chapter nine

Ricardo's POV:

After finishing dinner, my father called for me, urgency lacing his voice. He needed me to come to his company due to a significant problem he was facing with one of his clients. This client, a treacherous and unscrupulous man, was demanding more benefits than he rightfully deserved. To make matters worse, it seemed he was plotting against us, trying to betray our trust for his gain. My father believed in handling such matters decisively, and tonight, it was my turn to teach this scoundrel a lesson he wouldn't forget.

You might be curious about the nature of our work. Well, to put it bluntly, our operations are illegal. We're deeply entrenched in the world of organized crime—selling drugs, making hits, and engaging in activities that most would consider unthinkable. But for us, it's just another day in the life of the mafia. From the earliest days of my childhood, my father instilled in me a critical lesson: "Never trust a traitor twice. If they betray you, you must kill them without hesitation." At the time, I didn't fully grasp the weight of those words, but as I've grown older and experienced the darker sides of our world, I've come to understand their profound truth. A traitor is always a traitor, and regardless of any facade of remorse they might put on, their betrayal leaves a lasting stain.

"Ricardo, you know what to do, right?" my father asked, his voice steady and commanding. I nodded in response, a sense of familiarity washing over me. I had been through this numerous times before, and the routine felt almost instinctual at this point. The anticipation of what lay ahead ignited a thrill within me.

Without wasting a moment, I returned to my mansion, where the traitor was already waiting, brought over by my loyal men. It had been a while since my last kill, and I could feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins; two weeks had passed since I had dealt with one of my men for the audacious offense of entering my room without knocking. The memory still sent a shiver of excitement down my spine.

As I stepped into the torture room, the atmosphere thick with tension, I spotted the man sitting in a chair, bound and bloodied. The sight of him, a pitiful figure at the mercy of my men, brought a smile to my face. They had done their job well; his body was soaked with blood, a testament to the thoroughness of my team. I turned to my right-hand man, Marco, and instructed him to bring me a chair. He complied swiftly, knowing the gravity of the situation and the satisfaction that awaited me.

I found myself seated across from him, a sly grin spreading across my face. "You know," I began, leaning back in my chair with an air of casual amusement, "some people think they're clever when they lie, convinced they won't get caught. It's almost comical, isn't it? Because deep down, they know that secrets have a way of surfacing, no matter how hard they try to bury them." My laughter filled the dimly lit room, but instead of joining in my mirth, he paled, his eyes wide with fear.

"Please," he stammered, his voice trembling, "don't kill me! I beg you! I have a family waiting for me to come back home. Please, have mercy on me! If you let me go, I swear I'll never betray anyone again. I'm so sorry! Just let me leave!" His desperate pleas echoed off the walls, creating an eerie contrast to the laughter that had just moments ago filled the air.

I couldn't help but burst into laughter again, the sound ringing out harshly in the tense atmosphere. My men, armed and stoic, joined in with a low, rumbling chuckle, their amusement only heightening the tension. "Hahahah! Wait a minute," I said, wiping a tear of laughter from the corner of my eye, "I think you're misunderstanding something here. I didn't bring you to this place to listen to your apologies." I leaned forward, my expression shifting to one of cold seriousness as I narrowed my gaze on him. "Let me make this clear: no one who finds themselves brought here ever walks out alive."

As I spoke, I reached into my coat and pulled out my gun, the steel gleaming ominously in the low light. I leveled it at his head, my finger resting casually on the trigger. "This," I said with a chilling calmness, "is the consequence of betraying the Del Romano family." His screams filled the room, a futile plea for mercy that fell on deaf ears. I had already made my decision, and I wouldn't be swayed by his terror.

With a swift motion, I pulled the trigger three times, the sound of gunfire reverberating in the confined space. Each shot echoed like a final nail in his coffin, and as the last echo faded away, I felt a sense of satisfaction wash over me. I smiled a grim expression that spoke of the inevitable fate that awaited those who dared to cross us.

Standing up, I glanced around at my men, who wore expressions of approval mixed with a touch of excitement. "Clean up this mess," I instructed, my tone leaving no room for argument. They sprang into action, quickly moving to dispose of the evidence of our little rendezvous.

Once the room was in order, I pulled out my phone and sent a quick message to my father, letting him know that I had taken care of the situation. It was getting late, and I had business to attend to back at my father's mansion. With a final look at the scene, I turned on my feet and headed for the exit, the weight of my actions settling comfortably on my shoulders. After all, in our line of work, this was just another day.

As I returned to my father's expansive mansion, the weight of the day pressed heavily on my shoulders. My first instinct was to retreat to the sanctuary of my room; I was acutely aware of the crimson stains on my clothes—a grim reminder of the events that had transpired. I rushed into the bathroom, my mind racing as I stripped off the tainted fabric and stepped into the shower. The warm water cascaded over me, washing away not just the blood but also the turmoil swirling in my mind. After what felt like an eternity, I emerged renewed yet still burdened by a troubling thought.

A sudden realization struck me: I had a wife. "Speaking of which, where is she?" I mused aloud, a smirk creeping onto my face as I considered the possibility that she might be hiding from me, perhaps to avoid a confrontation. With a renewed sense of purpose, I began searching my room, peering under the bed and rifling through the closet, but to my dismay, I found no trace of her. "Where the hell is she?" I muttered, frustration bubbling to the surface.

Determined to find her, I stormed downstairs, spotting a maid bustling about. I approached her with urgency and demanded, "Where is my wife?" The maid's face paled, and her voice trembled as she replied, "Sh...she is with Madam, sir." My heart sank at the mention of my mother. Why on earth would she be with her? I recalled my mother's previous disdain for my wife and felt a knot of anxiety tightening in my stomach. "What if my mother does something to her?" The thought was unbearable. Despite my reservations, I knew I had to protect her; she was my responsibility now.

I hurried toward my mother's room, my mind racing with worst-case scenarios. The door was closed, but I didn't hesitate to push it open without knocking. What I saw inside caught me completely off guard. My wife was resting her head on my mother's lap, her head resting peacefully as my mother gently brushed her hair with tender strokes. "Mom, what are you doing?" I blurted out, my voice a mixture of surprise and confusion. At first, she didn't seem to notice my presence, but upon lifting her gaze, she smiled and placed a finger to her lips. "Shhhhh, Ricardo, your wife is sleeping. Don't wake her up," she whispered.

I was taken aback. "Mom, are you serious? Didn't you say you didn't like her and that you would kick her out?" I pressed, incredulous at the scene before me. My mother sighed, her expression shifting as she replied, "I know, dear, I know I said all that. But when I look at her, I can't help but feel sorry for her. She's innocent and has been through so much. I don't want to hate her because I simply can't. Please, son, don't be too hard on her. She needs you because she's broken. I believe you two can build a beautiful family together. Just forget about that incident; it was so long ago. She is not responsible for what her father did. You can't hate her for that, so please, don't hurt her."

Her words struck a chord within me. I had never seen my mother exhibit such compassion, especially towards the woman I had married under such strained circumstances. Why did she care for my wife so deeply? My thoughts drifted back to my brother, whose life had been tragically cut short. It was hard to reconcile my grief with my mother's plea for compassion. "But I can't forget," I thought, "He shouldn't have died." Yet my mother was right in one regard: my wife was not responsible for the sins of her father. Still, I couldn't shake the uncertainty gnawing at me. I needed time to discern whether she was truly different from his father or not.

"Okay, Mom, I will think about it," I finally replied, my voice softer, a hint of resignation threading through my words. "Come on, take your wife to your room. She cried so much," my mother urged gently. "Why did she cry?" I asked, truly perplexed. "You should ask her yourself," she said with a knowing smile, leaving me to ponder her words.

After that brief yet profound exchange, I carefully lifted my wife into my arms, cradling her in a bridal carry. As I made my way back to our room, I found myself smiling despite the heaviness in my heart. She felt so light and delicate in my embrace, almost like a child. There was an undeniable innocence about her that both irritated and intrigued me. Sometimes I found myself angry at the situation—my father had married me to someone so naive and clueless about the world. The harsh realities of life loomed large, and I knew that innocence could be a dangerous trait in our world because she would always be a victim.

But as I looked down at her sleeping face, I felt a surge of protectiveness. It was my duty to shield her from the dangers that lurked outside. I didn't fully understand why, but I knew I wanted to protect her, to be her guardian in a world that could be unforgiving. With that thought lingering in my mind, I stepped into our room, determined to navigate this complicated web of emotions and responsibilities that now enveloped us both.

I gently placed her on the bed, careful not to disturb her slumber, and then I lay down beside her, feeling the warmth radiating from her body. The soft rhythm of her breathing lulled me into a peaceful sleep. When I awoke the next morning, the sun was shining through the curtains, casting a golden glow in the room. I turned my head to see her still nestled in the sheets, her face serene in sleep. Just then, she stirred slightly, her hand moving instinctively as it brushed against my bare chest.

At that moment, her eyes fluttered open, and I met her gaze. There was a flicker of fear in her expression, a vulnerability that made my heart race. I couldn't resist teasing her a little. But when I glanced down and noticed she had somehow ended up on the floor, I couldn't help but chuckle at the sight. It was a mix of endearment and amusement that filled the room.

After sharing a light moment, I assured her with a smirk that I had plans for us tonight, plans that would leave her breathless because I will fuck her until she lost concession. She looked at me with a mixture of confusion and curiosity, but I brushed off her uncertainty, feeling confident in my intentions. I knew what I wanted, and tonight was going to be unforgettable. With a grin, I left her to gather myself and headed for the bathroom to freshen up.

Once I emerged from the bathroom, I found her still in the bedroom, looking slightly more awake but still caught in her thoughts. I told her to wash up and join me downstairs for breakfast. As I made my way down the stairs, I felt a sense of anticipation building within me. I settled onto the sofa next to my father, and we engaged in a discussion about business matters, strategies, and plans. It was a welcome distraction, but my mind kept drifting back to her.

After a few minutes, the maid announced that breakfast was ready, and we all gathered around the dining table. We waited a few moments, chatting idly, until I noticed her making her way down the stairs. The sight of her took my breath away; she was clad in a pair of fitted jeans that accentuated her curves perfectly. I couldn't help but think, "Damn, she looks incredibly hot. Her body is exactly my type."I thought, after that, She said sorry for being late and then she sat down beside me.

However, I quickly noticed that Jack, my stepbrother, was looking at her with an unmistakable lust in his eyes. A surge of anger coursed through me. How dare he look at my wife like that? I felt a primal urge to assert my claim over her. Without thinking, I reached out and placed my hand on her thigh, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath my fingers.

Her eyes widened in surprise, and she instinctively tried to pull away, but rather than dissuade me, it only fueled my excitement. I slid my hand further up her thigh, and I could see the discomfort etched on her face. Her eyes silently begged me to stop, and though part of me wanted to continue, I was aware of the other people in the room. I didn't want anyone to hear her soft moans, so I reluctantly withdrew my hand and excused myself from the table, feigning business to leave for the company and gather my thoughts. As I walked away, I couldn't shake the feeling of desire that lingered in the air, a promise of what was to come later that night.