Chapter 15
Dario
The stench of blood and sweat permeates the underground chamber. The two men before me, Enzo's lackeys, are bound to metal chairs, their faces battered, eyes swollen shut.
Raffaele leans against the cold, damp wall, arms crossed, watching. "You think they'll talk?" he asks, his voice echoing in the confined space.
"They always do," I reply, gripping the pliers tighter. The metallic taste of rage fills my mouth. "Pain has a way of loosening tongues."
One of the men, gasping for breath, mutters, "You're a monster."
I crouch down, bringing my face inches from his. "A monster? No. I'm the consequence. The inevitable reckoning for your choices."
"Enzo will kill you."
A bitter laugh escapes me. "Enzo? He's already dead. He just doesn't know it yet."
I nod to Raffaele, who steps forward, handing me a rusted blade. The dim light glints off its edge. "Last chance," I say, my voice cold. "Names. Dates. How do I dismantle your operation?"
He spits blood onto the floor, defiance gleaming in his eyes. "Go to hell."
A smirk tugs at the corner of my mouth. "Wrong answer." I nod to Raffaele, who steps forward, knuckles cracking ominously.
As Raffaele goes to work, the man's screams echo off the concrete walls like a symphony of agony. I watch dispassionately as minutes stretch into an eternity before the man breaks and starts sobbing.
"Alright, alright! I'll talk! Just... please, stop."
I crouch down, meeting his tear-filled eyes. "I'm listening."
He spills everything—names of key players, dates of shipments, locations of safe houses. I commit each detail to memory, the puzzle pieces falling into place. When he's finished, I stand and draw my pistol.
"Wait," he pleads, panic flooding his voice. "You said you'd let me go!"
I shake my head slowly. "I said I'd let you talk." The gunshot echoes sharply, and his body slumps, lifeless.
Turning to the second man, I see the horror etched on his face. He knows what's coming. I step closer, my voice a cold whisper. "Your turn."
He breaks almost immediately, babbling incoherently, offering information I already possess.
Useless. I nod to Raffaele, who begins a slow, methodical torture of removing his fingernails with a pair of pliers, just to draw out the man's suffering.
There's a grim satisfaction in watching him pay for his sins, a dark justice served.
Once his screams fade into whimpers, I leave him to his fate. He won’t last the night.
Raffaele and I slip into the car, cutting through Chicago’s backstreets. The intel we pried from him leads us to a nondescript warehouse by the docks—It’s the heart of Enzo’s empire.
A facade for illicit transactions.
Raffaele breaks the peace. "You think Enzo will retaliate?"
"I hope he does," I reply, eyes fixed ahead.
We arrive, parking a block away. The warehouse looms in the distance, its exterior betraying nothing of the secrets within. We approach on foot, shadows among shadows.
At the entrance, there are two guards standing, totally oblivious to their impending fate.
Raffaele moves like a shadow and drives his blade across the first man's throat before he even registers the attack.
I dispatch the second with a single gunshot muffled by the suppressor.
They slump, lifeless, as we step over them.
Inside, the room reeks of ink, paper, and the stink of laundered money. Desks overflow with ledgers, and computers hum, feeding Enzo’s empire.
Raffaele sets the explosives. “This will rattle them.”
I glance at the mess of numbers, the foundation of Enzo’s power.
“No,” I murmur. “This is the fucking funeral.”
As he works, I rifle through the papers, seeking anything that might give us an edge. Names, numbers, accounts—evidence of Enzo's reach. One name stands out: Marco Ricci, a banker with ties to Enzo's operations.
I pocket the document. "Got what we need. Let's finish this."
We exit the warehouse, leaving behind a symphony of destruction set to a timer. And a note, a final taunt to Enzo: "Every move you make brings you closer to your end."
As we retreat to a safe distance, the night is torn asunder by the explosion.
Back in the car, I hand Raffaele the document. "Ricci's our next target."
He glances at it, nodding. "Where do we find him?"
"His office."
We arrive at Ricci's office building, a towering monument to greed. The lobby is deserted, the elevator ride up eerily quiet.
On the top floor, we find Ricci alone and poring over spreadsheets. He looks up, shock evident across his features.
"Who—"
I cut him off, pistol aimed. "Dario Bellini. We need to talk."
Raffaele secures the room, ensuring no interruptions. Ricci's eyes dart between us, fear evident.
"Please, I have a family," he pleads.
"Spare me," I retort. "You're a cog in Enzo's machine. Give me a reason not to end you."
He stammers, "I can help. I have information—accounts, contacts. I can dismantle his network from the inside."
I consider his offer. In this world, trust is a luxury I can't afford.
"Fine," I say finally. "But if you betray me, I won’t just end you—I’ll erase everything you love from this fucking world."
He nods vigorously, sweat beading on his brow. "I understand."
We leave him, a pawn now under our control. As we descend, Raffaele speaks. "You think he'll follow through?"
"He will," I reply, a cold certainty in my voice. "Fear is a powerful motivator."
The night deepens as we step into the street, the city's pulse fast, unaware of the upheaval within its veins. Each move brings me closer to Enzo, but with every step, the abyss beckons.
In this game of shadows, only one truth remains: to destroy the monster, I must become one. So glad I got the memo years ago.
***
Back in my study, I pour a glass of whiskey. Vittoria's intel had been accurate. I had to hold Vigo’s child hostage but at least he made himself available and led us straight to the heart of Enzo's operation. But the cost... the blood on my hands... it's a stain that won't wash away.
I glance at the bloodstains on my cuffs, a stark reminder of the darkness within. In the end, does any of it matter? The power, the control... it's all fleeting, a mirage in the desert of life.
I drain the glass, the bitterness a fitting companion to my thoughts. The path I've chosen is paved with suffering, and I can't help but wonder if there's a way out, or if I'm destined to walk this road alone, until it consumes me entirely.
But as the alcohol warms my throat, a hollow emptiness gnaws at me. This life of violence, of endless retribution... is there any escape? Or am I doomed to this cycle, a puppet to my own vengeance?
I haven't touched her since the betrayal.
Haven't let myself. I locked her in that room, told myself it was to punish her, to keep her from causing more damage.
But the truth? I'm scared. Scared that if I see her, I'll lose control.
That I'll kiss her, hold her, forgive her. And I can't afford that weakness.
But damn, I miss her. I miss the way she'd hum off-key while cooking breakfast. The way she'd steal the covers in the middle of the night, leaving me cold but smiling.
The scent of her shampoo on my pillow. The little notes she'd leave in my jacket pockets, reminding me to eat, to take care of myself.
It's pathetic, really. A hardened man like me, brought to my knees by these trivial memories.
I haven’t had sex with anyone else since her, and I haven’t wanted to.
The thought of being with someone else feels like a betrayal in itself.
And fuck it if she isn’t the only one I want.
The need to pin her down and plunge myself into her with heat over and over again until there’s nothing left but me…
it’s driving me insane. I find myself lying awake at night, jerking off to thoughts of her body, her scent, her nipples, and those fucking lips.
The ache is almost unbearable. But I won’t give in. I can’t.
I pour another glass, trying to drown the longing, the anger, and the goddamn confusion. But no amount of whiskey can wash away the truth. I still crave her, despite everything. And that might be the cruelest irony of all.