"She Begged the Mafia Boss to Ignore Her Bruises—Instead, He Said, “Tell Me His Name. This Ends Tonight.”

Trent’s relief vanished instantly, replaced by a fresh wave of absolute terror. “What... what personal debt? I don't even know you!”

Damian reached out, grabbed the collar of Trent’s leather jacket, and pulled him forward until the wooden chair tilted onto its front two legs.

“You came into my restaurant’s ecosystem,” Damian said, his voice dropping into a razor-thin whisper. “You bled my bookkeeper dry. You terrorized her in her own home. And last night, you put your filthy hands around her neck until her cartilage fractured.”

He let go of the collar, allowing the chair to slam back onto all four legs with a loud thwack.

Damian straightened his jacket, stepped back, and turned to Marco.

“The house on 8th Street,” Damian said. “Who holds the title?”

“His uncle,” Marco replied immediately. “It’s in a family trust.”

“Buy it tomorrow morning,” Damian instructed. “Pay twenty percent over market value. Once the deed is in our name, terminate his lease instantly. Throw his belongings into the street.”

Trent stared at him, bewildered. “You’re... you’re kicking me out of my house?”

“I am removing you from this city,” Damian corrected him smoothly. “By six o'clock tomorrow evening, your name will be listed on every blacklist operated by every landlord, employer, and credit facility in the state. If you attempt to apply for a job within two hundred miles of this harbor, your application will be shredded.”

He stepped closer to the chair once more.

“If you attempt to call, text, write, or approach Tessa Hartley,” Damian added, his tone flat and unyielding, “I will not send Marco to talk to you. I will come myself. And I do not bring chairs.”

Trent began to cry openly, his shoulders shaking as the realization of his total, absolute annihilation hit him. He wasn't going to be beaten bloody; he was going to be systematically erased from civilized society. He would become a ghost walking through a city that refused to acknowledge his existence.

“Tessa!” Trent wailed, looking toward her with desperate, streaming eyes. “Tessa, please! Tell him stop! You loved me! We were together for three years!”

Tessa took two steps forward. She stopped right beside Damian.

She looked down at the man who had terrified her for thirty-six months. The man who had made her flinch at the sound of a opening door. The man who had left dark purple fingerprints on her throat.

He looked small. Pathetic. A hollow shell of a human being who had only ever been strong because she had allowed herself to be weak.

Tessa reached into her coat pocket, pulled out the set of apartment keys she had carried for three years, and dropped them onto the concrete floor in front of his boots.

“Don't ever look for me, Trent,” she said. Her voice didn't shake. It was as cold and precise as the ledgers she kept.

She turned her back on him and walked toward the exit door.

Damian looked at Mikey. “Untie him at five in the morning. Give him fifty dollars for a bus ticket to Ohio. If he is still in New York by sunset, dispose of him.”