From a Misunderstanding to be a Boss of the City.

After Rafael regained consciousness in the hospital and was confirmed to be fine, James and his mother returned home. After such an eventful day, all he wanted was to finally sit down and think. Just for a second.

But her mother had other plans.

The second they stepped inside, his mother hit him with a question that sent a cold chill down his spine.

A question he never wanted to answer.

A question that shouldn't even exist.

"My son…" she started, her voice barely above a whisper. She stood by the entrance, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. James barely had time to pull off his jacket before the weight of her words sank into his bones.

Something felt… off.

Not the usual worried-mother tone. Not frustration. Not sadness.

This was something worse.

"I—yeah, Mom?" He turned to face her, already feeling the pressure in his chest. Whatever she was about to say, he had a sinking feeling he wasn't ready for it.

She hesitated, her lips slightly parted as if the words physically hurt to say. Then, finally—

"You know the stories that circulate through the streets… about that certain man whose eyes reflect nothing but horror?" Her voice wavered. "I have seen that man before."

Her eyes locked onto his.

"And that man was you."

James's brain short-circuited.

What the fuck?

His stomach twisted so violently it almost made him sick. His mother was looking at him like he was a goddamn monster. Like she didn't even recognize him.

"Mom—"

She raised a hand. A sharp, silent order. Shut up.

Her eyes squeezed shut, her teeth sinking into her lip.

And then, like a hammer to his skull—

"James Bellini… My son… Is that the person these stories are about? The horrors they speak of… they are about you." Her breath hitched. "James, you are a murderer—"

"Don't you fucking say it."

The words tore out of him before he could stop them. His body turned on instinct, his pulse hammering against his skull.

For the first time in his entire life, his mother—his fierce, overprotective, nothing-scares-me mother—took a step back. Away from him.

She was afraid.

Of him.

"I'm not a murderer." His voice was raw, low, barely controlled. "Everything they say, everything they whisper—it's all bullshit."

"Bullshit?"

Her voice cracked.

And then she stepped forward and slapped him.

"Then explain, James!," she demanded, her voice shaking, her breath uneven. "Why does your driver carry a gun? Why do you even have a driver? Why do you walk around every single day in a goddamn bulletproof vest? Why the hell are there bodyguards in front of our house?"

James swallowed. Hard.

Because people are trying to kill me, Mom. Because I fucked up. Because I got tangled in something I never wanted, something I can't fucking escape from. Because if I let my guard down for even a second, I'm dead. But how the fuck do I tell you that?

Tears welled in her eyes.

"Do you know what it's like to wake up every day and wonder if it'll be my last? To walk outside and wonder when—not if, but when—someone will take me, just to get to you?" Her breath hitched. "I never wanted this life, James. I just wanted you. I just wanted us. A family."

James stood there, staring at the woman who raised him, who loved him, who would've fought the whole damn world for him—

And now, she didn't even trust him.

She thought he was a killer.

And he had no idea how to fix it.

James clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into his palms. His mother's words kept ringing in his head, over and over again.

"James, you are a murderer."

No matter how many times he replayed it, it didn't make sense.

How the fuck did it get to this?

His throat felt dry, like he'd swallowed a handful of sand. He forced himself to speak, but his voice was hoarse, quieter than he wanted it to be.

"Mom… I swear to you, I never killed anyone."

She just stared at him, her expression unreadable, her hands trembling.

She didn't believe him.

That realization hit harder than the slap.

"I don't even know how the fuck this all started," James muttered, running a hand through his hair, gripping the roots like he could tear the stress out of his skull. "One day, I was just some guy. A normal fucking guy. And then—"

He laughed. A bitter, humorless laugh.

"Then suddenly, I'm the kind of person people whisper about. The kind of person people fear."

His mother's lips pressed into a thin line. "Then explain it to me. Because I don't understand, James. I don't understand how my son—the boy I raised, the boy I love—became the man people say you are."

James exhaled sharply. He didn't even know where to start.

But maybe… maybe it started with that day.

The day everything went to shit.

Two Years Ago – Hargun, City Center, Klein Coffee Shop

Back then, James was just an average 20-year-old broke boy. He had dropped out of university because he couldn't afford the tuition, but instead of giving up, he took a job at a coffee shop. It paid well enough, and the atmosphere was young and lively. 

But that day… that day changed everything.

At the time, the city was drowning in a war between families and gangs.

Every single day, there were bombings, assassinations, and brutal shootouts. And at the center of it all was Costa De Furga—the ruthless leader of the Costa family, the most powerful crime syndicate in the entire city.

Despite being a monster, Costa De Furga had one peculiar obsession—coffee.

Not just any coffee, though. He only respected coffee that was made with love and care. It didn't matter if it tasted awful—if he felt that the barista put their soul into making it, he would take a sip, smile, and say:

"I've never had anything like this before."

Some people thought he was insane. But then again, those people didn't tend to live very long.

And on that fateful day, exactly two years ago, Costa De Furga walked into the Klein Coffee Shop—where James worked.

James, completely clueless about the underworld and its key players, looked Costa straight in the eye and spoke to him casually, as if he were just another customer. He had no idea that the entire city feared this man. No idea that a single wrong word to him could be a death sentence.

That was the moment the misunderstandings began.

Costa smiled—a rare and terrifying sight—and simply ordered an espresso. 

But how did a simple cup of coffee turn into a nightmare? How did James Bellini become the infamous Angel of Death?

Because that day, everyone who drank coffee died.

But James wasn't the one who poisoned it.

The real culprit was the café owner himself—a broken man who had lost his daughter in a gang crossfire. Blinded by grief and rage, he decided to take revenge by poisoning the drinks.

And after watching his customers collapse one by one, he turned the gun on himself.

James was the only one left standing.

And so, the mysterious man who single-handedly wiped out the entire Costa family, leaving no witnesses behind, was born—the Angel of Death.

From that moment on, James found himself constantly at the center of every major misunderstanding. 

No matter where he went, no matter what he did, it was as if fate itself was determined to drag him into the underworld. 

Every time there was a hit, a massacre, or a power shift, somehow his name would get mixed into the rumors.

And then, one day, came the biggest misunderstanding of them all.

James Bellini was arrested.

"Mastermind of 21 assassinations—the man responsible for the downfall of the Costa De Furga family captured!"

That was the headline plastered across every newspaper, flashing on every television screen.

But none of it was true.

Not a single word.

Even the police weren't sure about the details—they had nothing solid, just a bunch of coincidences that all led back to him. But that didn't stop them from "working" James over, trying to beat a confession out of him.

And James?

He had had enough.

He sat there in the dimly lit basement of the police station, wrists and ankles bound so tightly he could barely feel his hands anymore.

Blood dripped from his forehead, his split lip throbbed, and breathing felt like trying to suck air through a straw. The officers had been at this for hours.

And then—like a switch flipping in his battered mind—an idea struck him.

A brilliant idea.

Why not act into it?

"Still not in the mood to talk?" The officer sneered, twirling a rubber baton in his hand, ready to go another round.

James coughed, choking on the mix of blood and spit pooling in his mouth.

"I'll… write it down." he rasped, voice barely more than a whisper.

The officer's grin widened. He grabbed James by the hair, jerking his head up to meet his gaze.

"What was that? Say it louder, Angel of Death."

James forced himself to smile, ignoring the coppery taste of blood in his mouth.

"I said… I'll write it down."

That was all it took.

Within minutes, the captain himself walked in, with two detectives. They took one look at James—beaten, bruised, barely conscious—and laughed.

"This is the guy who took down the Costa family?" One of them laughed.

"He says he's ready to talk."

The lead detective scoffed, pulling out a chair and sitting across from James.

"Fine. Let him write it all down first. Then we decide what to do with him."

"Maybe we should make an example out of him," the police chief mused. "A public execution, perhaps? Send a message."

"Meh. As long as he dies, I don't care," the detective shrugged. "But first, let's see what the Angel of Death has to say for himself."

And just like that, James was given a pen and paper.

They had no idea what was coming.

James racked his brain, searching desperately for a way out of this complete and utter disaster.

His body ached, his vision blurred from the blood trickling down his forehead, but his mind—his mind was alive.

He thought back to the coffee shop.

All the rumors.

All the bullshit stories he had overheard while wiping down tables, pretending not to listen.

He had never cared about any of it, never wanted to get involved, but right now? Right now, that useless information was his only weapon.

The pen in his trembling hand scraped against the paper as he scrawled out his last, desperate hope.

When he was done, he let the pen slip from his fingers and leaned back against the chair, barely able to stay upright.

The cops snatched the paper from his hands, grinning like they had already won. They were ready to put a bullet in his head.

But then they read it.

And their grins vanished.

Eyes widened. Confusion twisted their faces. One of them swallowed hard.

Because on that paper—were names and addresses.

Not just any names.

The names of every officer standing in that room.

Their home addresses.

Their families' names.

"You think this means shit?!" The officer closest to him raised a fist, ready to strike.

But James—somehow—managed to speak first.

"The moment... I die..." He coughed, tasting iron, forcing the words past his battered lips. "The second my death is confirmed... they're going to kill every single one of your loved ones. And after that..." He wheezed, forcing himself to look straight at the police chief. "Without fear... they're going to kill every last one of your officers... Chief."

He looked deeply in the eyes of the Police Chief.

Silence.

Heavy. Suffocating.

For the first time since this nightmare started, James had control.

But as James walked out of that interrogation room, a strange sense of finality settled over him. He had won.

And the world, it seemed, was just starting to realize it.

Hours later, the police chief was found dead. The crash was mysterious, they said. The official story went that it was some kind of reckless driver who crahsed into him.

But the whispers on the street were different. They said it was a hit, an execution ordered by James Bellini himself.

The police department tried to cover it up, but the rumors spread faster than they could contain them. 

The streets of Hargun were buzzing with speculation.

A sense of power flooded through him, filling the void left by endless fear and confusion. He wasn't just some random guy caught in the wrong place at the wrong time anymore. No.

He was The Angel of Death, the man who had stared down the entire police force and walked out alive.

And in that moment, he realized something—something chilling.

He had a reputation now.

A reputation so terrifying, so infamous, that even the police couldn't touch him. 

Every cop in the city knew his name, every criminal knew his story. They whispered about him in the dark corners of their worlds.

James Bellini. The one who had made the impossible real.

No one dared question it.

No one dared challenge it.

He had power now. And it wasn't just the power of fear. It was the power of being untouchable.

And all because of a string of misunderstandings.