Betrothed to the Mafia

Chapter 1

Isabella’s Perspective

“You must marry Enzo Mancini,” my father’s tone was both cold and resolute, as if he were stating an indisputable fact.

Carlo Lombardi, my father, the man who once dominated Chicago’s underworld, now sat across from me, smoking his cigar. In the dim light, the hazy smoke gave his face a somewhat blurred appearance.

His name once echoed throughout Chicago, for he ruled the city's underground for two decades. But now, he was old, time had etched marks on his face, and the glory of the Lombardi seemed to be fading with his decline.

A wave of inexplicable anger surged within me. I clenched my fists tightly but then released them powerlessly. I knew fighting back was futile; no one in this family could defy his will. He stood like a towering, unyielding mountain that instilled fear in our hearts.

“For the glory of the Lombardi,” he repeated, as if this was the sole reason that could convince me to accept this marriage. How laughable, I thought. The glory of the Lombardi? That was just a relic of the past. What I saw now was a declining family and a pack of predators waiting to pounce on us.

Looking at my father’s aged and ruthless face, a sense of sadness welled up inside me. He was once my hero, someone I admired deeply. Now, he was just an old man driven to the brink by power and ambition.

Chicago’s underworld was like a dark, deep ocean, and the Lombardi family was a mighty ship sailing through it. Now, this ship was inevitably sinking. Other families, like sharks smelling blood in the water, circled around, hoping to feast on our ruins.

My father’s eyes flashed in the dim light; I knew he was contemplating our current predicament. But his thinking had become rigid, and all he could come up with was the idea of an alliance through marriage. He hoped to solidify his position through a union with a New York gang, ignoring an essential truth: in this world, there are no perpetual allies, only perpetual interests.

“Triad, Volki… they are all flooding into America, trying to take a piece of the pie.”

His voice was deep and hoarse, as if he were talking to himself. The names he mentioned were like dark spells, making me shiver. I knew each of them was ruthless, willing to go to any lengths for profit.

“Your brother, Harold Lombardi, is only eight years old. He’s too young. The other families in the Chicago Outfit are rising, their bosses younger and more ruthless.”

The setting sun cast its glow into the room, half of my father’s face plunged into darkness, reflecting his unfathomable heart.

“It’s your turn, my daughter,” he continued, “Three months from now, on your birthday, you will be engaged to Enzo Mancini from New York. He will take good care of you.” He spoke lightly as if this were an ordinary event, not a union of two mafia families.

“What kind of man is Enzo Mancini?” I tried to keep my voice calm, but the chaos in my heart was unmistakable.

My father glanced at me, a hint of admiration in his eyes. “He’s an excellent man, with the same blood and ambition as ours. He will be a good husband and a great ally.”

I fell silent. I knew this marriage was just another of my father’s power plays, a compromise using his daughter to gain advantages.

“The engagement will be on your seventeenth birthday,” my father reiterated, "You must remain chaste for him; it is our tradition. Otherwise, on your wedding night, you will become a corpse.”

His words were cold and cruel. I nodded silently, my heart filled with helplessness and bitterness.

I slowly exited my father’s room, the door softly closing behind me, sealing off that world filled with cigar smoke and overwhelming pressure. The hallway light was dim and warm yet could not pierce the gloom in my heart.

My stepmother, Alison, almost immediately approached me with a concerned smile on her face and blue eyes that gleamed with curiosity and scrutiny.

“Dear, what did your father say to you?” she asked softly, as if afraid to break the heavy silence.

I glared at her coldly, knowing she wasn’t truly concerned but wanted to eavesdrop on my conversation with my father. I deliberately paused before slowly speaking, “He wants me to marry.”

Alison’s mouth opened slightly in surprise, but soon, I caught a glimpse of smugness and glee in her eyes. At that moment, I understood it all; this was her scheme. Her delicate face was filled with hypocrisy and cunning, filling me with disgust.

“Oh dear, what a surprise!” she tried to mask her emotions, pretending to be more shocked, “Are you sure? This is no small matter.”

Her feigned naivety repelled me. After all, my younger sister Samantha was more beautiful than I, having inherited our mother’s looks and our father’s shrewdness. Alison clearly didn’t want her own daughter to be sacrificed in this marriage, so she put forward my name.

I looked straight into her eyes, trying to decipher her true thoughts. However, she just smiled, as if everything was under her control.

“Stop pretending with your lousy act,” I said coldly, “Wasn’t this all part of your plan? You fear Samantha being dragged into this marriage game, so you pushed me out. You’re as shrewd as any boss.”

Alison’s expression changed slightly but quickly returned to calm. She laughed lightly and didn’t answer my question directly.

“Dear, you misunderstand me. I genuinely care about you. This marriage might be a good opportunity for you. Enzo is young; he will make a good husband.”

The fury inside me burned fiercely, yet I tried to remain composed. Since my mother’s death, I became redundant in this home. My father no longer cherished me as he once did, and Alison saw me as an eyesore. Now, she finally found a legitimate way to send me away. Arguing with her was pointless, it would only deepen my predicament.

I turned and left, not wanting to say another word to her. The hallway lights receded behind me, much like my heart sinking into darkness.

Dragging heavy steps, I returned to my room, feeling as if a stone weighed down my chest, rendering me powerless.

My sister Samantha jumped from the bed, her bright eyes staring curiously at me, as if trying to read something from my face.

“Hey, sis, you don’t look too well,” Samantha said softly, her fingers gently smoothing over my furrowed brow, trying to ease my worries.

I smiled weakly, found a chair, and lit a cigarette. The smoke swirled around me, reflecting my chaotic mood. Samantha sat beside me, waiting quietly for me to speak.

“I’m getting married,” I said blandly, as if discussing something unrelated to me.

“Married? To whom?” Samantha asked in astonishment, her eyes glimmering with confusion and doubt.

“A man named Enzo Mancini,” I took a deep drag, exhaling smoke that seemed to carry my troubles away.

Samantha’s eyes widened in disbelief, “Why would you agree to that? Do you know him?”

I responded with a bitter smile and shook my head, “No, I don’t. It’s arranged by our father.”

“Our father’s arrangement? That’s absurd! How can you marry a stranger?” Samantha stood up angrily, her face filled with discontent and defiance.

Taking another deep drag, I let the nicotine bitterness ravage my lungs, “In the mob, a woman’s fate is never in her own hands.”

Samantha shouted, “That’s unfair! We need to talk to our father and make him change his mind!”

I shook my head powerlessly, my throat felt obstructed, rendering me speechless. My father’s heavy gaze and the lingering cigar smoke clouded my mind. I took a deep breath, trying to calm the storm inside me.

“Don’t be foolish, Samantha. Doing so will only bring trouble upon yourself.”

She shook off my hand, her eyes firm, “I’m not afraid of trouble! I can’t let you sacrifice yourself like this!” With that, she turned to leave.

I hurried to hold her back, “Samantha, listen to me. I don’t despise this man; I just don’t know him. Besides, it’s our father’s decision, and I must obey.”

Samantha deflated but quickly inquired, “Who is Enzo Mancini?”

I paused; the name was as unfamiliar to me as it was to her.

Shaking my head, I said, “I don’t know. I’ve never met him.”

“Do you want to marry him?” Samantha asked cautiously.

Silent for a moment, I then took a deep breath, “I don’t know, but I have no choice.”

Chapter 2

Isabella's Perspective

"What if he's old, fat, and ugly?" Samantha's worry lay heavy on my heart like a weighty stone. Sitting at my computer, I accessed the dark web, my fingers quickly typing as I searched for information about the man who was about to become my husband—Enzo Mancini.

Samantha stood beside me, her silky blonde hair shimmering enchantingly under the light. Her eyes were deep and bright, akin to the brightest stars in the night sky, and her pale, delicate skin contrasted starkly with her golden hair. She was tall, with elegant curves, always attracting attention. But now, her beautiful eyes were filled with concern.

The dark web was a chaotic place, but information about Enzo was surprisingly scarce. The Mancini family, a formidable force among the New York mafia, loomed over the city like a beast lurking in the shadows. Enzo Mancini, the young leader of this beast and underboss of the Mancini family, was barely in his twenties.

In the photos, his cold, icy gaze was the most chilling I had ever seen, like an iceberg floating in the Arctic Ocean, completely devoid of warmth. His tall, lean frame, even through the screen, exuded an undeniable power. This gave me some comfort—at least he wasn’t as repulsive as I had feared.

Samantha stared intently at every photo on my screen, growing more concerned as she saw the ever-changing women by Enzo’s side. She understood the brutal nature of our world, especially how women often ended up as mere appendages of men.

"Bella, our mother once told me something." She whispered, "‘To survive in a man’s world, you must learn how to capture a man’s heart.’ It's the only way to protect yourself."

I nodded, a mix of emotions swirling inside me. I thought of my cold-hearted father, Carlo Lombardi, a once fearsome lion whose strength and dominance had faded over the years. His brutal upbringing forced us into witnessing bloody gunfights and seeing deceitful or loyal family members disappear one by one. Especially... Mother... That moment, I knew I had to escape from this home.

Now, I was being forced to marry an unknown mafia leader. Was this fate’s cruel joke? I did not know. But I understood that I couldn’t sit idly by. I had to learn to survive in this ruthless world.

I turned to Samantha, whose eyes were full of worry and reluctance. I smiled and held her hand, "Don’t worry, I’ll be fine."

The night outside deepened, Chicago’s neon lights twinkling in the distance. A world to which I no longer belonged. I looked back at the image of Enzo Mancini on the screen, his cold eyes seeming to gaze back at me. I had no idea what fate awaited me.

Suddenly, the door creaked open slowly, letting in a gust of cold wind and Salvatore’s towering figure. Salvatore, my father's right-hand man, was a burly figure with broad shoulders like a mountain and thick black hair under which his eyes were deep and sharp. He was always impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, his tie perfectly in place, exuding a stringent and cold demeanor.

He strode up to us and halted, his piercing gaze fixed on me. I noticed his fingers slightly curled, as if ready to strike at any moment. His face was devoid of excess expression, yet his undeniable aura inspired intimidation.

“Bella,” his voice was deep and powerful, each word carrying weight, with a hint of reluctance in his tone, “from today onwards, you can no longer go to school.”

I looked up in shock, the cigarette ash in my hand inadvertently falling and burning my fingers. Wide-eyed, I stared at him, seeking an explanation in his deep-set eyes.

“Why? This is unfair!” I shouted in frustration, knowing it was futile. I turned my head away, unwilling to let him see the tears in my eyes.

Salvatore’s eyebrows knitted slightly, but he didn’t respond to my anger, only saying softly, “This is your father’s order.”

Samantha couldn't help standing up, her face full of discontent: “Does Enzo fear that an educated woman would make him feel inferior?”

Salvatore shot her a warning look, a flash of caution in his eyes: “Samantha, never speak like this in front of Enzo.” 

After a pause, seemingly weighing his next words, he continued, “Enzo’s bloodline is not pure; he is the adopted son of Don Mike Mancini. At thirteen, he killed his first person and became a made man. Now, not yet twenty, he’s already an underboss.”

I sank back onto the bed, feeling the world spin around me. In the mafia world, blood ties were always valued, but in the notoriously cruel Mancini family, it seemed to be supplanted by an even colder force.

Salvatore continued, each word like it was squeezed from a cold muzzle, “Mike Mancini lost his ability to father children ten years ago during a mafia clash. That clash was a fratricidal slaughter—Mike Mancini personally killed his own brother.”

A chill ran down my spine, causing me to shiver. Samantha fell silent too, the room growing heavy with tension.

Salvatore’s gaze lingered on me for a moment before shifting slowly to the window. His eyes turned deep and distant, as if recalling that bloody, brutal history. His fingers drummed rhythmically on the armrest of the sofa, a sound that was particularly jarring in the silence.

“Is there no relative who can be trusted?” Samantha finally broke the silence, “Like a brother’s son.”

Salvatore redirected his gaze to me again: “After that clash, all the relatives distanced themselves. Trust has become a luxury in this family.”

“You can’t go to school anymore. The education you receive would only pollute your mind.” Salvatore explained my father’s order, “In the mafia, women should remain obedient and submissive. Besides, Don fears that any unsavory men might teach you to defy both your father and the family, which would greatly damage the Lombardi reputation.”

I sneered: “‘Teach’? I thought Carlo remembers me as his daughter, not some ragged doll picked from the trash.”

Samantha tried to argue for me: “Salvatore, don’t you think it’s unfair to Bella? She should have the right to choose her own life!”

He glanced at her, then at me, his eyes showing complex emotions: “I know this is unfair, but no one in this family has the right to choose. This isn’t some democratic election, Samantha. For the honor of Lombardi, we must do this.”

He stood slowly and walked to the window, turning his back to us. In the dim light, his silhouette appeared particularly lonely and strong. I took a deep drag on my cigarette, trying to calm my fear and anxiety.

The night grew deeper, city lights began to flicker, and traffic flowed. I knew that the bright world was far, far away from me. I looked again at Salvatore's back, now like an insurmountable mountain standing between me and my freedom.

“Salvatore,” I spoke softly after a long silence, “I want to see my father.”

“He's at The End Zone.” His voice was low and gravelly, heavy with an unspoken burden. His eyes lingered on me, seeming to weigh how best to persuade me.

“Do you really want to go?" He asked again, his brows furrowed, “That place is filled with violence and blood, not somewhere a woman should go. Women should stay away from such scenes of slaughter—that’s a man’s business.”

“I must,” I asserted, “I need to fight for myself.”

Samantha immediately said, “I’ll go too.”

Salvatore sighed, ultimately giving in. “Alright, Bella, alright, I’ll take you both.”

Through dark alleys, we arrived at the abandoned site known as “The Execution Grounds.” A cold wind blew, stirring up dust. In the distance, a group of mafia members formed a circle, their gazes fixed on a single point. An inexplicable tension gripped me, and I could almost hear my own heartbeat.

Salvatore took us to a relatively safe position and instructed me to wait. I clasped my hands tightly, trying to calm my nerves. When I looked up, a familiar figure caught my eye—it was my eight-year-old brother, Harold.

Why was he here?

Chapter 3

The End Zone, it was the most secretive and blood-soaked place in our family. Whenever there was a traitor or someone who disobeyed orders, they were taken here for "judgment." I knew that every brick and every drop of blood there carried countless grudges and hatreds.

The smell of blood and decaying wood mingled together. I saw my father standing in the center, his eyes cold and ruthless, as if he were watching a play that had nothing to do with him.

He didn't notice me. His entire attention was focused on my eight-year-old brother, Harold.

"Harold, come here, put this on." My father smiled as he placed a black blindfold over Harold's eyes.

Harold's voice was tinged with nervousness and curiosity, "Dad, what game are we playing?"

"A shooting game, son," my father answered, his voice devoid of any emotion.

At that moment, two soldiers dragged a man who was beaten badly, his body covered in bruises. His mouth was tightly gagged, allowing only faint whimpers. He was roughly tied to an execution rack, struggling helplessly.

My father knelt down and adjusted the gun in Harold's hands, just as if he were aligning a toy gun for a child. Then he helped Harold aim at the man tied to the rack, struggling helplessly.

"Bang!" The first shot echoed across the empty field, causing Harold to jolt as if the gunshot had struck his heart. His breathing became rapid and erratic, every breath accompanied by violent shoulder movements.

"Bang! Bang!" With the continuous gunshots, Harold's fear reached its peak. His body stiffened as if electrocuted, trembling like a frightened bird with every shot.

When my father removed the blindfold, Harold's eyes were wide open, filled with indescribable terror. He looked at the pool of blood on the ground, his face turning as pale as paper. His lips parted slightly, as if to scream, but no sound came out. He glanced down at his pants, noticing a wet patch, clearly having wet himself in fear.

"I...I killed him..." Harold finally broke down and cried. His voice was sharp and hoarse, like a broken record.

I could feel Harold's terror and helplessness. He was just an eight-year-old boy, forced to face such a cruel reality. But I was powerless. I couldn't even protect myself. Watching his trembling shoulders and tear-streaked face, I felt an unspoken rage—towards myself, my father, and this damned world.

My father, however, calmly wiped the barrel of the gun and glanced at me, as if assessing whether I was strong enough to face all this. His gaze sent a chill down my spine.

"Salvatore, take Harold back," my father ordered, his voice cold and cruel.

Salvatore approached, silently took Harold's hand, and prepared to lead him away from the blood-soaked scene.

Harold looked back at our father, his eyes filled with fear and confusion, "Dad, I..."

"Don't fucking be a coward, you are the heir of the Lombardi family, don't be a weakling," my father interrupted him.

Samantha finally couldn't hold back anymore. She rushed up and held Harold tightly, covering his ears and head, as if trying to protect him from the world's harm with her own strength.

"How can you make him do this! He's only eight years old!" Samantha's voice was a mix of sobs and anger.

My father looked down at her, "Many people become made men before they're ten. In this circle, either you kill others, or they kill you. Harold is the future Don, it's his destiny. You have no right to interfere."

Samantha trembled with anger, staring into my father's cold eyes, "You're turning him into a killing machine!"

My father's face darkened instantly, like a storm about to break, exuding a suffocating pressure. He stepped closer to Samantha, his words like they were squeezed out through clenched teeth, "Women are truly foolish. Is there not a single spare thought beyond makeup and perfume? This is the mafia, killing happens every day. The only reason you're still standing here is because I've killed enough people."

"Cruelty brings survival; mercy will send you to hell."

Samantha took a few frightened steps back. But I bet she'd never learn what it meant to yield.

My father didn't give her a chance to argue further. He turned and waved to Salvatore, his voice icy and decisive, "Salvatore, take Samantha to confinement. For the next month, she is not to step out of her room, and no school for her!"

Salvatore immediately complied, walking to Samantha and making a gesturing "please" motion. Though brimming with anger, Samantha had no choice but to leave with Salvatore.

Watching Samantha being taken away, I felt a mix of emotions. I took a deep breath, summoning the courage to walk up to my father, trying to plead for both Samantha and myself.

"Dad, can't we..." I was cut off mid-sentence by my father's cold interruption, "You're much smarter than Samantha. She's a useless pretty face, but you know how to make me happy and how to make me angry. So, don't make me angry, Bella."

Seeing my father's indifferent eyes, I knew it was futile to say more. I bowed my head and silently retreated.

Later that night, Harold lay in bed. He had developed a high fever since returning from the execution ground, his face pale and forehead soaked in cold sweat. He kept tossing and turning, muttering gibberish, his voice fluctuating between high and low, trembling like leaves in the wind.

Alison was by his bedside, gently wiping his forehead with a wet cloth. She had changed out of her luxurious dress and was now wearing a simple white shirt and black skirt, yet still couldn't conceal her beauty. Her blonde hair draped casually over her shoulders, emitting a faint glow, and her blue eyes appeared deeper in the lamp's light.

I walked over and softly asked, "How is he?"

Alison looked up at me, her eyes filled with fatigue and helplessness. She sighed lightly and said, "He just took some medicine, don't know when the fever will break." Her voice was low and full of a sense of powerlessness, as if the dark world had worn away all her edges.

Looking at her, I suddenly noticed the fine lines at the corners of her eyes and the few strands of white hair. These marks of time made her seem more real and made me feel the pressure and pain she endured. I didn't hate her as much anymore—this stepmother of mine, who had always been at odds with me, was actually just another poor woman played by fate.

I sympathized with her plight but also secretly worried for my own future. Would I become the next her? Bound by family and fate, unable to escape this dark vortex?

The iron gate slowly opened, and I stepped out of the prison. A cold wind mixed with raindrops hit my face. The sky was overcast, and the rain was fine, mirroring my mood. Luis, my bodyguard, immediately came up and held a black umbrella to shield me from the rain. A bodyguard must appear promptly at all times when needed; it was his duty.

But Luis was not just my bodyguard, he was a brother I could trust. Ten years older than me, his face already bore the marks of time, yet his eyes remained sharp like an eagle's. We had been through too many life-and-death situations together, forging an unbreakable bond of trust between us.

"Boss, you're hurt." Luis's eyes showed concern as he pointed to my forehead.

I touched the spot and felt a slight bump, only then noticing a dull ache. Earlier, Mike Mancini had punched me in a fit of rage. He blamed me for his inability to get a reduced sentence, thinking I hadn't done my job well. But the fact was, he had killed five people, with solid evidence against him. Even the best lawyer I could find couldn't overturn the case in court.

Did Mike think I was a god? Able to conjure evidence out of thin air to exonerate him?

"What else did he say?" I asked Luis coldly.

"He wants you to marry, saying it would help the Mancini family gain a foothold in New York," Luis replied.

I sneered. Marriage to me was nothing more than a transaction; I didn't care who I struck deals with. But when I heard that name, I couldn't help but frown.

"Isabella Lombardi?"

Chapter 4

The night in New York always carried a chill, hard quality, as cold and ruthless as the blood of the city’s mobsters.

I sat in my office, lounging on the wide leather couch with a cigar pinched between my fingers.

A marriage alliance with the Lombardi family.

The news stirred an inexplicable excitement within me. The Lombardi family, once a dominant force in Chicago's criminal underworld, was now reaching out to us for a marriage alliance. This could only mean one thing—they were on a downward trajectory and desperately needed New York's power to secure their standing in Chicago.

“It seems the Lombardi family really is on the decline,” I remarked with a sardonic smile, exhaling a plume of smoke.

Luis maintained the calm demeanor he was known for. “Boss, this is good news, but now isn't the right time to act. We need to be patient. The unknown is always filled with risks.”

I nodded in agreement. In the world of organized crime, caution and patience were crucial survival skills.

“Get me Isabella Lombardi’s dossier,” I instructed him.

Luis handed me a file. As I opened it, the first thing I saw was a colorful photograph. The girl in the picture had thick, golden curls cascading over her slender shoulders, with strands shimmering in the sunlight. Her eyes were deep and bright, almost as if they could see through a person’s soul, carrying an indescribable defiance and tenacity. Below her high-bridged nose, her small, cherry-colored mouth curved slightly upwards, exuding a sense of unyielding pride.

Sixteen. She was far too young. Yet her gaze intrigued me. Pride is a valuable trait. After all, it's the tough ones that are the most fun to break.

“Boss, what’s our next move?” Luis inquired.

“Wait,” I replied coolly. “We just need to wait for the right moment. When the Lombardi family is completely down, that’s when we strike.”

...

I walked down a dim and damp corridor, the walls on either side stained with mold, exuding a musty smell. The iron door at the end was tightly shut, sealing off all outside noise. As I pushed it open, a pungent mix of blood and damp earth hit me.

Inside the dimly lit interrogation room, a lone, flickering bulb overhead created an eerie atmosphere. I saw Frank yelling at a bloodied man, his face twisted in frustration, having clearly lost his patience. He kicked a chair over, grinding his foot into the stomach of the man who had attempted to assassinate me, shouting, “You think your bones are tougher than bullets? Speak, who sent you!”

The man was tied to a chair, clothes in tatters, his body covered in wounds. His teeth had been pulled out one by one, blood trickling from his mouth. His fingers had been cruelly broken, white bone visible. Frank was known for his ruthlessness.

I frowned, dissatisfied with his methods. Though a fierce capo, Frank lacked finesse in interrogation. Noticing my presence, he stepped aside, grumbling, “This bastard has a mouth of steel.”

I squatted down to look the man in the eye, seeing the stubbornness and defiance there. Grabbing his hair, I asked, “Who sent you?”

His lips remained shut. All who join the mafia swear never to break “omertà”. They never betray their code. But I had my ways.

I got up and clapped my hands. Two soldiers entered, dragging a young girl with them. She stood trembling, eyes wide with terror. Smiling, I addressed the man, “If you don't speak the truth, I’ll hand her over to Frank.”

Frank’s eyes instantly gleamed with anticipation. He cast an unabashedly lascivious glance at the girl, running a rough finger across her cheek, speaking in a coarse voice, “Hey, little lady, your dad won’t talk, looks like you'll have to suffer for it.”

At Frank’s signal, the soldiers roughly pinned the girl to a table, tearing her dress and groping her. She screamed in horror, trying to escape, but was held by her hair, forced to arch her back. Helpless tears streamed down her cheeks as she cried out “Daddy.”

Seeing this, the man’s eyes filled with rage and despair. He writhed violently in his bonds but remained tightly restrained.

Frank seemed to relish the power over life and death as he continued taunting, “Talk or don’t. Your daughter still a virgin? She won’t handle much agony.”

Time ticked by. The man’s psychological defenses slowly crumbled. Unable to bear the hands assaulting his daughter or her pleas, he finally cried out, “I’ll talk! I’ll talk! Please, just spare her!”

Frank ordered the soldiers to stop and walked over with a grin, saying, “See, wasn’t that easier? Who sent you?”

Quivering, the man replied, “Tony, capo of the Giordano family, ordered me to kill you.”

Satisfied, I nodded and had him dragged out to be buried alive. His screams for mercy echoed, but for traitors, death was the only end.

Frank’s gaze fixed greedily on the young girl, eyes glinting with lust. He enjoyed fresh meat, the thrill of tearing them apart.

But I glared at him, warning, “Frank, only cowards harm women and children.”

I instructed him to return the girl unharmed. Such vile acts wouldn't occur on my watch.

Returning home, my heart felt like a weighty stone with each step. The familiar door opened to emptiness and silence. The vast house was occupied by just me.

I approached the liquor cabinet, pulling out a bottle of strong alcohol, intending to disinfect the wound on my forehead, but the stinging thought reminded me of today’s events.

To hell with disinfecting, I thought. I just wanted a drink. Though I’d been sober for years, tonight I needed it.

Opening the bottle, the sharp scent filled the air, and I took a swig, the fiery sensation burning from my throat to my core, yet easing some of the heaviness within.

I recalled the prisoner’s pleas as he was dragged away, begging for his daughter’s life. In that moment, I saw his weakness and helplessness and saw myself. Would my family, if they were alive, have begged similarly? But they were long gone, victims of the Lombardi family’s treachery.

That night of blazing fire reappeared before my eyes, my mother’s desperate screams for me to run as far as I could. I ran with all my might, never daring to look back. When I finally did, I saw her shot through the chest, falling slowly. That image, framed by moonlight, seemed as if even the moon was stained with blood.

My father, the man who risked everything for our family, was a tough facade masking his love. He wasn’t a good man, but he was a great father. That night, he too departed from my life just like my mother. Their bodies, and our once cozy home, were reduced to ashes by the flames—all thanks to the Lombardi family.

I snapped my eyes open, realizing the glass in my hand had shattered, cutting my palm with blood dripping freely. I loathed those who had destroyed my world. Downing another gulp of liquor, the burn in my chest numbed the pain, both physical and emotional.

In a drunken haze, alcohol gradually dulled my consciousness, plunging me into chaotic dreams. In this dream, I was transported back to that remote memory, to the ceremony when I was fifteen, formally becoming a soldier for the Mancini family.

Standing in a dim, vast basement, flickering candle flames lined the walls, casting flickering shadows. Under the watchful eyes of many, I slowly extended my right hand, gripping a sharp dagger.

I lightly pierced the tip of my left thumb with the dagger. Blood immediately welled up. I let the drops fall onto a portrait of Saint Francis before me.

The blood spread slowly across the image, like blooming red flowers. I pulled out a lighter, setting the portrait aflame. Fire quickly consumed it, the image burning in my palm. I stared at the dancing flames, feeling as if I were burning myself. I then solemnly recited the oath, my voice echoing in the vast basement:

“Burn the saint, and burn my soul. I enter alive, and I leave dead.”

Chapter 5

In the stillness before dawn, I tossed and turned in bed. The burning sensation in the palm of my hand felt like a silent scream of agony from deep within my soul. It was a pain that originated from my heart, reminiscent of the painting I held five years ago, still burning in the flames of time, never extinguished. This pain was far worse than any hangover from strong liquor.

I irritably pulled at my collar, revealing the necklace on my chest that shimmered subtly in the moonlight—it was the only sanctuary in my heart. Whenever I touched it, I would think of the girl who changed my fate.

Back then, my parents were already dead, and home had become an untouchable fantasy. I roamed the dark streets of Chicago like an orphan abandoned by the world.

I became a homeless child, wandering the city's underworld for half a year. During that time, it felt like I had plummeted into an endless abyss, living among rats and roaches, dwelling in dark and damp corners.

Every night, I would curl up in the shadows at the street's edge, tightly wrapping my frail body in tattered clothes. I often felt like a rotting corpse, my soul long departed from this broken shell. Whenever someone hurried past me, their eyes were filled with disgust and disdain. I knew that in their eyes, I was nothing more than a trivial existence, a wandering ghost about to disappear into the dark.

On my eighth birthday, I dragged my exhausted body to the street to beg. The wind was especially strong that day, the biting cold penetrating my thin clothes, bringing an unprecedented chill. I huddled in a corner, stretching out my trembling hand, begging everyone who walked by. I just wanted enough money to buy some food and fill my empty stomach.

In my despair and madness, I even thought, "Enzo, get some money, buy a gun, and end this godforsaken life."

But just when I was about to give up hope, she appeared.

That girl, as beautiful as a delicate doll, elegantly stepped out of a luxury car. I looked up as she walked towards me. I thought she would just toss a few coins into my broken bowl, like those high-society ladies, but she didn't. She knelt down, her clear eyes filled with pity, and gently placed a twenty-dollar bill in my hand, saying it was half of her monthly allowance.

"Your eyes remind me of my puppy," she said softly, "It died last month."

In that moment, something soft seemed to touch the depths of my heart. I once had a puppy too, but it was burned to ashes in a fire.

She stood up to leave, the wind gently blowing her hair, bringing a faint fragrance. She stopped suddenly, glancing back at me.

I watched her, unsure of what she would do next. She slowly extended her hand, on which she wore a simple yet exquisite ring that glittered under the dim light.

She carefully removed the ring from her finger and placed it in my hand. The ring was still warm from her body, and the warmth spread from my palm throughout my entire being.

"May this bring you luck," she said gently, her tone filled with sincerity and hope.

I was stunned, staring at the ring in my palm, unable to believe it was real. Perhaps to someone of her status, this ring was a trivial thing, but to a street beggar like me, it was an unimaginable gift.

Peering through my dirty, matted hair, I cautiously glanced up at her.

Why would she do this? I was just a roach scurrying in the shadows; what right did I have to receive such a precious gift?

"Thank you, thank you," I stammered, my voice trembling, tears welling up in my eyes.

She nodded, said nothing, and turned to leave.

I held the ring up by its chain. It hung quietly between my fingers. In the years that followed, I learned that this simple yet profound ring was called a Möbius strip, symbolizing endless loops and repetitions. This meaning resonated with my current life, where every day, every moment seemed trapped in a cycle of bloodshed and violence.

The night deepened, moonlight filtering through the curtains and casting a dappled glow on me, adding a touch of mystery and loneliness to the silent room. I sat alone in the corner, playing with the ring, lost in thought. It was more than just an ornament; it was a knot in my heart, an unresolved mystery.

Turning the ring slowly in my hand, I seemed to see the blurred figure of that little girl. Although I could no longer recall her face, her white lace dress and the innocent way she inhaled when she spoke were etched deeply in my memory. It was a blend of purity and cuteness that, for a moment, even someone like me, accustomed to bloodshed and violence, had felt warmth.

That little girl had long disappeared into the crowd. I sought her in every corner of Chicago, but this vast city was like a labyrinth, and finding her was like searching for a needle in a haystack.

Chicago, the city of steel and concrete, was both a refuge and a storm's origin for me. And Lombardi—this name embodied hatred in my heart. Every time it was mentioned, a surge of indescribable pain would well up inside me.

Isabella Lombardi, her stubbornness only fueled my desire to destroy her. I longed to see her suffer and struggle under my feet. The feeling of crushing her bones inch by inch brought a twisted satisfaction that could temporarily make me forget my hatred and feel a sense of perverse contentment.

I took a cigar from a refined case, lit it with a gold lighter, and inhaled deeply. The smoke I exhaled appeared particularly bluish under the lighting. The delicate tobacco scent complemented the luxurious interior decoration, but my heart was far from calm. I needed release—pure, physical release.

I picked up the phone and dialed Luis's number, commanding, "Luis, send me a woman."

Within an hour, the doorbell rang. I stubbed out the cigar, opened the door, and found a blonde beauty standing there.

She introduced herself as Arianna. She had creamy skin, her perfect curves sheathed in a white dress, her ample chest creating a cleavage in the fabric.

The dim spotlight cast the rest of the room in darkness, making it impossible to see her face clearly. This was exactly what I wanted. I needed a soft body to wrap around me, to quench my thirst, without seeing the face.

Grasping her shoulders, I unzipped myself and pushed her onto my cock. She moaned lightly, her pink lips parting slightly as she engulfed me, moving fast up and down. Her golden curls shimmered under the light, gently swaying with each movement like a doll, pure yet slightly seductive. I lowered my head, inhaling her scent—a rosy fragrance with a hint of sweetness. She was still very young, not needing heavy perfume to mask an older, decaying scent.

Her skills were incredible, making me want to release instantly.

"Spread your legs, baby."

I tore off her panties and grabbed her hips, entering her roughly. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh echoed in the room, but she didn't resist. She lay on the bed obediently, letting me maneuver her. Her body was like a soft ocean, welcoming my thrusts. I rode her fiercely, like a beast running wild in the wilderness, uncaged and free.

With one final, violent thrust, I reached the climax, collapsing onto Arianna, the mingled scents of sweat and passion filling the air.

Breathing heavily, I whispered in her ear, "You're my mistress now, Luis will be in touch."

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