“Add her to the successful candidates’ list, Hell,” Rage said, and Angelina’s ear twitched unbelievably.

“That’s bullshit. He would represent CAMORRA someday, and he can’t do 50 push-ups?” Kaden yelled, his face flushing dark as Rage snapped his head toward him and stalked toward him, his eyes now icy with fury.

“And how is that your fucking business? You ruled the clinic, and I’ve never interfered! This is my territory, and I do the rulings here! My words are law here!” Rage said almost calmly, his words carrying a heavy, chilling power that made the entire room so silent a dropping pin could be heard.

“Be careful with me, Kaden,” Rage said finally, turning on his heel to walk out, but Angelina stepped into his path, keeping her hands tucked respectfully behind her back.

“Thanks…… for taking me in,” she murmured, her gaze fixed firmly on the floor.

“On your knees, and fucking say the words properly,” he muttered, and she dropped immediately to her knees, swallowing hard.

“Thank you, Master.”

He walked past her, the sharp friction of his black slacks nearly brushing against her legs. Amaria turned and left for her room too, exchanging a quick, communicating glance with Angelina on her way out.

She pounced onto her mattress the second she arrived, her mind immediately consumed by why Rage would suddenly accept her sister when she had failed the baseline test.

“I hope he is not planning to kill her,” she thought to herself, a cold knot tightening in her stomach.

Almost instantly, her thoughts violently shifted to something entirely different—how Kaden had fucked her so thoroughly on Christmas Eve. The memory hit with a physical jolt, so intense that she couldn’t get her mind off it, her core instantly dampening at the lingering thought.

She rolled to the other side of her mattress, trying to shake the distraction, a wicked, knowing smile playing on her lips.

*

Immediately after Rage left the initiation ground, he went straight to his villa. The interior smelled of sharp wealth and artificial cold from several heavy-duty AC units, his private quarters decorated in a stark, gothic aesthetic with smoked mirrors lining every wall. Crimson bulbs flickered low around the sprawling villa.

Rage was currently deep in his inner sanctum, his hands caked in gray clay as he worked the material on his wooden wheel; he had always maintained a quiet, obsessive love for pottery. He smoothed the final edge, methodically pressing small, detailed nipples onto the two clay breasts he had just molded.

Just then, the door creaked open, and Amaria entered.

“The fuck are you doing here?” he asked, his voice flat and cold without looking up.

“Lady Morgan sent me to remind you that the prisoners meant for torture are already waiting in the torture room.”

“That old bitch,” he mumbled under his breath, his thumbs digging deep into the wet clay.

As Amaria turned to leave, a high-velocity bullet whistled past her ear, splintering the wall inches from her face, but she reacted instantly, dropping smoothly into a clean handstand to dodge the bullet, and her eyes snapped toward Rage.

“That’s for disrupting my work.”

“I am sorry, Master,” she said, dropping back to her feet to offer a crisp bow before hurrying out.

*

Inside Angelina’s room, Amaria slipped in under the thin guise of helping her fix a leaking showerhead, relieved to find her roommates were currently out.

“I am so happy you were able to get in, Konstantin. I honestly didn’t expect it,” Amaria whispered, glancing anxiously at the door.

“I was so surprised too, Ama, and you don’t need to call me that since we’re the only ones here.”

“Sorry, Angel, but I have to keep practicing the name so I don’t slip up out there.”

“What will happen if someone finds out I’m a woman?”

“You will be executed, and I’ll likely be the one ordered to kill you.”

“That cannot happen,” Angelina whispered, hot tears instantly pooling in her eyes.

“I missed you so much, Angel,” Amaria said, abandoning her cautious stance to pull her sister into a desperate, tight embrace. They broke the hug the second heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor outside.

“I didn’t know you frequented our room with that stony face of yours, or are you finally taking an interest in our new roommate?” Speaky teased, leaning against the doorframe, though Amaria ignored him entirely, brushing past without a word.

“Tell me, Konstantin, what’s the deal between you two?” Speaky asked, a sharp, curious glint in his eye.

“She just came to help fix the shower, that’s all,” Angelina said, and applauded herself for not stammering at least.

“Come on, let me take you on a tour,” Speaky said abruptly, grabbing her wrist and dragging her out into the hallway. They began navigating the massive compound, weaving through stone corridors and heavy iron gates.

“That is the VOLKOV’S RESIDENCE,” Speaky said, pointing toward a sprawling complex of reinforced buildings framed by heavy golden gates. “That’s where the Capo, his wife, and their lunatic children live—except for Master Rage, who stays in his own private villa.”

“You do know someone might hear you running your mouth,” Silt warned, stepping out from a side corridor to join them.

“I’m not fucking lying,” Speaky retorted. “And oh! Capo means leader in Italian,” Speaky said again after noticing the puzzled look on Angelina’s face.

“Listen, in everything you do here, try hard never to get on Master Rage’s bad side. He’s the most wicked of all.”

Speaky kept walking, pointing out landmarks as they passed. “This is the main training ground.”

“This is the death-by-hanging room.”

“This is the nail room—lined completely with rusted, thorny spikes.”

“And that right there is the most active torture room,” Speaky said, gesturing loosely toward a heavy oak door where the muffled, agonizing shrieks of a woman bled out into the hall. The torturer inside stood with his back to them, striking rhythmically without a shred of pity.

“That man must be so damn wicked,” Angelina mumbled, looking away in disgust, completely unaware that the torturer had just finished up, turned around, and was now striding directly toward them.

Rage’s face was an absolute mask of cold indifference, his dark eyes narrowing sharply as he spotted the new recruit blocking his path, her distracted self standing directly in the center of the narrow corridor.

“Out of the way, idiot,” Rage said, his tone dangerously low and calm.

“But I was here first,” she fired back defensively, throwing him a glare—just as Speaky reached out with a panicked shove meant to yank her out of the way, but his aim went disastrously wrong.

The full force of Speaky’s shove caught Angelina off balance, sending her careening straight forward into Rage’s chest with a hard impact he hadn’t anticipated. Caught completely off guard, Rage lost his footing, hitting the stone floor with a heavy thud—and dragging Angelina down with him, landing squarely on top of him so that their faces hovered inches apart in absolute shock.

She had just accidentally kissed him.