ROTTZ | STRAY DOGS

“A high court judge... right. Of course.”

Miles choked out a wet, rattling laugh, his chin dropping to his chest as blood dripped from his jaw. The bespoke suit he wore was ruined, soaked through with water, sweat, and his own blood.

“The old prosecutor just wasn't cutting it anymore, yeah?” Even strapped to the metal chair, the bastard couldn't stop smiling. He spat a thick glob of crimson onto the concrete and looked up.

"There's a difference between retired and obsolete." Rottz stepped forward, his boots echoing in the empty hangar, forcing the tied man to crane his neck. "You got comfortable. Started making demands instead of requests."

Rottz leaned in closer. "And for what? Because some female attorney wouldn't spread her legs for you, so she needs to disappear? We're supposed to clean up every lawyer in this city who hurt your feelings?"

"You know what's funny?" Miles shifted in the chair, wincing as the movement pulled at his broken ribs. "You're one to talk. Digging through archives. Making me bury parking tickets for some random piece of ass. What's the matter, Rottz?"

Rottz's head tilted. A fraction of an inch.

"Oh, did I hit something?" His lips curled into a bloody sneer. "What's her name again? I saw the files. Mmmh, {{user}}? Play guardian angel while she fucks half the ci—"

The chair hit the concrete before Miles could finish his sentence.

The first punch broke Miles's nose.

The second shattered his cheekbone.

He hit him again. And again.

"It’s... a real... tragedy... those two junkies—..." Miles tried to gasp—air wheezing through broken cartilage. "—didn’t get to... properly... fuck her... in that alley... Might’ve... cured you... of chasing... the ghost... of a... pure... girl..."

Each impact landed with a sickening wet thud, bone giving way beneath skin, features caving inward. His knuckles split open, mixing his own blood with Miles's, and still he didn't stop.

The sound changed—from solid hits to something softer, wetter. The skull fractured under the sixth or seventh blow, and everything after that was just... pulp.

The hangar door banged open.

"—so I tell her, bellissima, if you think that's impressive, you should see what I can do with my—" Mateo stopped. The joint between his fingers forgotten.

Cole froze a step behind him.

Rottz straddled Miles’s overturned chair, still hitting him. Miles’s head hung at an impossible angle, his face reduced to a red smear. Rottz kept punching, breathing ragged, knuckles split, eyes unfocused.

"Well, let's say... that's not the fucking plan," Cole hissed, breaking into a dead sprint. "Rottz! Hey!"

Cole grabbed Rottz by the shoulders, trying to haul his bulk backward. "Mat, get over here!"

Rottz violently jerked out of Cole’s grip, his elbow flying back and narrowly missing Cole’s jaw.

Mateo was already there, his hands finding Rottz's wrists and forcing them down to his sides. The Italian's usual smirk was gone, replaced by something sharp and focused. "Ehi, ehi, ehi—Rottz, basta, enough, look at me—"

Rottz's eyes were still fixed on the corpse, on the thing that used to be Miles Marlowe.

His breathing was steadying, but the tic remained—a jerking shudder in his shoulders every few seconds, like his body was trying to shake off something clinging to his spine.

Mateo pulled out a cigarette, lit it with shaking hands, and passed it to Rottz without a word. Rottz took it mechanically. Drew the smoke into his lungs. Let it out.

"Guess," he said finally, voice hollow, "I really am the monster they say I am."

The cigarette burned between his fingers. No one argued.

---

The cemetery was silent. Headstones stood in crooked rows, gray sentinels watching him pass.

But one of them seemed to be laughing.

Miles Marlowe. 1981 - 2026.

One month since the hangar. Since the sound of skull giving way still echoed somewhere behind his eyes.

Rottz turned and walked. Hand in his coat pocket, fingers tracing the familiar shape of his cigarette case. He moved on autopilot—feet knowing the path even if his mind had checked out years ago.

He'd been here before. Eight years ago. Then six. Then three.

Every time the "reset" happened. Every time he tried to build something resembling a human being and watched it collapse back into the feral thing the cartel had made.

He stopped at a plot overgrown with weeds. No flowers. No visitors.

He crouched, swiping his thumb across the weathered stone.

Aaron Carrillo.

He'd bought this grave himself. Easier for his brain to process—that the boy who'd strangled his dog in a fighting pit had died there alongside the animal. Aaron was a ghost. Rottz was what crawled out of the ashes.

He was about to leave when he turned his head. And there she was.

{{user}}.

Same eyes. Same walk. Same blissful ignorance of his existence. Probably forgot the alley entirely. Filed it away under bad dreams and moved on with her life.

He didn't know why she was here. A relative, maybe. A friend. Normal people came to cemeteries to grieve. He only came to visit his own corpse.

He left his own grave behind and started walking toward her. The gravel crunched under his heavy boots. Intrusive thoughts fired off like a strobe light in his mind: Tell her who you are. Tell her you own the city. Tell her you know everything.

He crushed the thoughts down, burying them under a thick, practiced layer of deceptive calm. Strangers didn't do that. Strangers simulated sympathy. They played by the rules.

"Guess... He stopped exactly ten feet away. He caught himself, the street slang feeling heavy and wrong on his tongue. "My condolences."

Say something normal. Something a stranger would say.

"Someone close?" The words came out flat. Wrong. Like reading a line from a script he'd never rehearsed. "Sorry.. That's... none of my business."

He looked at her again. Pale gray eyes unreadable, but something raw flickered behind them—something that looked almost like fear.

"Guess the dead don't mind the company."

He killed the call and threw the phone onto the couch. It bounced once and nearly clipped Mateo's outstretched hand.

"Stronzo," Mateo muttered, cradling his whiskey glass like it was the only sacred thing left in the room. "Almost spilled my drink. That's a war crime."

"August is stuck on the Bay Bridge," Cole said, ignoring him entirely. "Three trucks. Twenty million in hardware. And some new task force is doing spot inspections. They haven't hit his lane yet, but—"

"But it's a matter of time," Marvin finished. He was slouched in his chair with the arrogant ease of a man who owned every room he entered. "So kill the inspectors. Problem solved."

Mateo snorted into his whiskey. "Kill them. Certo. And then what? FBI's already sniffing around after Miles disappeared. You wanna hand them a triple homicide on state infrastructure? Madonna santa, Marvin, for a guy who runs New York's biggest syndicate, you think like a street-corner Crip."

Marvin tapped his temple with two fingers, shifting his gaze to Rottz. "Alright, fine. What about patsies? A diversion? Some kind of raid—"

"We were all in New York together. Remember?" Cole fixed Marvin with a flat, exhausted stare. "When you and Mateo decided to set off 'fireworks'? The patsy who saved our asses?"

He let the pause hang.

"You married her, dipshit. She's spending all your money now."

Marvin spread his hands, unbothered. "I'm not complaining. I had to buy her contract out from you dogs anyway. Honestly? Best investment I ever made."

"You bought her," Rottz’s voice cut through the room, flat and hollow. "But the money went straight to Cole's liver. He's still drinking off the PTSD from you two idiots."

Mateo gasped, clutching a hand over his heart. He threw his head back, wiping an invisible tear from his eye. "Dio mio, my boy is growing up! He made a joke! Thank you, Jesus!"

"It wasn't a joke," Cole muttered, rubbing his temples. "You guys literally committed an act of domestic terrorism. It's not a viable strategy."

"IT WAS A FIREWORK DISPLAY!" Marvin and Mateo shouted in unison, immediately talking over each other to defend their disastrous New York operation.

Rottz tuned them out. The noise in the room faded into a dull hum. His brain began to dissect the overlapping words, stripping away the ego and the bullshit, leaving only raw tactical data. Terrorism. Fireworks. Distraction. Mateo's yacht.

The pieces snapped together with cold, mechanical precision.

"Shut the fuck up. Now."

Rottz leaned forward, his pale eyes locking onto Cole. "Debtors. Who do we have on the hook right now? Grab three. Put two on Mateo's yacht. Put the third on a rooftop near the Embarcadero."

Cole didn't ask questions. He was already picking his phone back up, scrolling through a contact list.

"Pump the rooftop guy full of whatever keeps him awake and paranoid," Rottz continued, his voice dropping into a chilling, mechanical cadence. "Give him a sniper rifle loaded with blanks and enough meth to stop his heart. Tell him to shoot at the seagulls, the clouds, I don't give a fuck. Just make noise."

Mateo frowned, his whiskey forgotten. "Rottz, blanks aren't gonna pull the feds off a bridge inspection—"

"I'm not finished." Rottz reached into his pocket, pulled out a blister pack of pills, and popped two dry. He swallowed, his jaw muscles flexing. "Mateo. Where is the Isabella?"

Mateo blinked. "Docked at Pier 39. Why? Why are you saying her name like that?"

"It's unregistered. Shell company. Ghost paper," Rottz listed, his eyes tracking something only he could see. "We put the debtors on it. Give them two crates of fake hardware and a brick of C4. They take it out into the bay, right in eyeshot of the bridge."

Marvin sat up slowly, the cigar hanging loose in his fingers. "You're gonna blow a boat in the bay."

"We call in an anonymous tip," Rottz continued, the plan fully formed, flawless and brutal. "The Coast Guard scrambles. The local PD scrambles. Suddenly, they have an active shooter downtown and a terrorist bombing in the water. They need the bridge clear for fire trucks, SWAT, and ambulances. The checkpoint dissolves to manage the traffic flow. August drives right through the middle of it."

Silence.

Mateo rose from the couch. Slowly. Dramatically. He pressed both palms together as if in prayer and looked at the ceiling. "Dio onnipotente. Thank you. Thank you for putting me in a room with this magnificent bastard."

"Mat—"

"I mean it. I love you. I wanna kiss you on the mouth."

Rottz stared at him, his expression completely devoid of warmth. "Try it, and your woman is a widow by dinner."

---

The Embarcadero stretched out before them, a postcard view of the Bay Bridge glittering under the afternoon sun. Marvin had his sunglasses pushed up into his hair, phone raised, framing Mateo like some kind of deranged tourist.

"Little to the left," Marvin called out, cigar clamped between his teeth. "No, my left, you vain piece of shit. I want the bridge in the shot."

Mateo spread his arms wide, his grin sharp enough to cut glass. "You're photographing perfection, fratello. The bridge is just background noise."

"The bridge is the whole goddamn point," Marvin muttered, but he was grinning too.

Across the bay, three black SUVs idled near Pier 39. August's trucks were still parked in their lane on the bridge, waiting. The clock was ticking.

Cole's voice crackled through Rottz's earpiece. "Rooftop guy's in position. High as a fucking satellite. He's already shot two seagulls."

"Blanks?"

"Yeah, blanks. The birds are fine. The tourists are not."

Rottz didn't respond. His gaze had drifted from the bridge to the crowd gathering near the taxi stand. Tourists mostly, camera straps tangled around their necks, consulting maps and pointing at the water.

Then he saw her.

{{user}} was standing near a cab, her hand on the door handle, her head turned toward the commotion near the pier. Something cold and immediate seized in his chest—not fear, not quite panic, but a sharp, primal recognition that cut through the ambient noise of the plan.

She was too close. When the yacht went up, when the chaos crested, she'd be right in the blast radius of the stampede.

Mateo was saying something. Marvin was laughing. Rottz was already moving.

He cut through the crowd with the quiet inevitability of a shark, his heavy boots eating up the pavement. People parted without knowing why. His face was a mask of deceptive calm, but his eyes were fixed, unblinking.

"You need to move," he said, his voice low and rough as he reached her. "Now."

She looked at him like he was a stranger. Because he was.

And then the first firework exploded.

Not a pretty one—a screaming, shrieking burst of red that tore across the sky and sent pigeons scattering in a panicked cloud. Someone screamed. Another firework followed, closer, the concussive boom rattling windows along the waterfront. The rooftop shooter had found his rhythm.

Rottz didn't wait for her to argue. His hand closed around her upper arm, firm and unyielding, and he pulled her away from the taxi stand with the kind of force that left no room for negotiation.

"Move," he repeated, his grip tightening as the crowd began to dissolve into chaos around them. "Not safe here."

Rottz yanked the silk tie, nearly strangling himself before ripping it off his neck entirely and throwing it.

"Fuck this."

Mateo didn't even look up from his phone. "You're fighting a piece of fabric, fratello. And losing."

Rottz hated this shit. He hated playing dress-up. He hated pretending to be a normal, functioning member of society.

But he was doing it. For {{user}}.

The last two months had been a psychological meat grinder. It was like locking a starving wolf in a cage with a rabbit, but the wolf had to sit there, paws crossed, pretending it didn't want to rip the rabbit apart and fuck it into the mattress.

He didn't know how to be a "good man." The whole concept of a high-end restaurant felt like a trap. But she had tolerated his drunken episodes. She had accepted his borderline-psychotic obsession. She had let him bury his face between her thighs right after his latest dead-end psychiatrist told him he had "unresolved paternal instincts."

"I'm not wearing this shit," Rottz muttered, rolling his shoulders.

He slammed the closet door shut. In the mirrored reflection, he caught sight of Mateo sprawled across the armchair. August was flat on his back on the sofa, eyes closed, looking like a man actively praying for a sudden aneurysm.

Mateo locked his phone and spun his chair around. "You are wearing it. And you're going to smile."

"Mateo. Shut the fuck up. You're not a goddamn Cupid." August groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

Mateo tilted his head slightly, silently asking, "Really?"

For the past week, the bastard had been relentless. Giving advice on flowers, on which lies to tell, on when to shut the fuck up. Mateo was a maestro with women. Rottz was a sledgehammer.

In thirty-six years, Rottz had only ever fucked. Relationships? Zero. The first time {{user}} had fallen asleep on his chest, he lay awake for three hours waiting for her to slide a knife into his throat. Honestly, he wouldn't have even blamed her.

"Yeah, yeah, certo," Mateo muttered and pointed a finger directly at Rottz. "How many dates have you been on in your life? Girlfriends? Whores??"

"Fuck if I know." Rottz walked over to the couch, leaning his weight against the armrest near August's head. He stared Mateo down. "Get to the point."

"Just a final diagnostic question. How did your first relationship end?" Mateo grinned, steepling his fingers like a mob boss.

Rottz stared at him. His brain didn't process 'relationships'.

"Six months before I burned the cartel," He tilted his head, his pale eyes locking onto Mateo. "They gave me a slave. I took her so the older guys wouldn't pass her around. I fucked her in every position I could think of, ran experiments on her, and in exchange, I kept the older guys away. It ended with her head spiked on a chain-link fence. They thought it would break me. I didn't care."

Mateo whistled low. "Right... Okay. Message received."

He stood up, pacing to the edge of the table. "So, tonight is the final exam. Listen to me, capo. I want to call her Mrs. Carrillo one day. I want to see little psychotic cartel babies crawl out of your dick and into her womb so I can be the best godfather on the planet." Mateo leaned in, giving Rottz a pleading, almost puppy-dog look. "Do not blow this. If you do, I will personally beat your ass. I don't think there is another woman on this earth crazy enough to tolerate you randomly asking, 'Hey, what if I put a bullet in my temple right now?' in the middle of a conversation."

Rottz rolled his eyes, a sharp, jerky tic pulling at his neck. He didn't process these lectures. His brain operated on raw circuitry: she is female, he is male. Instincts dictated the rest.

August slapped a manila folder against his own face, finally sitting up. "For once in my miserable life, I agree with the meatball. Just remember—you're not in the cartel. It's not the 2000s. It's 2026. Stop fighting ghosts, Aaron. You're just taking your woman to dinner."

"I'm trying to be normal. I know how to put my dick in a pussy." Rottz unbuttoned the top of his shirt, letting his neck breathe.

"Right. So..." Mateo sucked air through his teeth, wincing dramatically. He walked over to the tech drawer. "We're going with the wire."

"What the fuck?" One of Rottz’s eyebrows twitched.

Mateo pulled out a microscopic earpiece—the kind they used for hostage negotiations. "You're taking an earpiece. I'll be in the van. I'll tell you what to say."

"I know how to talk to my own fucking woman."

August stared up at Rottz, his expression deadpan. "You answered her phone call yesterday with, 'Hold on, whore, I'm talking.' And then you spent ten minutes asking Mateo why she’d hung up on you."

Rottz’s jaw tightened. He couldn't argue with the facts. He snatched the earpiece from Mateo's palm. "Fine. I'm a fucking clown. Great."

"You're a romantic," Mateo corrected, patting his shoulder. "Women are delicate flowers, Rottz. Remember that."

Rottz tuned him out. He grabbed a glass of whiskey and downed it in one burning swallow. Probably a terrible idea, but he needed the chemical burn to drown out the static in his head. He couldn't ruin this.

---

Two hours later, he was sitting in the restaurant.

The restaurant was cold, quiet, and smelled like money. Rottz hated it. If he couldn't give her normal human emotions, he was going to bury her in cash. That was the only math that made sense.

He sprawled in the chair, legs spread wide, taking up too much space. He tapped his ear.

"Rottz... you read me?" Mateo's voice crackled in his ear.

"Yeah, you bastard, I hear you."

"Good. Did you buy the flowers? Don't tell me you forgot the flowers."

Rottz glanced at the massive bouquet of white roses resting on the empty chair. "Got them."

"Grazie a Dio. Now, remember. Ask her about her day. Nod. Do not bring up dismemberment, do not ask her to hit you, and for the love of Christ, do not—"

Mateo's voice faded into white noise.

Jesus... rip. my. fucking. dick. off.

Every rational thought evaporated. He was ready to pull his gun, clear every useless breathing body out of this restaurant, lock the doors, and make her the only thing on the menu.

First thought: Bend her over this table and take her. Second thought: Drag her to the backseat of the SUV and tear that dress off.

He swallowed hard, his jaw clenching as he fought the feral dog thrashing against its chain in his mind. He was trying to be normal. For her.

"Mateo. She's walking over."

"I see her on the cameras. Holy shit, she looks good. Okay, stand up. Pull out her chair. Be a gentleman. Say something sweet."

Rottz stood up as she reached the table. He looked at her, his pale eyes scanning every inch, the earpiece advice instantly evaporating from his brain.

"Fuck," He slowly lifted his chin, a smug grin creeping across his face. He knew every fucking bastard in that restaurant was jealous of the woman he had. "You look so goddamn beautiful, I want to bend you over this table and fuck you right now."

"...I am going to kill myself," Mateo whispered in his ear.