Nyx.

Back to us, hands cuffed behind him, a black sack still over his head. He doesn't look like much. Average height. Slim. Clothes wrinkled and grimy from the grab. Could be any nobody dragged off the street.

Difference is, this nobody waltzed through my systems, danced through my secrets, and now holds my family's future between his fingers—fingers he's about to lose if he doesn't start cooperating.

"Get that off his head," I bark at Luca, sharper than I meant to.

I want to see the face of the man who's making my life hell. I want to see fear in his eyes when he looks at me.

Luca doesn't disappoint. One brutal tug, and the sack is off.