Now, who is your boss?

Marco sat in the back seat, his gaze lingering on Rafael, who seemed lost in his own thoughts. Marco himself was unusually quiet, his mind adrift.

He had slept without the rigorous activity that typically drained him. For once, he had rested in the same bed as someone else.

His thoughts were scattered, unable to make sense of anything. Since the tragic incident that claimed the lives of his parents and siblings, a peaceful night's sleep had eluded him.

When he did manage to sleep, nightmares would plague him, forcing him awake under the constant pressure and stress. He discovered that exhausting physical activities helped him sleep through the night, as he would be too worn out to dream.

Gym? No. Racing? No. He had tried everything, but nothing worked until he turned to sex. Not just any sex, but intense, exhausting encounters. Sometimes, it involved two partners, even three at times, just to push himself to the edge.

Recently, the gay bars he owned could no longer supply him with partners willing to endure his demands. They were all too afraid. But then Rafael's messages arrived, offering a glimmer of hope: someone willing to sign a year-long contract to help with his condition.

Marco had been thrilled, but now, what was he to make of this new development? He was even more overjoyed at being able to sleep without his usual rigorous activities. Was it because of sleeping beside Rafael? Or was it the massage?

As he pondered this, his eyes remained fixed on Rafael, who sat uncomfortably beside him, clearly aware of Marco's unwavering stare.

'What does he want? Why does he keep staring? Does he need me to do something?' Rafael's mind raced with questions as he kept his gaze down, feeling the weight of Marco's intense focus.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the car came to a halt. The driver's voice broke the tense silence.

"We're here, sir."

Marco opened the door and stepped out, his demeanor shifting instantly.

"Follow me closely. Don't lose sight of me," he ordered sternly.

As Rafael followed him out of the car, he noticed the sudden change in Marco's expression. His calm, composed face had darkened, a deep frown creasing his brow.

Rafael felt a pang of confusion. Was this really the same mafia lord he had come to know? He had only seen Marco this angry once before, and that had been during the fainting incident; an anger that had not been directed at him.

"Why is he acting this way? Is there more to this?" Rafael wondered as he trailed behind Marco.

Marco had brought him to one of the most popular clubs in Spain, located in the heart of the bustling nightlife district. The club was known for its lavish casino, vibrant entertainment, and opulent atmosphere.

"So, I've seen the dens of two mafia lords?" Rafael muttered under his breath as he weaved through the throng of people dancing to the pulsating music. He kept his eyes on Marco as they entered a private room.

Inside, Rafael watched as Patrick turned a wardrobe, revealing a hidden door with a staircase leading downward. The cool, sterile air of the underground building greeted them as they descended.

They reached a heavy metal door, which Marco opened with a grim expression. As they stepped inside, the agonized cries of a man filled the air.

The scene was brutal. A man was tied to a chair, his body battered and covered in blood. Torture instruments were meticulously arranged around the room.

His nails had been crudely removed, with one nail still clamped in a remover on the floor. The room was a chilling display of savagery, and the atmosphere was thick with a palpable sense of dread.

Marco's presence commanded authority as he surveyed the scene with a cold, calculating gaze. Rafael stood frozen in place, overwhelmed by the grim reality of the underworld he had just entered.

Marco's entrance was met with a mixture of deference and fear from the three people already in the room. They straightened immediately and greeted him.

"Good evening, sir," one of them said, his voice trembling slightly.

"Evening, Marco," another added, nodding respectfully.

The third offered a curt nod, eyes downcast.

Marco raised a hand. "Halt."

The room fell silent. Marco moved deliberately to a nearby chair, dragging it across the floor with a metallic scrape. He sat down cross-legged, a sly smirk curling his lips, his demeanor relaxed yet menacing.

"So, are you ready to talk now?" Marco's tone was calm, but his eyes glinted with cruel anticipation.

The man in the chair, a middle-aged figure with a grizzled beard and defiant eyes, looked up at Marco. His body was broken, and his pain was evident in every labored breath. After a moment of stubborn silence, the man spat at Marco, hitting him square in the face.

"Go to hell!" he growled.

One of Marco's men reacted instantly, delivering a sharp slap and a brutal punch to the man's gut. Marco, however, raised a hand, halting further violence.

Slowly, Marco took out a handkerchief and wiped the spit from his face. His eyes, now gleaming with malice, never left the man as he casually rose from his chair and began to pace around the room.

His gaze lingered on the various torture tools, mentioning their names one by one. "A hot steel rod… You wouldn't want that anywhere near your wife's pregnant belly, now would you?" Marco's voice was dangerously soft, his words laced with venom. "Is it twins, or just one that you're expecting?"

The man's eyes widened in horror, his defiant front crumbling as Marco's words hit home. His face twisted in a mix of rage and terror, and he spat again, though weaker this time, "Go to hell…"

This time, Marco didn't wait for his men to react. He swiftly moved forward and drove his fist into the man's stomach, making him double over in agony.

"If you don't behave…" Marco snarled, grabbing the man's head and forcing him to look up, "I won't hesitate to do the same to your wife. And I mean it."

The man, now visibly trembling, gasped for air, his bravado shattered. Satisfied with the effect of his words, Marco released him and returned to his seat, crossing his legs and folding his arms.

"Now, Mr. Guández, manager of Diaz Motors in the southern region… Who is your boss?"

The man's eyes fluttered open, his face pale. He knew that answering would seal his fate, that he was as good as dead whether he spoke or stayed silent. His voice trembled as he begged, "Please… promise that you'll protect my wife if I tell you…"

"Sure," Marco replied smoothly, the dangerous glint in his eyes betraying his true intent. "Now, who is your boss?"

"It's Don Mateo… the second mafia lord in Spain," Mr. Guández stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. "He wants to undermine your finances… to cripple your income so you can't protect yourself. He plans to take over…"

"Hmmm…" Marco hummed, his expression unreadable as he considered the information. "Are there any of his spies in my home?"

As Marco asked the question, Rafael felt his heart drop. His throat tightened as fear clawed at him. His name could be uttered at any moment, exposing him as a traitor in the midst of the most powerful mafia lord in Spain.

His eyes darted around the room, taking in the instruments of torture. Would he suffer the same fate?