CHAPTER 46
MARCELLO
Santino and I headed to the airport.
This was it—the final hunt.
Everything Lorenzo had carved out of my life—years of grief, betrayal, blood—would finally be answered.
When he touched Roxanne, something snapped. He didn’t just cross a line; he reminded me why men like him don’t get to keep breathing. I’d burned his empire. Drove him into a corner. Set the trap. Now all that remained was to wait for the rat to bite.
Santino got word that one of Lorenzo’s men was spotted outside Kyra’s school in Mumbai.
He flew down and caught the bastard himself—an independent contractor.
Used a fisherman’s boat as his torture chamber, he flooded the bastard’s lungs one bucket at a time—waterboarding, drowning, reviving, repeating—until the fucker begged for death.
By morning, the boat was gone. So was the man.
Santino had his own sadistic style. Water. Always water. He was drawn to it like a fish with a vendetta. He never rushed it. Never lost control. That was what made it terrifying.
Martin confirmed Lorenzo was planning an auction, and I knew it wasn’t art.
The location would be decided by his new partners—the triads.
Instead of chasing the venue, we decided to lure him out.
Cheung and Ronnie had managed to unite the other triads by exposing Lorenzo’s ambition to take over their operations and trade.
The only way to flush him out was to ensure the auction happened on neutral ground—Malaysia—where we’d have access to men and guns. Neutral ground meant one thing—no rules, no jurisdiction, no saints watching.
We arrived in Malaysia two days after the wedding. It was the hardest goodbye of my life. I kissed Roxanne like it was the last time. Like a man marching to war, tasting the memory of what he might never touch again. I held her like I could imprint her into my bones.
I promised I’d come back. But the truth was I wasn’t sure I would. And if I didn’t… I needed her to know I died protecting her.
The Shandong triads were lethal—not just skilled in martial arts, but also trained in advanced weaponry. We had our guns, and thanks to Martin being an ex-mercenary, a few of us were as good as 10 of theirs.
Martin and Ronnie met us at the tarmac in Kuala Lumpur.
“Lorenzo will be at Club Ion at 8. The auction starts at 11. It’s an online bid. But the kids will be displayed via a direct private link to the buyers. I’ve got the best hackers tracking these buyers, with a direct link to Interpol and local authorities,” Ronnie said.
“My men will be rescuing the kids once Lorenzo is out,” Martin added.
I nodded, studying my Glock before tucking it in the back of my trousers. Santino picked up a knife and a gun.
Martin had already packed—like he’d been waiting for this day his whole life.
The drive was quiet. I closed my eyes and saw Roxanne—hair dancing in the wind, laughing, circling me like gravity. Her mouth on mine. Her hands on my skin. Her fingers brushing my lips.
I missed her like oxygen. Without her, everything felt hollow. But this was essential—it had to end. If my story with Roxanne was meant to continue, Lorenzo’s had to end.
We arrived by nine. Ronnie’s men had already infiltrated the club—some as security, some as customers.
The heavy doors of the club opened into loud bass beats of music. The strip club reeked of sweat, perfume, and desperation. Bloodlust clung to the walls. It was the kind of place where men disappeared, and no one blinked. Red lights strobed like seizures while girls danced with dead eyes.
The door to the private room where Lorenzo was being serviced was guarded by only one stupid chink. Martin slit his throat before he could blink. One clean slice and arterial spray hit the wall like a red signature—Martin’s calling card.
Lorenzo lounged in a velvet booth, pants down, head thrown back. The bastard looked like a king of filth, ruling from a throne of velvet and vice. A woman knelt between his legs, gagging.
“Just like that,” he moaned. “Perfect little slut, aren’t you?”
The poor woman choked. Santino pulled her away and slipped her cash. Lorenzo laughed, still with his pants down.
“Marcello, figghiu miu, thanks for letting an old man finish.”
“Shut it, or it gets blown off,” Santino said, pointing the gun at his flaccid cock.
Lorenzo zipped up, still smirking. I punched him hard, straight to the nose. Bone crunched under my knuckles, warm blood spraying across his jaw like war paint. Santino tied his hands behind his back, walking him out of the room and club. The chase was over. The reckoning had begun.
As we stepped out, we were ambushed. Bullets flew. Bodies dropped. The street turned into a shooting gallery—metal, screams, blood misting the air.
Martin grabbed Lorenzo and held tight.
“Don’t let him get away,” I shouted over the gunfire.
Muzzle flashes split the dark—white, blinding. Glass shattered. Ronnie returned fire. A body hit the pavement hard enough to rattle bones. Martin took down two. Someone screamed, then stopped. The air stank of cordite, panic and the copper tang of blood. Santino dragged me behind a car for cover.
“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Santino snapped, pointing to my bleeding arm.
I had barely noticed the bullet that grazed my arm.
“It’s a flesh wound,” I replied, flexing my arm. “Let’s finish this.”
We opened fire, answering shot for body. As soon as we heard sirens wailing, we jumped into a car and sped off.
Ronnie had connections at Port Klang.
The warehouse was dim—concrete walls, rusted beams, the scent of salt and oil thick in the air. Lorenzo sat on a steel chair, wrists bound, blood crusted on his lip. His nose was broken. A tooth missing. Ronnie paced in front of him, voice low, deliberate.
“Where are the other warehouses?”
Santino leaned against the wall, silent. His fingers toyed with the blade—slow, rhythmic. He didn’t speak. But his eyes never left Lorenzo. Lorenzo laughed, blood bubbling at the edge of his mouth.
“Sta lassannu sti fimmineddi fari u so spassu? Affrontami, finocchiu.”
(You’re letting these pussies have their fun? Face me, faggot.)
His voice carried that old Sicilian arrogance—men like him rotted from the inside out. I didn’t respond. Instead, I pulled out my phone and texted Roxanne.
Her words steadied my hand. Anchored the monster inside me, barely. My chest tightened. She was my anchor. My reason.
“How many will you take down, huh?” Lorenzo asked, spitting blood on the floor. “You destroy one, two more crawl out of the gutter.”
Lorenzo scoffed. “Your chink boy here’ll take over. When there’s demand, supply finds a way.”
Ronnie unsheathed his blade—long, curved, gleaming. He moved fast. One slice to the calf. Another to the thigh. A third across the bicep. Skin peeled open like fruit. Blood dripped onto the concrete. Lorenzo jerked, hissed, blood blooming in ribbons. But he didn’t scream.
“In our clubs, the women consent to sexual acts. No one is forced. No one below the age of twenty is allowed to work. We are not savages, preying on the young and innocent.”
“Well…” Lorenzo smirked, eyes gleaming with rot.
“…you’ve never tasted young pussy. So tender. So easy to break.”
The room shifted. Every man in it wanted his tongue cut out for that sentence. Ronnie stepped behind him. Dragged the blade across Lorenzo’s back slowly. Lorenzo writhed.
“Tell me, losègu,” Ronnie said.
“Have you heard of Lingchi? Death by a thousand cuts?”
He circled Lorenzo like a predator.
“Years ago, the triads carved their enemies piece by piece with one thousand cuts on their bodies, carefully making sure not to nick any major artery.” He bent down to face him.
“So, you can stay alive as long as possible.”
Blood trickled down his legs, slow and steady. Lorenzo barred his teeth at him.
“Marcello, Comu sta ‘sta buttana toja?” he said through bloody teeth. (How is that whore of yours?)
“What was her name? The one whose skin is soft as milk, and ass…”
He motioned his tied hands provocatively.
“I can still smell her. Intoxicating, isn’t she?”
He cocked his head to one side, eyes narrowed.
“Roxanne, right?”
His lips split into a bloodied grin. The rage in my head detonated. I saw red. I became every demon he made me. Fists, rage, bone, blood—all one violent blur.
My fist met his face—bone cracked. I didn’t stop. I hammered his ribs, his gut, his jaw. I kept punching until he coughed blood.
“Don’t you dare say her name from your filthy mouth,” I growled.
I grabbed the pliers and pulled apart his nail. It came off with a wet crack—his scream ricocheted off steel walls like music.
“This is for Aunt Olivia.”
Another nail.
“This is for Elaine.”
I reached for the cigar slicer. Clamped it around his stubby finger and snapped. The cutter sheared bone clean—blood sprayed in a perfect arc across my shirt.
“This is for Papi.”
Lorenzo howled. No one came. We made sure of that.
“I thought you’d have a longer list,” he spat, blood dripping from his chin.
I ignored him and grabbed a knife, driving it into his thigh.
Again. And again. And again.
Like a man possessed.
“This one’s for following Roxanne.”
A stab. The blade sank into meat with a wet thud—hot blood gushing over my hand.
“For sabotaging her company.”
Another.
“For touching her.”
I paused, panting. My hand trembled.
“And this—” I looked him in the eye. ”—this is for my daughter.”
I plunged the blade into his side, twisting it. The sound was wet and sickening—like organs shifting in protest.
Santino stepped forward silently. He gripped Lorenzo’s head firmly to steady it.
I sliced his jugular. The blade sang. His throat opened like a red smile—blood pulsing in violent spurts, soaking the floor.
Lorenzo choked as his eyes rolled back. But before the light left them—Santino leaned in and whispered.
“No one touches family.”
Then stepped away. No expression. Just silence.
Santino took two men and loaded Lorenzo’s corpse into a skiff and rode into the black water to dump his body like waste.
The sea would open its mouth and the sharks would do the rest—no grave, no marker, no memory.
Ronnie got a call from Martin.
“The kids are out, but you need to leave. They’re heading—”
A deafening bang ricocheted through the warehouse, followed by a blinding flash. The world split open. The blast ripped through the warehouse—heat, shrapnel and fire—like hell had cracked open. Heat punched through my chest as I flew backwards, slamming into the railing.
My ears rang and my vision blurred. The warehouse was in flames, smoke curling up like serpents. The air was thick with dust, limbs and bodies scattered across the floor. Gunfire cracked through the smoke. Screams echoed—sharp, animal. Ronnie kept shooting, his silhouette a blur in the haze.
I looked down. A jagged shard of metal pierced my side as blood bloomed. I pulled it out and pressed on the wound. My lids grew heavy and the world tilted.
My body begged for rest. I needed a minute. Just one minute.
Just one breath.
“Marcello, mi senti?” Santino’s voice—tight, urgent.
“Marcello?”
I tried to speak.
“I’ll just… just…”
But the dark was already rising. It swallowed me whole.