I remain in my office, nursing glass after glass of whiskey, until the early rays of sunlight filter through the blinds. The amber liquid burns my throat, dulling none of the rage still bubbling beneath my skin. I pick up my phone, dialing my doctor.

"Is he stable enough for another round?" I ask, my voice steady despite the alcohol coursing through me.

"With caution," he replies, clipped as always. "Don't push him too far, or it'll end in cardiac arrest."

"Noted," I mutter, ending the call before standing. The bastard downstairs hasn't seen hell, and I'm eager to show him. Last night was just tasting the water.

By the time I arrive, he's asleep, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths—a small smile tugs at my lips. I love waking him.

Walking to the corner, I grab the bucket of water I always ensure is nearby. The ice-cold liquid drenches him, and he jerks awake with a gasp, sputtering and coughing, his bloodshot eyes wild as they dart around the room. When they settle on me, terror locks his face into the same pathetic expression as before.

"Really?" I taunt, setting the bucket down with deliberate slowness. "Still shocked to see me? Let's make this more exciting."

I stride to the table of tools, fingers brushing over blades and instruments until I grab the electric wand. The hum of it coming to life fills the room, and the fuckers body tenses, his lips trembling as he starts to beg.

"No! Please, no!" he whimpers, thrashing against the restraints.

But his pleas turn to sharp, guttural screams as the wand meets his skin. His body jolts violently, every muscle spasming as I increase the voltage just enough to make him dance.

I laugh, deep and rich, as I watch him writhe. "Beautiful," I say, shutting it off and placing it aside. "Now, where were we?"

I pick up two blades, the handles fitted perfectly to my grip, and turn back to him. "I believe I promised you something, didn't I?"

"It's your brother!" he blurts out suddenly, desperation spilling from his lips.

I pause mid-step, narrowing my eyes. "Little Mario?" I ask, incredulous—Mario's in prison.

"Yes! He's the one I'm working for," he insists, his voice cracking.

I burst out laughing, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. "Mario? Nice try. Did you think I wouldn't have tabs on him? He's fifteen and rotting in a cell under my watch. He doesn't even take a piss without me knowing."

"It's him!" he presses, his tone frantic, but I've already dismissed the claim.

Walking to the foot of the table, I glance down at his trembling legs. "Do you think you can survive some carving? Because 'I'm sorry, Francesca—my wonderful daughter' would look exquisite on your skin."

"Rafael, please," he begs, voice hoarse. "I already told you who helped me. Just kill me."

The insult ignites fury within me, sharp and instant. I lash out, slashing the blade across his lips. Blood spills down his chin as he hisses in pain.

"Fucking shut up if you're not going to tell the truth," I growl, leaning in close. "You're welcome to scream, though. That's music to my ears."

Positioning myself at his leg, I grab the hem of his pants, ripping the fabric clean off with a single, brutal motion. His exposed skin quivers under the cold air and his muffled whimpers grow louder as he realizes what's coming.

I press the blade into his thigh, carving the first letter with slow, deliberate precision. The metal bites into his flesh, drawing a fresh stream of blood.

"I've done this a few times, so don't worry. You're in excellent hands," I tell him, smiling as I work.

His whimpers turn to strained cries with every slash. The blade bites deep enough to mark but not enough to end him. By the time I'm done, he's panting, his skin a patchwork of red gashes and seeping wounds. Blood drips steadily to the floor, pooling beneath the table, but not enough to kill him. Not yet. I lean closer, studying his broken face.
"Name," I demand, slashing his cheek again. The blade leaves a fresh, jagged line, and his head jerks to the side as he chokes out a cry.
"Mario," he rasps, his voice barely audible.
I nod, my expression cold, taking the left blade in my hand. Without hesitation, I drive it into his eye, twisting just enough to make him scream. His remaining eye widens, glistening with tears, a mixture of agony and silent pleas as he stares at me. He doesn't say it out loud, but it's clear—he's begging for death.

I smirk at his desperation. "I could do this all morning," I say, pressing my hand into the gunshot wound in his stomach. He writhes against the restraints, his body arching off the table as a guttural groan escapes him.

"Fucking tell me who," I snarl, shoving my palm deeper against the wound.

"M..." His voice falters, but before he can finish, I stab his left hand, the blade sinking deep into flesh and bone.

"My little rebel will be up any minute, so I advise you to talk fast," I warn, twisting the blade. He shakes his head, his lips quivering, blood staining his teeth. His good eye is glassy now, the fight fading as the pain consumes him.

"You're not going to tell me the truth," I mutter, tilting my head as I study him. One look into that remaining eye, pleading for death, tells me everything. He's willing to die rather than give me what I want.

"No problem," I say with a cold smile, yanking the blade free. "I guess it was lovely knowing you."

This time, I don't hold back. I stab him in the belly, then the arms, then the legs, moving in a vicious rhythm. My voice carries a dark tune as I hum to myself, punctuating each note with another stab.

"Frankie is your daughter," I say, shaking my head mockingly as the blade sinks into his chest. "You're not supposed to fuck her." I laugh bitterly, the sound echoing in the blood-streaked room as I drive the blade in one last time.

By the time I'm done, my entire upper body is drenched in his blood. Pools of it gather at my feet, the metallic stench suffocating the air. His lifeless body lies limp, his head slumped to the side, face frozen in an expression of pain and silent pleading. Even in death, the bastard reeks of cowardice.

I stare at the mess I've made, my rage still bubbling under my skin. Even though he's no longer breathing, it doesn't feel like enough. I want to tear him apart further, to destroy him so thoroughly that even hell wouldn't recognize him.

The blades clatter to the floor as I turn and leave the room. I need to shower before Frankie sees me like this. The last thing I want is her worrying again when she sees me drenched in blood.

FRANKIE

Sunlight filters through gauzy curtains as I wake to cold sheets beside me. My heart lurches into my throat, memories of yesterday's chaos flooding back. The silk nightgown clings to my skin as I bolt upright, scanning Rafael's grey-colored bedroom for any sign of him.

"In here, little rebel," Rafael's deep voice calls from the bathroom, and relief washes over me like a wave. I pad across the plush carpet but freeze in the doorway. The morning light streaming through the frosted window illuminates every mark on his olive skin.

Purple and blue bruises mottle his muscled abdomen, stark against his natural bronze tone. My stomach twists. "How did I miss these last night?" I whisper, more to myself than him. But I know why - between the darkness and everything else, I hadn't really seen him.

My fingers hover over the marks, barely touching. "Does it hurt?" I ask softly, stepping closer to study each bruise in the morning light.

A playful smile tugs at his lips, softening his usually serious expression. "Nothing a few kisses won't fix." This lighter side of him, so rare and precious, makes my heart flutter.

I shake my head but can't help smiling as I press my lips gently to each bruise, feeling his sharp intake of breath. The towel slung low on his hips draws my attention downward, and I find myself trailing kisses lower, following the defined lines of his abs.

His hands, calloused but gentle, lift me onto the counter. "Could've just told me you wanted me to fuck you," he murmurs, his Mexican accent thick with desire. The marble is cool against my bare skin as I pull my nightgown over my head.

"And seem desperate?" I tease, but my breath catches as his dark eyes rake over me, hunger replacing the playfulness. After finishing my period yesterday, I'd been looking forward to being with him again before everything went haywire. Now, that anticipation mingles with relief that we're here at all.

"Heaven forbid," he growls, closing the distance between us. His skin blazes against mine as he pulls me to the edge of the counter.

"Yes!" I breathe against his lips before capturing them with mine. For a heartbeat, he lets me lead, then groans deep in his throat and takes control, his tongue meeting mine with an urgency that makes me dizzy. The memory of yesterday's fear - thinking I might never kiss him again - makes this moment razor sharp, every sensation burning into my mind. His taste, the slight scratch of his morning stubble, the way his hands tighten on my waist - it's everything I thought I'd lost.

"I'm gonna miss you, amor," he says, rubbing his hardening dick against my pooling core. The word 'Amor' spills from his lips like honey, his accent wrapping around it in a way that sends electricity down my spine. This is the first time he ever used an endearment toward me, and it makes my heart stutter. Everything feels different this morning – more intense and more precious, but wait, miss me? What does he—

My question dissolves into a moan as he enters me in one swift move, the feeling of him stretching me, making my thoughts scatter. Something's off about what he said, but I'll have to ask him later. Right now, I can barely remember my own name as he starts to move.

The marble counter is cold against my heated skin as he takes me, his movements both desperate and controlled. The bathroom fills with the sound of our breathing, our moans, the whispered promises we both know might be lies. His hands grip my hips hard enough to bruise, as if he's afraid I'll disappear if he loosens his hold.

When he finally lets me catch my breath, it's only for a moment before he pulls me under the shower, pressing me against the cool tiles for round two. The hot water cascades over us, mingling with our sweat and passion as he claims me again, this time slower but no less intense.

By the time we step out of the bathroom, my legs are trembling, and I silently thank the lord I can still walk.

"After breakfast, we're going somewhere," Rafael says as we get dressed, his voice carrying that hint of mystery that's so unlike him.

"Really? Where?" I try pulling on a pair of jeans but immediately wince, the denim rough against my still-sensitive skin. Maybe something softer would be better after our morning activities.

"It's a surprise," he murmurs, leaving a soft kiss on my lips before stepping out of the walk-in closet. My heart flutters at the gesture - this new, affectionate Rafael both thrills and confuses me. First, the 'amor,' now surprise plans? I want to ask him what's changed, but I'm almost afraid to break whatever spell we're under.

Instead, I focus on getting ready, choosing clothes that feel as light as my mood. The dusty blue ruched halter hugs me perfectly, its gathered fabric catching the morning light. I pair it with my favorite light-wash denim maxi skirt – the one with that subtle side slit that makes walking feel graceful. It's gentler than jeans against my tender skin, too. The gold Tory Burch hoops catch my eye in the mirror, and I add them along with a simple gold bangle – just enough sparkle to feel put-together.

I slip into my white strappy mules, loving how the delicate crossed straps make my feet look elegant even in such a casual outfit. A spritz of perfume, and I'm almost ready. As I grab my cream Marc Jacobs bag, I realize I'm practically buzzing with anticipation. My stomach's too full of butterflies to even think about breakfast. I feel like a teenager about to have her first date, which is ridiculous given what we were just doing in the bathroom. But something about this - about him planning a surprise, about the way he's acting - makes everything feel new and electric.

Heading out of the room, I can't help wondering what other surprises today might bring. Though, a small voice in my head whispers that his earlier words - about missing me - might not be the kind of surprise I want to discover.