The Man is a Cacciatore

EPISODE 8

Cassandra

Shifting, I heard the clanking of chains. My limbs felt heavy, numb, and unbearably cold. Every part of me ached, and my breaths rattled in my chest. Maybe this is Hell. I was a sinner, after all. And after watching Demitri and Candy die because of me…

I deserved every ounce of this pain.

Their faces before they died haunted me. The way Demitri had looked at me—his normally hardened, handsome features softened by something almost unrecognizable. Sadness.

And Candy… fuck.

The fear in her eyes as she screamed, just before her brains splattered across the wall behind her.

I hissed as I curled into a fetal position, my ribs screaming in protest. They were definitely broken. A slow, shaky breath escaped me as another wave of guilt and agony crashed over me. But my eyes were dry. I had cried all I could.

After arriving here two days ago, I had shed every tear possible. Now, I was dehydrated and throbbing in every limb. Declan hadn’t gone easy on me. The moment he threw me down here, he wailed on me with fists and feet, screaming about how pathetic and worthless I was.

He was trying to break me.

“Those girls burned alive because of you. If you didn’t spread your legs for every rich prick that walked past you, this wouldn’t have had to happen!” Declan’s voice had echoed in my ears.

Thud!

His boot connected with my ribs again, sending blood flying from my mouth as I tried to crawl away. My arms gave out beneath me, and I collapsed, instinctively curling up to shield my head and face.

A sharp yank on my scalp.

Crack!

Pain exploded in my skull as he slammed my head against the cement floor. White and black spots swarmed behind my swollen lids.

“D-Declan,” I rasped through the blood in my mouth. “Please… stop.” I was so tired. So fucking tired.

For the first time, he listened. He left me there, sprawled on the cold ground, either to die slowly or to wait until he decided to finish me off. The clang of the cell door echoed through the suffocating silence.

I was certain this miniature prison was beneath Finnigan’s estate. Every night I could smell when they had dinner, the memories of my time here tormented me—the home cooked meals, the laughter, the idea of family. The McCalisters.

And tonight was no different.

Slow, deliberate footsteps prowled down the stairs. I curled in tighter. I couldn’t open my eyes—not out of fear, but because the swelling had forced them shut.

“Hello, Cass.”

A slow purr, dangerously close. My stomach twisted. If there had been anything in it, I would have hurled. But they had been starving me since I arrived.

“You look stunning.”

With a shaky hand, I lifted a middle finger in his direction.

He chuckled. “Still as feisty as ever.”

The cell door groaned open, and the scent of Declan’s cologne filled my senses like a living nightmare. He crouched in front of me.

Rough hands clamped around my arm, yanking me up. A scream tore from my throat as my body protested, pain lancing through every nerve. His other hand gripped my jaw tightly.

“You might not be able to open your eyes,” he murmured, his breath fanning over my face, “so I want you to listen carefully.”

My breaths came in rapid, shallow gasps. A slick sheen of sweat clung to my skin, mixing with the filth and blood.

“Tomorrow night will be your last fucking night on this earth.”

He leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear.

“I’m going to treat you so good, baby.”

His tongue flicked against my skin, and a violent shudder ripped through me. My empty stomach heaved.

Declan laughed. “Then I’m going to fucking kill you. And the best part?” He paused, savoring it. “Leo will get this precious head of yours as a little present.”

I whimpered, trying to pull away.

Declan yanked me closer, dragging me into a mockingly gentle embrace. My body stiffened in excruciating protest, but he shushed me, stroking my matted hair.

“I’ll be sure to paint your face nice and pretty with my fucking cum before I send you off. No need to worry.”

His maniacal laughter sent bile crawling up my throat.

I vomited what liquid I had left all over him.

“Fucking bitch!”

He shoved me backward, my skull cracking against the bars with a sickening thwak. A final slap sent me sprawling onto the cold, unwelcoming floor.

The cell door slammed shut.

Declan’s footsteps stormed away, his curses echoing down the hall.

A single tear slipped down my cheek.

“Leo…” I whimpered, before everything faded into darkness.

Leo

My head snapped back as I hit the ropes, the impact knocking the wind from my lungs. Across from me, Ciro bounced on his feet, a cocky grin stretched across his blood-streaked face. The open cuts on his brow, nose, and lower lip made him look like Heath Ledger’s Joker.

I swiped the back of my hand across my mouth, dark red smearing over my tan skin.

“Again,” I snapped, pushing off the ropes and raising my fists.

Ciro laughed like a maniac, mirroring my stance. He wasn’t enjoying the reason we were in the boxing ring at my estate—no, but he did enjoy pain. A masochist through and through. Ever since we started boxing at ten years old, he had fallen in love with the art of fighting. He craved a challenge, and I was the only one at his level.

We circled each other, my rage fueling every movement. Lunging forward, I threw a jab. Ciro blocked with his forearm, sliding in to thrust an uppercut. Anticipating his move, I jumped back and struck the side of his head with my elbow.

Ciro grunted. “Fuck. Is that it? You could’ve easily followed that with an uppercut to my chin, brother.” He shook his head in disappointment. “Or is your mind still on Cassandra and how she’s probably fucking dead?”

“Fuck you!”

The words tore from my throat, raw and guttural. I attacked faster, hitting him with combo after combo. I knew he was just trying to help me release this anger and frustration I had pent up.

Ciro only laughed, dodging, blocking, taking a few hits in vulnerable spots. Then, with a roundhouse kick, I sent him flying into the corner.

“That’s enough,” I muttered between heavy breaths.

Ripping off my knuckle guards, I tossed them to the ground. “Ciro, I can’t stop thinking about her. If we wait any longer, she’ll die.”

I leaned against the ropes, arms draped over the top, head falling onto my forearms. Deep inhales, shaky exhales. My little Topo had been gone for two days now, and I knew I was running out of time. If we didn’t act soon, I’d never fucking see her again.

A loud clap landed on my bare back, the sound sharp against my damp skin.

“Our men are ready to go tomorrow,” Ciro said, his voice void of his usual amusement. Almost empathetic. It made me lift my head, peering at him through sweat-slick strands of hair.

“Good.” I swallowed, my throat thick with emotion.

Ciro dipped his chin, gripping my shoulder and pulling me upright. “Come on, let’s get some food in you. You’ll need your strength for when we go kill those motherfuckers.”

Nodding mindlessly, I followed him out of the ring.

⸻

Finding out that Oblivion had been infiltrated while I was busy with other business had burrowed under my skin, filling me with guilt and a rage so potent it scorched my soul.

Dimitri—dead.

Fuck. He was a good man. Too fucking young.

The girls we found in the wreckage? We didn’t even know if they were dead before or after the fire. I’d never know. Their bodies were nothing but ash and a few bones.

My dirty cops confirmed what I already suspected—it was the Irish. Specifically, Declan McCalister.

My jaw clenched. My hands curled into fists.

Ciro gestured for me to sit at the sleek black bar stool, but the pristine, modern kitchen only agitated me further. I slammed my fists against the granite, rattling the decor, knocking a few items to the floor.

“Having a temper tantrum isn’t going to change the fact that she’s probably in that fucking basement at the McCalister mansion,” Ciro said calmly, yanking open the fridge and rummaging through it.

Gio entered, standing stoically at the kitchen’s entrance. He didn’t speak—just waited to be addressed. He was taking Dimitri’s loss harder than any of us. They had a long history. Probably considered him a little brother.

I jerked my chin. “Come here.”

His black boots thudded with each purposeful step.

“I just heard from Nico. The soldiers are ready.”

I nodded, grinding my teeth.

Ciro grunted in approval. He already knew. He turned on the stove, cracking eggs into a bowl and tossing in chopped vegetables.

“You hungry, Gio?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Sit,” I ordered, motioning to the stool beside me. I left no room for argument.

Gio moved with ease, his broad shoulders brushing mine as he adjusted into the seat.

Running a hand through my damp hair, I sighed. “Any beers in the fridge, Ciro?”

Ciro set the bowl down, grabbed three beers, and twisted off the caps with ease. He slid them in front of us.

I lifted mine.

“To Dimitri. And the poor bellas we lost at Oblivion.” My voice was tight as I fought back the burn in my eyes.

“D was a good man,” Gio murmured. “A brother. A friend. A father.”

My brow arched. A father? I hadn’t known that.

Ciro dipped his chin. “He was a fucking terrible poker player, but the funniest bastard I’d ever met. Besides me, of course.”

A small, sad chuckle left Gio and me.

We clinked our bottles together and took long pulls, the silence between us heavy with unspoken memories of Dimitri.

Ciro continued cooking, the scent of eggs filling the air. But all I could taste was the tension—the weight of the upcoming war.

The fucking Irish were going to pay.

Cassandra

The faint scent of fresh linen and scotch stirred me from a pain-induced slumber, my body unable to handle anything more than what it had already endured. The cold, damp floor beneath me sent a dull ache through my limbs, its unforgiving surface pressing against my battered bones. The faint flicker of candlelight danced against the stone walls, casting eerie, elongated shadows that made the tiny cell feel even smaller.

A draft slipped through the door at the top of the basement steps, sending a shiver through my already frozen body. Rats skittered in the corners, their tiny claws scraping against the cement, reminding me that I wasn’t alone in this hellhole. My head pounded with each weak beat of my heart, my breathing shallow as I struggled to stay present.

“Lass, wake up.”

The familiar sweet voice coaxed me from the abyss, gentle yet firm.

My swollen eyes cracked open through the crust that had formed there, my vision blurring against the dim lighting. I forced my lips to part, my throat raw from dehydration.

“Finnigan?” I rasped, my voice barely above a whisper.

Relief and hope washed over me. He was here. This man—who had once been like a father to me—had finally come. He hated when Declan beat me, I knew it. He’d always protected me before. My dirty, bloodstained fingers reached for him, trembling.

But Finnigan surprised me. He stepped back.

My hand dropped to the cold floor as I tried to push myself upright, my body screaming in protest. I managed to get halfway up, my bleary gaze lifting to meet his. But something was different. His features—once weathered with warmth—looked sharper now, harsher. The ice-blue of his eyes, so much like Declan’s, had lost all familiarity.

I didn’t know this man.

“You’re in a heap of shit, lass.” His voice was cold, his narrowed gaze slicing through me like a blade.

“Finni—”

He cut me off.

“Save your last breaths, you traitorous wench.”

His spat, the thick glob landed on my face, the crude gesture making me flinch. Humiliation burned through me, the heat of it stark against my frozen skin.

“I came to say goodbye,” he continued, his wrinkled hands clenching at his sides. “You were like a daughter to me.”

The betrayal in his rigid posture made my stomach sink.

“Please, Finnigan, I didn’t have a choice.” My voice cracked, desperate, pleading. “But I—I asked them to spare your wife and daughters.”

I had tried. I had done everything I could.

His eyes darkened.

“You’re a rat.” His voice was thick with disgust, and before I could react, his boot connected with my collarbone.

A sickening crack echoed through the cell.

Pain detonated through my chest, radiating down my arm and into my neck. A strangled scream tore from my throat as I collapsed, clutching the useless limb, my body convulsing from the impact.

“I’m so sorry, Finn,” I choked out, though my eyes remained dry—no liquid left to shed. My head throbbed in sync with my fractured bones, my body drowning in agony.

I never thought my life would end like this. Not at the hands of the very people who had saved me.

A lifetime ago—when I was fresh out of an abusive relationship with an ex-con who had nearly killed me—I thought my suffering was over until Declan had found me in an alley behind a dumpster, where my piece of shit ex had left me to die from a stab wound. He carried me to the McCalister estate, where Finnigan and Abigail had called in their family doctor. They let me rest. They let me heal. Declan stayed by my side the entire time.

Back then, I hadn’t known he was a monster.

But that’s what narcissistic psychos do. They love-bomb you, ensnaring you in a web of lies. And by the time you’re too deep to escape, they strip away the mask, revealing the monster beneath.

The year I spent with the McCalisters had been a dream. I believed I would marry Declan one day. I was happy.

Now, I was nothing but a shattered, discarded plaything.

Finnigan exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “Save your apologies for God, you wretched whore. I curse you and your soul. I hope you rot in hell.”

The venom in his words stung worse than any of my injuries.

Then, without another glance, he turned and left, his footsteps fading into the distance, leaving me alone in the cold, rotting cell.

I sat there, consumed by the shame, the guilt, the self-loathing that had been festering for three days now.

How could I deny it?

I was a traitor.

I was a whore.

Not only had I let Leo touch me, but Ciro as well. I had outed the McCalisters to save my own skin.

I was selfish. I was pathetic.

My stomach twisted with the weight of my own thoughts. Leaning over, I dry-heaved onto the cell floor, my body too weak to even purge the sickness inside me.

Leo

The four of us—Gio, Ciro, Nico, and I—sat in the dimly lit warehouse at the docks, waiting for our men to arrive. The air was thick with the stench of fish, and mildew, the rank scent curling in my nostrils and clinging to my clothes. It reeked of rot. Of death.

Rust-covered shipping containers loomed around us like silent sentinels, their peeling paint whispering stories of forgotten cargo. The floor beneath my boots was damp, the water seeping in from the docks, mixing with oil stains and remnants of past dealings.

I was used to the filth. Used to the waiting. But tonight, there was an unease settling in my chest. A storm brewing in my gut that had nothing to do with the surroundings.

Looking at the guys I noticed each of them preparing for what we were about to do, Cairo loading and cleaning his gun, Nico smoking a cigarette, and Gio strapping on extra clips for his semi-automatic. I had everything I needed, my lucky Glock in steel grey, the one I always used.

The chime of my phone sliced through the silence, and with the urgency of what was to come, I quickly checked it.

My heart stopped.

The breath in my lungs turned to ice.

It was a photo.

Cassandra.

Still in her fishnet dress from Oblivion three nights ago, but barely recognizable.

Her eyes were swollen and crusty, her body a patchwork of deep green, black, and blue bruises, dried blood crusting over her skin. Her lips, once so full and soft, were split and caked with red. Some of the bruises were so dark, so deep, that I could tell bones had been broken beneath them.

My gut twisted violently.

“Fuck,” I whispered in horror, the word barely escaping my lips.

Ciro stepped beside me, and I heard the sharp intake of his breath. It was rare—too rare—to hear that kind of reaction from him.

“Marone.” His voice was a growl, thick with fury.

My hands trembled, my grip tightening around the phone until my knuckles turned white. Rage, horror, and disgust warred inside me.

How dare they do this to her?

My sweet principessa.

My Topo.

My vision blurred at the edges, but I forced my eyes to stay locked on the image. Forced myself to engrave it into my mind because I would not forget. I would not fucking forgive.

After that dinner at my family’s house, I had decided—I would marry this woman.

I needed her more than life itself. Every minute spent apart from her chipped away at my soul, darkening it further.

She was the only cure for my blackened heart.

“Nico, tell the soldiers to meet us at the McCalister’s. We leave now.” My voice was sharp, a blade slicing through the tension.

Nico nodded, already pressing his phone to his ear as he walked off.

Another message followed the image.

I scrolled down.

“She’s mine. If I can’t have her, nobody fucking will.”

Declan.

The implication was clear.

He was going to kill her.

A fire erupted in my chest, an inferno so consuming that I could barely breathe past it.

I couldn’t let this fucking happen.

“Let’s go. Now,” I ordered, my strides purposeful as I stormed toward the bulletproof black SUV.

Sliding into the back seat, my grip tightened around the safety bar with one hand and the cold metal of my gun handle with the other. My thumb traced over the safety, a quiet promise to myself.

I had been too lenient.

Too fucking cocky.

I had given her too much freedom, let her believe she could outrun the inevitable. I knew they would come for her, but I had underestimated their audacity.

That was my mistake.

Declan’s mistake?

Thinking he could get away with this. The Irish prick and I had always had beef, mostly because he was an unpredictable liability for everyone within a five mile radius of him. Anywhere this little cocksucker went he caused chaos in his wake, it didn’t matter what turf he was on.

He’s cost me too much money, given me too many headaches, and now he has taken the only light that I have ever had in my life. He was undeserving of Cassandra, unworthy. If I had met her when they first started dating I would’ve warned her about him.

But maybe God had a plan, maybe he knew Declan had to die to keep her safe. This was my redemption and his damnation.

The muscle in my jaw ticked as I lifted the gun, checking the chamber. The weight of it was familiar, comforting.

Declan was going to die.

And I would be the one to put a bullet in his fucking brain.

Cassandra

Loud footsteps thundered down the stairs, each stomp heavy with anger.

“Get up! Get the fuck up now, Cass!”

Declan’s voice ripped through the suffocating silence, sharp and venomous. The cell door was already open. They didn’t even bother locking it anymore. Not now that I was too battered to run, too weak to fight.

I didn’t move fast enough.

A fist tangled into my matted black hair and yanked me to my feet. A scream tore from my throat as agony exploded through my ribs, my collarbone grinding in protest.

“Fuck, Declan! I’ll come!” I rasped, my voice hoarse, barely carrying. My trembling fingers clawed at his grip, but he only tightened his hold, making sure I felt every ounce of his control.

He released me with a violent shove, only to seize my shoulders, dragging me in close. His breath, hot and acrid with whiskey, fanned over my cheek as I forced my feet to move. Each step sent sharp, stabbing pain through my chest.

“I sent a beautiful photo to your little Italian lover,” he spat, his lips grazing my ear.

I stiffened, nausea curling in my gut.

His fingers slid through my tangled hair, brushing it back like a lover’s touch. Mocking. Cruel.

“Made sure he knew exactly who you belong to.”

Declan straightened, his grip shifting to the back of my neck. He squeezed—tight, punishing. White-hot pain shot up my spine as my broken bones ground together.

I sucked in a sharp breath, my teeth clenching against the scream threatening to rip free. He chuckled darkly at my pain.

We stepped into the main house, and the sudden shift in atmosphere made my stomach twist. The stark contrast between the dungeon’s cold, damp rot and the polished opulence of the mansion made me feel filthier.

The high ceilings, the pristine marble floors, the lingering scent of expensive cigars and aged whiskey—it was all so surreal, like I had stepped into a dream I no longer belonged to.

Be small, Cassandra. Just stay small.

Declan knew I felt it.

He straightened his shoulders, rolling them back with satisfaction. He was parading me now, like a fucking trophy.

As we passed through the grand hall, I caught glimpses of movement. More foot soldiers than I’ve ever seen here. They were scrambling, checking their weapons, barking orders into phones.

The beehive had been kicked.

They knew something was coming.

Declan’s grip on my neck tightened. He picked up the pace, his steps more erratic. His paranoia was seeping through the cracks now—jaw locked, nostrils flared, shoulders rigid.

He knew.

We climbed the grand staircase, his movements growing rougher, more frantic. Every hurried step sent fresh waves of agony through my battered body. But I barely registered the pain anymore.

I could feel it now.

The shift.

The air had changed.

Something was coming.

Declan shouldered his bedroom door open and threw me inside.

I stumbled forward, my body screaming in protest. My arms wrapped around my ribs as I sucked in a shallow, ragged breath.

“Move to the bed.”

I hesitated.

The king-sized bed loomed in front of me, sheets rumpled from the night before. I could still smell his cologne lingering in the air, it clogged my sinuses.

My gaze snapped back to Declan.

His eyes gleamed with something unhinged—fury and hunger. The kind of twisted look only a maniac would wear when he knew he was about to lose everything.

“Now!” he roared.

Flinching, I forced my legs to move, my body trembling as I approached the bed. I stood facing it, refusing to turn back.

I didn’t want to see it coming.

Didn’t want to look into his eyes when he killed me.

The heat of his body pressed against my back, and my stomach sank.

His hands hovered over my shoulders, tracing down my arms until they reached my waist. His grip tightened. Hard.

At another time, I would have melted under his touch.

But now?

Revulsion crawled through my skin like insects, bile rising in my throat. My body rejected this, every nerve screaming in protest.

“Here’s what’s going to happen, Cass.”

His voice was low, thick with something far worse than anger.

“You’re going to let me fuck you one last time, and you’re going to take it like a good girl. Show some fucking appreciation.”

His thumbs pressed into my hips as he yanked me closer. His nose brushed my hair, his breath ghosting over my ear.

I gagged, my stomach flipping violently, but I had nothing left to purge.

“Do you understand me?” he growled.

Then—

Gunfire.

The sharp, rapid crack-crack-crack of automatic weapons rang outside.

Shouting. Screaming. Barked orders.

The mansion was under attack.

Declan’s hold tightened in an instant. His fingers twisted into my hair, ripping me backward and slamming my face into the mattress.

Pain detonated through my skull. My collarbone like a cracked brittle twig, agony searing through every nerve.

A scream ripped from my throat, my body arching in protest. But the sheets muffled the sound, swallowing it whole.

My lungs burned.

I gasped, struggling against the thick comforter, my limbs flailing. Panic flared. My body kicked into survival mode, adrenaline masking the worst of the pain.

Declan shoved me down harder, forcing my legs apart.

More gunshots—closer now.

A cool breeze brushed over my thighs.

A tear.

The fabric of my panties split apart.

I thrashed, but my vision swam, black spots creeping into my peripherals. My chest tightened as my oxygen slipped away.

“Stop fighting, Cass!”

Declan’s voice was distant now, warped by the ringing in my ears.

I was slipping under.

“Finally,” I heard him murmur.

My limbs felt heavy. My arms wouldn’t move. My legs were numb.

“Gonna fuck you to death,” he whispered, laughing. “And send the video to Leo.”

Then—

A roar.

The door slammed open.

A gunshot.

The world tipped into silence.

Then—nothing.