Richie~Banks

Then, with deliberate slowness, he reached for a small black bottle from the table. “I thought you would prefer the gentle way. Guess I was wrong.”

His words cut through me like a knife. He crouched down in front of me, cupping my chin with his cold, cruel hands. His fingers dug into my skin, forcing my mouth open, and I gasped in horror as he tilted the bottle.

The liquid slid down my throat, burning, choking. My body convulsed in protest, but I couldn’t stop him. The poison — Deadly Nightshade. I had used it before. And now I was forced to take it. 

A year to live.

His smirk deepened as he let go of me, watching with sadistic pleasure as I gagged, my hands flying to my mouth.

Tears stung my eyes. The bitter, metallic taste of death filled my mouth, and I could do nothing but cry. My vision blurred as the poison coursed through me, but I couldn’t let go of my rage.

Francesco’s voice was low, almost gentle, as he spoke the words that felt like a death sentence. “Sometimes, the person you once loved may end up killing you,” he said, the twisted satisfaction in his voice unmistakable.

~~~~~

But surrender is never simple in a game of power, revenge, and dangerous desire. Because this man doesn’t just want to own her — he wants to unmake her, unravel her, and turn her fire to ash.

And the most terrifying part? Find out!

The Vicious Scent Of The Mafia's Black Rose

With Brinda in his arms, Francesco stepped into the grand entrance of the Dante Mansion. Rainwater dripped from their soaked clothes, forming a small puddle beneath his boots. The dim chandelier lights reflected off the marble floors, casting eerie shadows on the walls. 


Brinda coughed, her body trembling slightly against his chest. As Francesco strode deeper into the mansion, she shifted slightly. “Francesco… put me down. Your mother will…” 


“Don’t worry about her,” he cut in, his voice firm. 


She sighed but didn’t protest further, her fingers tightening around his damp shirt as he carried her up the stairs. 


A sharp intake of breath came from one of Francesco's men. He was tending to Guerrero’s reopened bleeding wound in the corner of the living room. 


“Should I prepare some warm water for you?” 


Francesco’s lips twitched into a small smile which is something rare. “Yes, please.” 


49 ~ Hate, Resentment And Desperation