THE DEVIL'S ROSE "CLAIMED BY THE MAFIA LORD "

The night air tasted like rust.

Elena crouched behind a dumpster overflowing with rot and forgotten takeout containers, the stench clawing at her throat. Her breath came in ragged gasps, lungs scorched from the sprint that had dragged her blocks away from the horror. The city buzzed faintly around her—honking horns, a siren in the distance, footsteps that may or may not have been real. But here, hidden in this narrow, piss-stained alley, the world had gone still.

Her knees quivered. Her hands trembled. And her heart thudded so violently in her chest, she swore it echoed off the bricks. One wrong sound, one misstep, and it would all be over.

She pressed her back to the cold brick wall, its surface rough and unyielding. Her eyes darted to the shadows stretching along the alley wall—long, twisted things that seemed to breathe with her fear.

Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t think.

But she had seen it. All of it.

God, I saw everything.

Something wet slid down her arm, dripping from her elbow to the grimy concrete below.

Blood.

Not hers.

Marissa’s.

Elena bit down on a sob, her teeth digging into the back of her hand as the memory rose—vivid, brutal, merciless.

Flashback – 40 Minutes Earlier

“I swear, if that guy from the bodega stares at me one more time, I’m calling ICE on his *ss,” Marissa joked, barefoot and sassy, sprawled across their lumpy thrift-store sofa. Her wild curls were knotted into a lazy bun, and her laughter floated like warm sunlight through the tiny apartment.

Elena sat cross-legged on the faded rug, the acceptance letter trembling slightly in her lap. “You’re such a drama queen. He’s like… seventy.”

“Exactly. He’s got death and debt in his eyes, and he checks out my *ss. Double violation.”

They were celebrating—cheap boxed wine in plastic cups, a half-eaten pizza on the table, joy in the air. Elena had finally landed an internship at one of the best hospitals in the city. Years of late-night shifts, back-to-back classes, sleeping through meals, skipping out on fun—it was finally paying off.

Marissa, ever the life of every celebration, had demanded a toast.

“Next stop: Nurse Rivera, saving the world, one hot ER doctor at a time,” she teased with a wink, holding her cup high.

Elena laughed, cheeks flushed. “Shut up.”

Then came the sound. Soft. Subtle.

A creak.

Just a sliver of a noise, like the door hadn’t closed right.

Marissa stiffened. “Did you leave it—?”

Time cracked open.

A man stepped inside—silent as smoke. Dressed in black from boots to collar. No mask. Just a pale, pitiless face carved from granite, with ink crawling up his throat in the shape of a coiled snake, and a faint scar under his right eye.

Elena froze, brain stumbling to process.

Marissa stood quickly, her voice tense. “Excuse me—who the hell—?”

Two shots.

Sharp. Thunderous. Final.

The sound slammed into Elena like a blow. Marissa jerked once, blood blooming across her chest like a cursed flower. Her eyes widened, not understanding. Fear bloomed too late.

She fell.

And Elena, screaming, fell with her—scrambling across the carpet, hands soaked red as she pressed against the wound. “No no no—Marissa. Stay with me! Please—!”

But Marissa’s mouth moved without sound, her body twitching once before falling still. Her warmth already fading.

The man didn’t flee.

He lingered. Watched. Studied.

Like a hunter savoring the silence after the kill.

“You saw nothing, chica,” he said softly, wiping the barrel of the gun with a cloth he pulled from his pocket. “They only paid me for one.”

He turned, casual and clean.

Elena lifted her head, breath catching in her throat. “Why? Why her?!”

He paused at the doorway.

“She talked too much.”

And then he was gone.

Back to the Present

Elena curled in on herself in the alley, her body racked with dry heaves. The sour tang of cheap wine and bile hit the pavement near her knees. Her fingers clawed at her scalp, trying to tear the memory out of her head, but it clung like tar.

Her best friend. Her sister in all but blood. Her only family in this city.

Gone.

Because she "talked too much."

What does that even mean? Had Marissa overheard something? Said something? Or had Elena, without knowing, brought a nightmare to their doorstep?

She should’ve done something—screamed, begged, fought. Anything. But fear had locked her limbs and turned her body to stone.

And now she was alone.

The sky above rumbled. Ominous. Heavy with storm. The kind of storm that made even rats burrow deeper. But Elena had no place to hide. Her only shelter now was this stinking alley, this veil of rot and shadows.

Why did he leave me alive?

She clenched her jaw.

Because I was meant to suffer.

They didn’t always kill witnesses—at least not right away. No. They let them run. Let them spiral. Because panic makes people sloppy. Easy to find. Easy to silence.

She forced herself to breathe. Think. Focus.

The tattoo—snake winding up his neck.

The scar under his eye.

The way he walked—unhurried. Confident. Like he knew there’d be no consequences.

What do you do when they come, Elena? Marissa’s voice flickered in her memory.

You run. You don’t call anyone. You disappear.

Elena rose unsteadily, hugging herself tightly. Her knees were scraped raw, her foot bleeding from where glass had sliced her skin. But she limped forward, out of the alley, into the street, blinking against the garish city lights.

And then—headlights.

A black SUV rolled down the lane. Slow. Watching.

The windows, tinted too dark, reflected her terrified face as she froze.

The SUV slowed.

Paused.

Reversed.

Her heart stopped.

They found me.

The world spun sideways.

Elena’s legs gave out. The wet pavement rose up to meet her as her body crumpled under the weight of exhaustion and terror. She barely heard the scuff of boots approaching—the shuffle of more than one man. Shadows with purpose.

A voice—sharp, commanding—broke through the ringing in her ears. “She’s bleeding. Bring her in. Now.”

Arms, strong and unyielding, lifted her from the cold ground. The alley lights faded into nothingness.

Darkness gave way to gold.

Elena’s lashes fluttered, her lids heavy as stone. At first, she thought she was dreaming. The ceiling above her gleamed with intricate moldings, painted in soft creams and golds. A crystal chandelier hung above her like frozen fire, unmoving and quiet. The room was too quiet. No hum of traffic. No city shouts. Just silence—thick, unnatural.

She stirred, and pain bloomed across her side like a thorny vine. She winced.

Sheets—silk, warm. A mattress that cradled her l