the mafia king

Alessandro's POV

The hallway to the basement office was shrouded in darkness and silence, the kind that fed my hungre. The guards straightened at my approach, stepping aside from the locked door lined with biometric scammers and steel bolts. I needed to release this anger inside me before heading to the warehouse.

And what better way than with a breathing punching bag?

my lips curled into a sinister smirk.

The office door creaked open—and there he was. Romano. My cousin. flashy as ever in his designer suit and loafers, bought with my money. He reeked of expensive colonge, sin and uselessness.

"What do you want,stronzo," I muttered, barely glancing at him as I poured myself a drink.

He grinned like the idiot he was. "Oh, cousin don't be like that."

" I don't have time for your pathetic thearitics. Unless you'd like to replace my new want punching bag."

He raised both hands, mock surrender, " Relax, I just need a few million dollars. nothing huge."

My eyes narrowed. I was quite for a beat, not even my Lucia ask me for such money. And this puta had the galls on him to keep showing up like I owed him something. I waved him off, not before he snatched a check from the desk like a rat in a pantry. Fucking leech. Disgusts burned in my throat.

I decended into the basement, the air growing colder. " Bring me the assassin," I told the guard. " The one from last week."

They dragged the man out, like a ragdoll and strapped him inside the leather pinching bag suspending it from the ceiling.

I have lost count of how many assassins they've sent. Iighting up my cigarette, the flames casting wild shadow on the concrete walls. smoke curled around me, thick and curling like the voices in my head.

The Russains would pay, every last one of them. But this one would be my warm-up.

I unzipped the bag halfway and tore the cloths from his face. He blinked, disoriented—then saw me. His eyes widened, terror dripping down his face faster than blood would.

I guess he wasn't expecting….me. I grinned.

Then my face went blank. He recognise what that meant.

I the first punch landed with a sickening crunch. My knuckles bare. no gloves, I wanted to feel the pain. Wanted to feel bones shatter. My fury drove each blow deeper. My breath shortened. My mind blurred. All I saw was Dante Giovanni's face— over and over—until the assassin's muffled screams stopped and only silence remained.

Blood seeped through the bottom of the bag, pooling onto the floor. I stared at my knuckles—red, cracked, glorious.

Alive. I felt alive again.

I left the body, and headed upstairs, but before the warehouse, there was one thing I needed.

Her. My little mouse.

I'd been so busy I hadn't run a Proper background check in her. For all I knew, she could be another assassin disguised. And yet wouldn't mind killing her, even as I fucked her corpse cold. That thought alone sent a thrill up my spine.

But not yet, First, I needed to wash off the blood, wouldn't want to scare her. Not too much.

I showered, letting the scalding water rinse away the filth. Dressed in a black Armani suit, slicked my damp hair, a few strands dropped. Lit another cigarette.

I looked in the mirror. Monster or god? Maybe both.

I made my way to the second floor, to the west wing. Arriving at her door, twisting the door handle. locked. I jiggled the handle. "Bella," I called out. Silence.

A faint shuffle behind the door, my brows twitched. Trying to find an escape route.

A snarl ripped through me. I lost my patience. I raised my leg and slammed it into the door, once, twice and it shattered. I stood in the frame, chest heaving. My gaze locked on her. she backed away, bidding something behind her.

A photograph. My eyes darkened.

I snatched it from her hand. The only photo I had of my rose. And she touched it with her filthy hands.

I turned to leave, then she opened her mouth, "you're a monster," she spat, voice shaking, " no wonder she left you."

I froze.

The fury returned like crashing wave. I spun and grabbed her throat, slamming her into the wall. My grip tightened. Her nails clawed at my wrist. Her eyes—wide, terrified, tear-filled—stared into mine.

"Please…. Don't hurt me," she croaked, the word like a blade to my chest. And in that moment—a flash memory.

My Rose, the night I almost killed her in my sleep. Her terrified eyes. Her chocking gasp. Just like this, I could almost see her, "my rose," I whispered. My grip loose just a fraction. Then I saw it, a silver pendant on her neck, familiar. I snatched without her noticing.

Then I stepped back, my hands dropping to my side, blinking. What the fuck was happening to me?

I looked at bella, her lips between her teeth, bruised, her chest heaving. My fingers trembled around the photograph.

I smirked, masking this unusual storm within.

"I can't promise I won't kill you if you keep testing me Rosa Mia. But for now? I think I'll keep you. I'm starting to like you."

She didn't respond. Good, I liked her better and quieter.

I left the mansion and slid into the backseat of my car, dialing Lucca as we sped off. " I'm on my way to the warehouse," my tone clipped, cutting the call.

The city passed in a blur.

Then the driver spoke. " Boss, there's a holdup ahead. Should we reroute?"

I gave a nod, eyes narrowing. Something felt off. His hand gripped the wheel to tight. His voice to shaky hard to no be noticed. And I didn't recognise him. Was he new.

I knew every man under my command. Every. single. One. So who the hell was this?

The side road he took looked like a graveyard—narrow, overgrown and silence.

A trap. Lets play.

As he took of one of his hands of the wheel, I guess he was reaching for a gun, sloppy amateur. My own gun pressed into his back before he could react.

"Who sent you,bastardo,"

He flinched. "I—i—"

I ripped the gun from his grasp. My attention snapped to the rearview mirror. A car, coming fast.

I slammed the butt of my gun into his skill and leapet from the car just before the collision. The blast shaked the earth. I rolled in the the bush, landing silently, crouched and breathing steady.

Footsteps, three of them. Voices low.

They opened the car door. Looking for a corpse.

Surprise, I rose from the bushes and came face to face with the three masked figures. All armed. My gun already up. Bullets sang through the air.

The first man dropped, a clean shot through the head. The second ducked—wrong move, I rolled in the bush, flanking him and fired again. Blood sprayed across the grass.

Two down. One left.

He moved to my right, trying to flank me. We both stood, guns raised at each other.

He hesitate. I smiled.

" lets make a deal," I said. " you'll tell me who sent you and I Don't paint the dirt with your blood." he didn't answer, instead he pulled the trigger too late.

My shot struck first—one to the heart, one through his neck. His bullet lodge in my arm the other hitting the side of my abdomen, searing heat tearing through my flesh.

Pain. Real, raw pain.

How I missed this. I knelt beside his body to look for any device, blood gushed from his mouth. Then my eyes caught something, a tattoo on his neck. The bratva insigina. Fucking Rissians.

I started at the mark, breathing heavily, I was loosing quite some blood, but u didn't care. Rage simmered beaneth my skin, hotter than the bullet. This was war. They'd made it personal.

No one messed with the mafia king of the underworld and lived to tell the tale, and now? I'd make each and every one of them beg for mercy before I burned them alive.