The Mafia Kings Plaything

Mateo’s POV

I wrapped my torn shirt around what was left of my fucking hand.

My pinky was gone. My pride was bleeding out right with it. But none of that mattered. None of it fucking mattered — not when she was still in danger.

Katarina.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face. Scared. Hiding. Waiting for me to fix this. And I was wasting time — because my useless fucking father had vanished last night with the money that he used to buy her.

Ran off in the middle of the night like a fucking rat, with the money and no spine to show for it.

I wanted to break something. No — I wanted to kill him. But I didn’t have that luxury. Not when Scarface's deadline was closing in.

I needed more money, and I also needed a miracle.

Instead, I got a devil.

I didn’t answer the phone buzzing in Katarina's jacket pocket, she left behind on the couch, even when I saw her best friend’s name flash across the screen.. Speaking with Selena will derail my actions and make me think.

And then made my decision, I was going to save Katarina by all means and bring back my family.

I needed it to save Kat. To get her out of this goddamn mess. To fix the nightmare my father had dumped on all of us before he ran like the coward he is.

She would’ve screamed at me. Begged me not to do it. But I didn’t care. I would burn in hell if it meant she lived.

I went to the deepest corners of the city. The part where people vanished, and no one asked questions.

I had no choice. They were the only ones who could give me that kind of money. That fast. That dirty.

The air was thick with piss, rot, and cheap weed. Rats the size of fucking cats crawled across the dumpsters.

Through the back alleys. Past the broken streetlamps. Past the junkies and the girls in fake fur jackets who offered me more than just directions.

My heartbeat thundered like a war drum in my ears.

This wasn’t bravery. This was desperation in its purest form.

I finally reached the rusted metal door, the one with no number, just a faded red mark painted like a warning.

I knocked once. Twice. A third time, harder. My knuckles left streaks of blood.

It swung open.

Smoke poured out like fog, and behind it stood a man built like a tank, tattoos crawling up his neck like vines strangling his skin.

And standing there, in a bulletproof vest and gold-plated pistol holster, was the loan shark. The most feared loan shark this side of the city.

“You sure you wanna be here?” he asked, eyeing the money bag clutched under my arm. “Most people don’t walk through this door unless they’re ready to leave a piece of themselves behind.”

“I’ve already left enough behind,” I muttered. “Now I need something in return.”

He let me in. The air was thick with sweat, gunpowder, and cigar smoke. Voices laughed somewhere in the back, low and menacing.

I sat across from the boss. The cartels weren’t even close to this kind of evil. This guy? He made grown men piss their pants just by blinking too slow.

“I need two hundred grand,” I said, my voice cracking despite how hard I tried to keep it steady. “I’ll pay it back. I swear. Just give me a deadline.”

He stared at me. Silent. Amused. Then he leaned forward, cigar clenched between yellow teeth.

“You don’t pay me back,” he said, voice like rusted metal. “I don’t take your fingers. I don’t take your toes.”

He grinned wider.

“I take your soul.”

“You sure you want this?” the other guy, who looked calmer, asked, eyeing my busted hand and torn hoodie. “It’s a one-time deal. You miss payment, and you’re dead.” You don't seem like the type to come here.

I didn’t even flinch. I stared him dead in the eyes. “Give me the money.”

He laughed, shook his head, and handed me a duffel bag so heavy it almost dragged me to the ground.

“Signed in blood,” he said. “Literally.”

I arranged the meet with Scarface through Jairo, a twitchy bastard I used to run pills with. I told him it was urgent. And that I had the cash.

He just laughed.

“You sure you wanna do this, bro?” he asked.

I nodded. “Set it up.”

The Docks.

The meeting was set. The warehouse was at the edge of the docks, buried behind rows of empty crates and rusted fences.

No lights. No cameras. No fucking hope.

I showed up with the bag. Alone. My shirt was soaked with sweat and blood. The bandage over my missing pinky was already red again. The bag strapped to my shoulder felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, filled with borrowed promises and the blood of whoever they killed to get that money.

The air was thick. Wet. Like it knew something bad was about to happen.

Scarface was already there.

Boots crusted in blood. Knife sheathed at his side. His eyes are black and empty like a shark circling fresh meat.

“Well, well,” he grinned, standing up slowly, cracking his neck. “Look who finally found his fucking balls.”

I tossed the bag at his feet. “The Money For Katarina”

He opened the bag. “That’s ten times what you gave my father,” I said, my voice dry. “We’re done.”

Scarface unzipped it. His eyes lit up like Christmas came early.

. Fucking money poured out on his boots like goddamn gold dust.

And for a second-a — a split second — I thought maybe… maybe this nightmare was over.

Then he looked at me.

And smiled.

“You think this ends here?” he said softly. I took one step back. “We had a deal.”Then his men moved.

He chuckled. “You think I give a shit about deals? You think Giordano gives a shit?”

Before I could speak, his men were on me.

A fist slammed into my stomach, folding me in half. Another hit my jaw — crack.

I dropped to my knees. “We had a deal.” I gasped again, tasting blood.

The laughing started. Ugly. Loud. Mocking.

“You hear that?” one of them sneered. “The little rat thinks we’re fucking lawyers.”

Another leaned down and spit at my feet. “You brought money to a blood war, pretty boy?”

“Shoulda brought a coffin,” one of them laughed.

Then the boots came. Over and over. Ribs. Head. Stomach.

Blood in my mouth. In my ears. My vision was smeared red. I felt teeth break loose. My knee cracked like a snapped bone.

They didn’t stop.

Not even when I stopped fighting back.

Not even when I started begging.

“Please—” I coughed. “Please, don’t—”

That made them laugh harder.

“Listen to him cry,” one muttered. “Bet his whore sister begs just like that.”

Scarface chuckled from the shadows. “You got your money’s worth, boys. Make it last.”

I couldn’t lift my head anymore. My body was broken. I couldn’t even scream.

Then Scarface crouched beside me, breath hot on my bloodied face.

“You’re lucky I’m feeling merciful,” he whispered. “I’ll let the ocean finish the job.”

He stood.

And the last thing I saw before blacking out…

Was Scarface’s boot swinging straight for my skull.