"Please, no, I have a family..."
The man's voice trembled as he dangled from thick iron chains, his wrists raw and bleeding from the metal biting into his flesh.
A slow, deliberate voice cut through the silence. In his right hand, he casually twirled a gleaming knife.
"Please..." Tears streamed down his bruised face, his vision blurred with desperation.
The man in the white suit reached out, his fingers grazing his cheek, wiping away a tear with an almost gentle touch.
"I have a family too, you know." The man whispered, his own eyes tearing "And I love them very much."
His breathing grew ragged. Then, as if something inside him had cracked, he collapsed onto his knees, his pristine suit pressing against the blood-streaked floor.
"And he was hurt..." He whispered.
His fingers trembled as he wiped his tears away, then, without warning, a grin twisted his face.
His grip tightened around the knife, the blade now angled outward, reflecting his manic grin.
"I'll tell you anything!" The captive cried, his voice raw with desperation. "Names, locations—anything you want!" His screams echoed through the basement. The iron chains rattled as he struggled.
"Names?" The man in the white suit chuckled, the sound almost childlike in its delight. He turned his gaze toward the shadows where another figure lurked, watching silently. "Did you hear that? He wants to give us names."
The other man, barely visible, let out a low laugh.
"But you see." The man in white continued, his voice lilting with amusement, "I've already taken care of that."
He leaned in, his lips nearly brushing his captive's ear.
"I chopped them up." He whispered, his breath warm against the other's cold skin. "All three of them."
"Then... then what do you want from me...?" His voice was barely above a whisper now, dread sinking deep into his bones.
The man in white stepped back, tilting his head as if considering the question. Then, his lips curled into a slow, wicked smile.
"Suffering," he said softly. "I want to see you suffer."
He traced the edge of the knife along the captive's collarbone, applying just enough pressure for a thin line of blood to well up.
"I want to watch as your blood drains, little by little... to see the light fade from your eyes, to hear the last, shuddering breath escape your lips."
His eyes gleamed with hunger.
"I want to see you die... and I want to enjoy every second of it."
And the laughter echoed once more.
"You're a fucking psychopath..." He spat in his face, his voice filled with hatred and disgust.
The man in white didn't flinch. He simply wiped the spit from his cheek with the back of his gloved hand, his expression unreadable. Then, he smiled—slow, deliberate, a predator savoring the moment before the kill.
"Bernadt" he murmured, his voice dangerously calm. "You knew very well what would happen... and yet, you still stabbed my loved one in the back."
He took a step closer, the tip of his knife pressing ever so lightly against Bernadt's throat.
"But be grateful. I won't touch any of your loved ones."
He let the words hang in the air for a moment, watching as hope flickered—just for a second—in Bernadt's terrified eyes. Then, he leaned in, his breath warm against his prisoner's ear.
"Because unlike you," he murmured, his voice like silk over a blade, "I still have a shred of humanity left in me."
And then, he smiled again.
Without another word, he plunged the knife into Bernadt's stomach.
He pulled the blade out, only to drive it in again. And again.
Blood spurted with each thrust, warm droplets splattering onto the white suit, staining its pristine fabric. The wet, sickening sound of the blade sinking into flesh echoed through the basement, accompanied only by Bernadt's weakening cries.
His struggles slowed. His head drooped forward. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps. Yet the man in white continued, his movements methodical, almost rhythmic, as if each stab was part of a carefully composed symphony of suffering.
With an almost lazy motion, he let the knife slip from his fingers, clattering to the concrete floor.
He exhaled, rolling his shoulders as if relieving tension from his muscles. Then, without a care, he stepped back and lowered himself onto a nearby chair.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a cigarette, lighting it with a slow, practiced motion. The flame briefly illuminated his face—calm, almost serene—as he took a deep drag and exhaled a curl of smoke into the heavy air.
His eyes drifted back to Bernadt.
The man still hung from the chains, his body limp, his head lolling forward. Blood dripped from countless wounds, pooling beneath him, soaking into the cold stone floor.
The man in white smiled.
And then, he simply sat there, watching.
"Should we go see him?" One of the men asked, his voice cautious.
The man in white took another slow drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke curl between his fingers before exhaling. His gaze never left Bernadt's limp, bleeding body. For a moment, it seemed as if he hadn't heard the question at all.
Then, without looking away, he spoke.
The room fell silent. The men around him exchanged glances, waiting for him to continue.
"First, we go to Victor," he said at last, his tone as calm as ever. He flicked the ash from his cigarette, watching as it scattered across the bloodstained floor. "He had dinner with him."
He finally turned his head, his cold eyes meeting the man who had asked the question.
"I want to see if he had a hand in this."
And so, he went to Victor.
Victor was already waiting, though he had no idea that one of the sworn Bellins would be coming to his house.
He sat in his lavish dining room, a half-empty glass of red wine resting on the table.
Victor's fingers tapped idly against the glass, his other hand adjusting the cuff of his expensive suit.
He had been expecting someone. But not him.
A sharp knock at the door echoed through the quiet house. Before Victor could react, the door swung open—not by the hands of a servant, but by force.
A man dressed in a white suit, now stained with specks of drying blood. His cold, unfeeling eyes locked onto Victor as he stepped inside, the air around him heavy with the scent of smoke and iron.
"Nice to meet you. I'm Ferucci Bellini. You are Victor Moretti, am I right?"
Ferucci stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, his gaze locking onto Victor's eyes with an intensity that sent a chill through the room.
Victor straightened in his seat, his fingers tightening slightly around the stem of his wine glass. "Yes, I am," he replied carefully.
Ferucci smiled and without another word, he walked over to the dining table and sat down in the exact same chair where James had been seated earlier at the dinner.
He leaned back slightly, resting his elbow on the armrest.
"So, do you know what happened?" he asked, his voice smooth, unhurried. "And if you do—how do you know?"
Their eyes met again. This time, Ferucci didn't blink.
Victor exhaled, running a hand through his neatly combed hair. "I have a man inside the NSBI," he admitted. "He informed me about James's arrest—but nothing more. I know nothing beyond that."
Ferucci's fingers drummed against the wooden surface of the table. His eyes studied Victor for a long moment, searching, calculating. Then, ever so slightly, his smile widened.
Ferucci's smile widened as he locked eyes with Victor once more.
Victor's breath hitched for a brief second, but he kept his composure. "Yes, it was... but how do you—"
"Well," Ferucci interrupted smoothly, leaning forward slightly, his voice barely above a whisper, "we had a long and interesting talk."
He watched Victor's expression carefully, savoring the flicker of unease that crossed his face. Then, with a casual shrug, he continued:
"But I'm sorry... he's not going to report anymore. Not now. Not ever again."
A heavy silence settled between them.
Victor tightened his grip on the table's edge, his mind racing, but his face remained composed. He knew exactly what Ferucci meant. Klen was dead. And if Ferucci had gone through the trouble of dealing with him personally, then this meeting wasn't just a courtesy visit—it was a warning.
"Dad, what's happening?"
Penelope came downstairs, rubbing her sleepy eyes, her voice laced with drowsy confusion.
Victor's heart sank. Fear gripped him tighter than before. His daughter—his innocent daughter—had walked into something she shouldn't have.
"Go back to sleep, darling," Victor said quickly, standing up and gently pushing her back toward the staircase. His voice was calm, but his movements were tense, urgent.
"But I heard the name Bellini..." she mumbled, still half-asleep. "Is James here?"
She blinked, her gaze drifting toward the dining table—toward the man sitting there with an unsettlingly wide smile. The moment their eyes met, a shiver ran down her spine.
The man stood up slowly, adjusting his white suit, his presence suddenly looming.
"I am Ferucci Bellini," he said smoothly, stepping toward her. His tone was polite, almost warm, but something about it made the air feel heavy. "James' family member. His brother."
Penelope froze. The way he said it... it wasn't reassuring. It wasn't comforting. It felt like a threat wrapped in silk.
And that smile... it was like a demon from one of the shows she had watched.
It wasn't just a smile. It was something twisted, something unnatural—too wide, too knowing. It sent ice through her veins.
"Are you close with James?" Ferucci asked, his grin unwavering.
Penelope barely heard the words. Her gaze had already drifted downward, catching the details she had missed before—the specks of blood on his pristine white suit, the dark stains near his cuffs. Then, lower... to the knife tucked into his belt.
Her body refused to move, refused to breathe.
Ferucci tilted his head slightly, watching her reaction. He had seen this look before—the realization, the fear.
Penelope's fear ran so deep that she said what she thought was the safest thing—the only thing that might protect her father, herself, and their family.
"We're dating," she blurted out, her voice shaky but firm.
Her heart pounded so hard she thought it would shatter through her ribs. She forced a nervous smile, hoping—praying—that this would create some kind of connection, something that would make Ferucci hesitate before doing anything reckless.
Ferucci's smile didn't falter. If anything, it grew.
His dark eyes flickered with something unreadable—amusement? Curiosity? Or something far worse?
For a moment, there was only silence. Then, Ferucci chuckled—a deep, rich laugh that sent another shiver down her spine.
"Dating, huh?" he mused, stepping closer. He reached out, slowly, and brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch featherlight, almost gentle. But to Penelope, it felt like a snake coiling around her throat.
"How sweet," he murmured.
Victor clenched his fists, his breath shallow. "Ferucci," he said, his voice tense, "leave her out of this."
Ferucci finally pulled back, his eyes never leaving Penelope's. "Relax, Victor," he said smoothly. "I'm just getting to know my dear brother's... girlfriend."
His gaze lingered on her for a moment longer before he turned, casually walking back to his seat. He leaned back in the chair, exhaling a slow breath.
"Well then, Penelope," he said smoothly, his voice almost casual. "You should go see him. He almost died from a beating," he continued, tilting his head slightly. "He's in the hospital now."
Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. James... beaten? Almost dead?
Ferucci let the silence stretch, watching as the color drained from her face. Then, he sighed. Victor's throat went dry. His fingers twitched slightly against the table as he processed what he had just heard.
"What did you say?" He asked, his voice sharp and disbelieving.
"James almost died." He repeated, his tone slow, deliberate. "And it's really frustrating to know that you were aware of his arrest this entire time."
He took a step closer to Victor, his presence suffocating, his smile gone. "You knew he was tortured. You knew where he was." His voice dropped to a whisper, filled with quiet menace.
Victor swallowed hard but said nothing.
Ferucci let the silence linger before suddenly flashing a wide grin, though his eyes remained cold. "But I forgive you," he said lightly. "Because of your daughter."
Victor exhaled shakily, relief barely creeping in—until Ferucci leaned in even closer, his breath hot against Victor's ear.
"But one more misstep..." he whispered, "and I will chop you up, okay?"
He pulled back, flashing his teeth in a grin that sent chills down Victor's spine.
Then, turning his gaze back to Penelope, Ferucci winked. "Bye, darling," he said smoothly. "Make sure you visit James."
He reached for the door, but just before stepping out, he paused. Slowly, he turned back around, his grin stretching wider, his eyes gleaming with something dark and knowing.
"Oh... and thank the Lord that I was the one who came," he said, his voice smooth but laced with something sinister.
Victor and Penelope froze.
"Because," Ferucci continued, tilting his head slightly, "someone else was really angry. So angry that even I was scared."
Penelope clutched her father's arm, her breathing shallow.
Ferucci chuckled at their silence. "Let's hope I don't have to come back," he mused, turning on his heel. "Because next time, it might not be me knocking on your door."
And with that, he walked out, leaving behind an unshakable dread that clung to the air like the scent of blood.
As Ferucci stepped outside, he noticed a black car parked nearby—one that wasn't his. His gaze sharpened as a woman emerged from the vehicle, clad in a deep red dress. A wide-brimmed hat shaded her face, and dark glasses concealed her eyes.
For a moment, Ferucci paused, then started toward her.
"I didn't hear any shots, brother." She said smoothly.
He smirked. "Well, it got complicated. Apparently, Victor's daughter is dating James. And if I kill her, you know what will happen."
The woman quickly started walking toward him, stopping right in front of him.
"I love James, and he loves me! Why the hell would he date a fucking bitch?" She pressed on, her voice sharp with anger.
"He never said he loved you—"
Before Ferucci could finish, she spun around and grabbed his head firmly, her fingers digging into his skin.
"He kissed me," she hissed. "Kissed me with passion. Our tongues tangled, our bodies burned— delicious and intoxicating. Ahhh, I want more of him."
Ferucci exhaled, his voice calm but firm. "He was just giving you medicine. You know he has a fake tooth—that was the only way to get it to you—"
She tightened her grip, nails pressing deeper. "No. It was love." Her eyes burned with fire.
"And if that bitch lied," she whispered, her lips curling into a vicious smile, "I will personally skin her alive and I'll castrate you and shove your balls in your mouth—then you'll eat them. Got it?"
Her entire demeanor shifted in an instant. Her voice turned sweet, almost playful, as she spun around and walked toward her car with a light step.
"But now, let's go see him."
Ferucci let out a deep sigh, running a hand down his face before following after her.