Rule 7 : Rage

CHAPTER 48: The Purveyor's Game.

The ornate room, once a symbol of Parisian luxury, now felt heavy with an oppressive air. Gilt-edged mirrors seemed to mock the opulent furnishings, their reflections distorted. Intricate chandeliers cast dancing shadows that resembled grotesque figures.

The air was thick with the scent of incense and polished wood, yet a cold draft swept across the room. Three hulking guards, their gazes hardened and calculating, flanked us.

Lord Maximus, seated beside me, appeared unfazed. Although it was my second time accompanying him to these gatherings, the atmosphere here was markedly different. A chill ran down my spine as I wondered who we were about to face.

I fidgeted, my fingers steepling on the edge of the cushion, sitting uncomfortably. A warm breath against my ear startled me as someone leaned in, their voice a low rumble that sent a shiver down my spine. "That is noise," Lord Maximus hissed, "your fingers are noise to my ears. Stop it."

I side-glanced at him, his face a mask of impassive calm, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes fixed on a distant point. My heart pounded in my chest as I adjusted my position, trying to avoid drawing any further attention.

The silence was deafening, broken only by the eerie ticking of a grandfather clock. I felt a sense of dread as a figure, his skin etched with the lines of a hard-lived life, stepped into the room. He moved with measured steps, his pointed shoes clicking against the polished floor.

A worn leather hat shaded his sunken, shadow-rimmed eyes. A cannabis stick dangled from his lips, a lazy curl of smoke escaping. The guards dipped their heads in respect as he lowered himself into his seat.

He cleared his throat, his gaze sweeping across the room. Veiny hands, rough and trembling, tightened around the joint as if drawing strength from it. He raised it to his lips, inhaling deeply before letting out a slow exhale. "Il fornitore di sangue e morte," his voice, a gravelly murmur, crept through the room like smoke.

"The purveyor of blood and death," the words seeping like poison from his throat.

Lord Maximus smiled softly, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Sono felice che tu ricordi, Padrone Ruggierotopellegrinocorado."
(I'm glad you remember, Boss Ruggierotopellegrinocorado.)

The man's smile faded, replaced by a smirk that twisted his entire face. He shifted his gaze towards me, observing and squinting as he adjusted his focus. "Are you killing her anytime soon?" he asked, his eyes gleaming intensely.

My breath caught in my throat. Was this a punishment or something else entirely? I wondered.

"Who is she?" he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "An intruder or meat for us?" He laughed sardonically, his smile quickly turning into a scowl, revealing a set of sharp, crooked teeth.

Lord Maximus's silence cloaked the room. My fingers gripped the chair, knuckles white as my hands shook uncontrollably—a secret only I could feel.

The man's eyes turned to me, his gaze a chilling ore that pierced through the stillness. "Introduce yourself, Madame," he said, his voice slicing through the air.

I took a deep breath, my lips parting to respond, but Lord Maximus's voice cut through before I could utter a word. His eyes, cold and unyielding, locked onto mine. "No need," he said, his tone brooking no argument. "She's my wife. She belongs to me."

Lord Maximus's words left me stunned, my ears ringing. I turned to meet his gaze, searching in the depths of his stare, those steely eyes for answers I wasn't sure I wanted to find. His hand slid toward my thigh, fingers curling around it, warm and insistent, sending a shiver racing down my spine.

His touch lingered, his grip tightening ever so slightly, as if he were marking me as his own. I couldn't tell if it was a gesture of comfort or an assertion of control, his presence looming over me like a shadow.

"Lord Maximus, we know the ironclad rule you established regarding the Shaque—any involvement with them invites swift and merciless retribution." His gaze flicked to Lord Maximus's hand, still resting firmly on my thigh.

"No love, no feelings, just mafia business. Is she truly worthy of an exception to this rule?" he asked, smoke curling from his lips like a whispered threat.

"Padrone Ruggiero," Lord Maximus growled, his voice a gritty rumble that rippled through the room. A smirk twisted at the corner of his mouth. "I reign supreme over the Shaque—I make and break the rules. Having someone by my side bolsters my power. Don't you think?"

I couldn't make out what they were saying or up to, but I knew Lord Maximus was up to something.

Padrone Ruggiero let out a low chuckle, his eyes boring into me. "Massimo, it seems you've earned yourself a new title," he drawled, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. "Having a wife is one thing, but bending your own rules for a donna?" He scoffed, his voice a low growl. "That's a whole different level of weakness, Signore."

Lord Maximus's voice was a razor-sharp blade, cutting through the silence. "I didn't bend a single rule," he said, his words colder than mercury. "I adapted them to serve my purpose. She's mine now." His jaw clenched tight.

Padrone Ruggiero smirked, his eyes narrowing. "In the name of what, Massimo?" he asked, a sneer curling his lips. "Love?" A muscle twitched in his eye. "That invites danger and makes you a fool. Rispetto counts."

Lord Maximus leaned forward. "Not love—power. Anyone who stands with me becomes unmatched and untouchable." His brows knitted, a shadow crossing his eyes. "Is that your problem, Padrone Ruggiero?"

There was something about his eyes, their icy valley that seemed to pierce through the air. His gaze, dark and unflinching, dared anyone to challenge the title he wore like a second skin. The purveyor of blood and death.