Rule 7 : Rage

CHAPTER 49: The North Graveyard.

Ruggiero flicked away his half-smoked joint and adjusted his hat, a smirk playing on his lips as he glanced around. "Power... some of us think long-term, Massimo. You might want to rethink where you place your trust."

He straightened, his voice dropping to a low growl. "I can make sure this doesn't become a problem. You know how things work around here. One wrong move, and she could turn on you faster than a viper. Trust me, I could help."

My mind raced, searching for answers as a cold dread settled in my stomach at the thought of being a pawn in their game. Lord Maximus snapped his wrist impatiently. "Can we cut to the chase, Pa?" he scoffed. "I'm not asking for any help."

Ruggiero leaned in, a sly grin spreading across his face. "Why don't you hand her over tonight? Admit it, you don't really love her, do you?" He paused, his eyebrows furrowing.

"We could make a deal. You give her to me for the night, and I'll make sure no one ever finds out. Say you married her to protect her from me, an old enemy. A perfect cover-up, a little white lie to save your reputation."

"And why would a man who sacrificed his wife for money save my reputation?" A cold glint flashed in Lord Maximus's eyes.

"Ruggierotopellegrinocorado," he drawled, leaning back, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You're still breathing not because of your age or the respect you think you command in this world of blood and power," he said, his voice laced with chilling calm. "No, it's because I allow it."

He paused, his eyes turning icy. "I don't owe you a damn thing. If I chose to end you and your men right here, right now, no one would bat an eye. But no—I'd rather you taste the sting of death with your own hands."

Ruggiero's face drained of color, his eyes wide with terror. I could see beads of sweat rolling down his forehead, despite his frantic attempts to hold it together. Lord Maximus had reduced the once-feared Ruggiero to a broken shell, his knees threatening to buckle beneath him.

"I'm not the only one who thinks that rules can be bent. Conti has been... reconsidering some old alliances too, hasn't he?"

The name 'Conti' seemed to jolt him, but he smirked. "He's just at the edge of my fingers; he'll soon slip away with anyone standing with him." His grip on my thigh tightened.

Ruggiero shrugged, unfazed. "You know, Massimo, the winds are changing. Power doesn't last forever. Sometimes, it's best to stand with those who understand what real power means. And sometimes... it's best to watch from the shadows until the right moment."

Lord Maximus's head dipped, trying to decipher his message. The muscles in his jaw tightened as he glanced at his watch, ticking relentlessly.

Ruggiero's sharp, derisive laughter sliced through the air, reverberating off the walls and breaking the delicate stillness. "She shouldn't be listening to us, Massimo," he sneered, each word dripping with scorn. "Get her out of here."

Lord Maximus's breath hitched, his gaze sharpening to a steely focus. Before he could respond, I softly brushed my fingertips against his arm. He turned, eyes searching mine, and I nodded, my eyebrows furrowing. "Let me," I murmured, my voice barely a whisper.

He nodded, hands briefly clasping and unclasping, fingers twitching in restless patterns. He leaned in, breath ghosting against my ear. "You don't look good when you interrupt me. It makes you look like a fool," he hissed. I straightened, smoothing my clothes as I rose to leave, feeling Ruggiero's gaze boring into my back.

Lord Maximus's face remained carefully blank, eyes flicking briefly toward Ruggiero, whose lips quivered, a faint curl tugging at the edges as if he were suppressing a chuckle.

One of the guards led me into a spacious, sunlit room filled with the soft, calming scent of chamomile. The gentle clinking of distant glasses mingled with the muted thud of footsteps, contrasting sharply with the chaos swirling inside me. As the guard departed, I began to explore, my eyes scanning the shelves crammed with dusty, leather-bound books.

A small, worn sign, barely visible in the dim light, warned: "Do Not Touch." Yet my fingers couldn't resist gliding over the spines. As I did, I brushed against one that felt oddly different—its cover smooth and pristine, unlike the others.

I carefully took it out. The title, "The North Graveyard and the Butcher's Worm," was embossed in haunting gold. Another book, "The Blackcroft Abode," peeked from the shelf.

A cold prickle crept up my spine as memories of Ruggiero and Lord Maximus's heated exchange flashed vividly in my mind, their angry faces and sharp words replaying like a silent film. My stomach tightened, a knot of unease pulling at me. I felt an urge to explore the book, but I also wanted to leave the room.

The sudden creak of a floorboard snapped me out of my thoughts. I swiftly returned the book to its place. As I approached a seat, I saw a woman in a flowing black suit waiting for me, a cup of hot chamomile tea and a breaded chicken burger already set before me.

I stared at the food, my fingers hovering over the plate before I shoved it aside, my appetite lost somewhere between the room's chill and the lingering echoes of the past.