Mentality of The Heart

CHAPTER 11

3rd Person's POV

"WHO SENT YOU?!" the hitman bellowed, his voice laced with fury, his grip tightening around the bloodied man's collar.

A sinister chuckle echoed through the dimly lit basement as the captive lifted his head, his swollen lips curling into a mocking smirk. "Ha, like I'd ever tell you," he rasped, spitting blood onto the floor.

The hitman's jaw ticked. His patience was running razor-thin. He cracked his knuckles, the sound slicing through the tension like a blade. "I'll give you one last chance. You'd do well not to test me."

The captive scoffed, his laughter dry and hollow. "I ain't telling you shit."

A sharp crack rang out as a fist collided with his jaw, sending his head snapping to the side. He groaned, spitting out another glob of crimson.

"Alright then," the hitman murmured darkly, straightening as he glanced toward his comrade. A simple nod was all it took.

The man pulled out his phone and pressed a number.

"Capo, non parlerà." (Boss, he won't talk.)

A brief pause.

"Sto arrivando." (I'm coming.)

The call ended.

The hitman smirked, leaning in close to the battered man. "Let's see how long you keep up that brave act, cagna." (Bitch.)

~

Heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor, each step deliberate, exuding authority. The air shifted—thickened, suffocated.

Then he appeared.

A towering figure dressed in a midnight-black Brioni Vanquish II dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the sculpted veins in his forearms. His matching dress pants were perfectly tailored, clinging to his powerful frame. His jet-black hair was slicked back into a precise man-bun, not a single strand out of place.

Everything about him radiated control, power... and an ominous promise of death.

He wasn't just a man. He was something more. Something far worse.

The devil incarnate.

His presence alone sucked the air from the room, leaving only a suffocating sense of impending doom.

As he stepped into the basement, his men straightened instinctively. A mere nod from him was enough for them to step aside. His gaze—cold, calculating—locked onto the captive tied to the chair, his face marred with blood and sweat.

"And what do we have here?" he mused, voice smooth yet edged with something lethal.

The captive's breath hitched. The color drained from his face. His eyes widened in pure terror as realization crashed over him.

This wasn't just any man.

This was him.

'Re di tutti i diavoli.'
The King of All Devils.

He was infamous—both for his brutality and his beauty. A man so captivating yet so merciless, one could only describe him as a paradox carved by the gods but tainted by the devil himself.

No one tangled with him and lived to tell the tale. You were either the hunter or the hunted. And with him? There was no question. You were always the latter.

A slow, sinister smirk curved his lips as he prowled toward his prey.

"Poverino." (You poor thing.) His deep Italian accent curled around the word like a whisper of death.