Rule 7 : Rage

CHAPTER 54: Wages of Betrayal.

It was an auspicious day in the underbelly of the city, though the sun barely dared to shine in Lord Maximus's world. Dressed to kill, he sat in his dim room, where shadows danced like whispers. The only light came from his spotless mirror, glistening tiles, and a glass of amber liquor—just enough for a blind man to find his way.

Seated in his leather chair, he inhaled deeply, smoke wrapping around him like a ghost. The purveyor of blood and death, the architect of disaster, he planned and executed ruthless deals—but it was never enough. The shrill ring of his phone shattered the silence.

He sprang to his feet, soldiers snapping to attention as he stormed down the stairs. The car engine roared to life, an ominous growl mirroring his impatience. As he settled into the rear seat, his phone rang again, its tone piercing the tension like a gunshot.

"Dante Nyx Argent," he barked, his voice low and dangerous.

"I just confirmed," DNA muttered. "The Irishman and Padrone Ruggiero are at odds. Isn't this suspicious?"

Maximus scowled, his eyes narrowing in response to DNA.

He continued, "There's no operation in Greece. Draven confirmed—the documents were fake... but Spain's operation, there's no way he could've known."

Maximus stared ahead, smoke curling through the dim interior.

"He knew you wouldn't back down. It's bait," DNA's voice dropped, sharp as a blade.

Maximus's grip tightened on the phone. "I know where this is headed." Without another word, he ended the call and slipped it into his coat pocket with a flick.

"Turn the car," he ordered, a smirk tugging at his lips. "We're paying a visit to the North Graveyard."

The tires screeched as the car swerved against the asphalt. Maximus reached for his briefcase, ready for whatever bloody business awaited him.

* * * *

The metallic scent of blood hung in the air, a sickly sweet aroma that filled Lord Maximus's nostrils. The briefcase popped open under the cold blue-grey light, revealing knives, guns, and syringes—blades sharp enough to cut through shadows.

Maximus's gloved fingers traced a blade, the steel biting through the leather. The soft scrape of metal was the only sound above his guards' ragged breaths, their hands slick with blood, the coppery stench mingling with sweat and decay.

His boot slammed into the man on the floor—his legs slashed brutally, convulsing as life drained from his eyes. Yet Lord Maximus's gaze never wavered from Padrone Ruggiero, who sat rigid, the tap of his foot betraying the fury rippling beneath his trembling brow.

"Ruggiero," Lord Maximus drawled, smoke curling around him like a shroud. "Let's not play games. Tell me the truth—how much did you pocket for this little betrayal?"

"Insolence!" Ruggiero spat, his eyes flicking to his writhing men on the floor. "That's an insult to the North Graveyard, Massimo."

Lord Maximus leaned forward, a sneer creeping onto his lips. "I get it; your ego's as big as your failures. I wouldn't want to see it shed completely. So, tell me—who whispered in your ear and set this up?"

Ruggiero adjusted his hat, pride choking the truth.

Without warning, Lord Maximus hurled a knife at the groaning man. The blade sliced through the air, embedding itself in his neck. Before Ruggiero could react, the knife twitched, whirring softly as it returned to Lord Maximus's hand, eager for another strike.

"My guards are human too," Ruggiero smirked. "You've learned the truth; face it, not me."

"You're a man who sacrificed his wife for money; losing anything else wouldn't faze you, would it?" Lord Maximus's voice dripped with derision as he cocked the gun, his finger hovering over the trigger. "But I'd advise you not to waste yourself hiding behind another lie."

"I knew it was all made up. The Irishman gave you intel about Spain's operation, but how come he forgot to tell you it was a bid for me? You never knew I was involved from the start."

Ruggiero's eyes widened. "Conti... it was all play," he spat through clenched teeth.

Lord Maximus laughed. "Finally, the tables have turned. I'm asking now, nothing but the truth—why are you washing your hands of Spain's operation?"

The clink of a bullet rolling across the floor punctuated his words. Ruggiero's gaze dropped to the blood pooling at his feet—another lifeless body, face mangled beyond recognition.

"The wages of betrayal are death." Lord Maximus squeezed the trigger. The shot rang out, tearing into the man's face. His body jittered, his face shattering like glass—a gruesome spray of blood and bone splattering on Ruggiero's cheek.

A flicker of satisfaction crossed Maximus's face as he savored his deadly arsenal, the metallic scent of blood mingling with the bitter tang of gunpowder that hung thickly in the air.

Padrone Ruggiero's eyes bulged, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks. His trembling hand smeared the cold sweat trickling down his forehead, barely brushing against the rough surface of his skin.

His gaze darted to the fallen bodies, eyes wide with disbelief. "No," a guttural sound rumbled from his throat as he lunged for the nearest gun, fingers fumbling desperately for the grip. "This can't be happening!"

Ruggiero's finger tightened on the trigger, a bead of sweat running down his nose, dripping onto his lips. The world seemed to slow as he took aim at Maximus, his heart pounding in his chest.

"The North Graveyard will never kneel to Shaque," Ruggiero snarled, his shaky fingers tightening around the trigger. "Not now, not ever."

Lord Maximus's lips twitched into a slow, mocking smile, his own gun lowering to the ground almost lazily. Without missing a beat, Rocco, one of Maximus's men, stepped forward, the metallic click of his blade echoing in the room. "You'll have to go through us first."