Warning: In this chapter is mention of blood, if you are uncomfortable, then please skip this chapter.
__________________________________________________________________________________
The echoes of my voice bounced off the cold, unyielding walls of the training room, mingling with the grunts and cries of exertion from the soldiers around me. The room was filled with the sharp, metallic scent of sweat and the faint, coppery tang of blood—evidence of the grueling training session underway.
"Punch the fucking bag harder! Don't be weak!" I barked at the newest recruit, a young man whose name I had barely bothered to learn.
Normally, Giovani handled the training of new soldiers, but with him taking a rare day off to grieve his daughter's death, the task fell to me.
The recruit winced as he threw another punch, his knuckles raw and bleeding from the relentless assault on the heavy bag. "B-but sir, my knuckles, they are bleedin—" he began, his voice trembling with fatigue and pain.
I cut him off sharply, my patience worn thin. "I don't fucking care. It's just a little bit of blood. Now, do what I said before a bullet ends up between your eyes," I growled, my eyes narrowing as I stared him down.
The young man gulped, his eyes wide with fear as he nodded frantically, resuming his assault on the bag with renewed vigor.
Each punch landed with a sickening thud, the sound of flesh meeting leather punctuated by his ragged breaths.
I watched him closely, my mind a tumultuous storm of thoughts. Training soldiers to be tough, unyielding, and relentless was a necessary part of maintaining control, but it was also a bitter reminder of the brutal world we lived in—a world where weakness could not be tolerated.
My thoughts drifted briefly to Isabella, a stark contrast to the harshness of my current reality.
Her laughter, her warmth, the way she looked at me with love and trust—it was a beacon of light in the darkness that threatened to consume me. She didn't know the full extent of my life, the blood and violence that came with being a mafia boss. And for her safety, it was better that way.
"Focus, dammit!" I snapped, bringing my attention back to the recruit, who had started to falter again. His face was a mask of pain and determination, each punch a testament to his struggle to meet my expectations.
"That's better," I muttered as he found a steadier rhythm, the blows landing more consistently now. Every man had to be ready to fight, to protect, to kill if necessary.
"Remember, you either get stronger or you die," I said, my voice low but firm. "This isn't a game. This is your life now, and you better be prepared to fight for it."
The recruit nodded, his eyes filled with a newfound determination.
As I watched him, I felt a glimmer of satisfaction. He was learning, adapting, becoming the soldier he needed to be.
Turning away, I made my way to the office, the echoes of the training room fading behind me. My mind was already shifting to the next task, the next challenge. But amidst the chaos and violence, one thought remained constant—Isabella.
She was my anchor, my reason for enduring this brutal world. And for her, I would do whatever it took to keep our world safe, no matter the cost.
[---]
As I stepped into the relative calm of my office, the stark contrast to the chaos of the training room settled around me like a heavy cloak. I took a deep breath, attempting to center myself before the next inevitable storm.
The phone on my desk rang, its sharp tone cutting through the silence. I picked it up, not bothering to check the caller ID. "Lorenzo," I answered curtly.
"Lorenzo, abbiamo un problema," the voice on the other end said, the tension palpable even through the phone. It was Marco, one of my lieutenants. "Abbiamo scoperto che qualcuno sta vendendo informazioni alla polizia."
("Lorenzo, we have a problem")
("We found out that someone is selling information to the police.")
"Chi?" I demanded, my voice rising with anger as I slipped into Italian, the words flowing more naturally in moments of fury. "Chi cazzo sta tradendo la nostra famiglia?"
("Who?")
("Who the fuck is betraying our family?")
"Non siamo ancora sicuri," Marco replied, his voice hesitant. "Ma abbiamo dei sospetti. Pensiamo che potrebbe essere uno dei nuovi ragazzi."
("We're not sure yet")
("But we have suspicions. We think he might be one of the new guys.")
I clenched my fist, feeling the fury boiling inside me. "Trova chi è, Marco. E fallo in fretta. Non possiamo permetterci una falla nella nostra organizzazione."
("Find out who it is, Marco. And do it quickly. We cannot afford a hole in our organization.")
"Sì, capo. Faremo del nostro meglio," Marco assured me, though I could sense his own anxiety. The stakes were high, and any misstep could be disastrous.
("Yes Boss. We will do our best.)
"Il nostro meglio non è abbastanza," I snapped, the weight of my responsibilities pressing down on me. "Voglio risultati, e li voglio subito. Capito?"
("Our best is not enough")
("I want results, and I want them now. Understood.")
"Capito," Marco replied, his voice subdued but determined.
("Understood")
I ended the call with a growl of frustration, slamming the phone down on the desk. The betrayal within our ranks was a threat that needed to be extinguished swiftly and without mercy. My mind raced with the implications, the potential fallout if the information being sold reached the wrong hands.
The phone call had left me seething, the fury coursing through my veins like molten lava. Switching back to English, I muttered to myself, "Damn it, I can't afford this shit right now."
Running a hand through my hair, I took a moment to steady my breathing. I needed to remain calm, focused. There was no room for error.
My eyes fell on a photo of Isabella on my desk, a reminder of what I was fighting for.
Her smile, her warmth, her innocence, oke, maybe not so innocent, but still—they were my reasons for enduring, for fighting this relentless war.
I picked up the phone again, this time dialing Giovani. He picked up on the first ring. "Giovani, we have a situation," I said, my voice hard and unwavering.
"What's going on?" Giovani asked, his tone immediately serious.
"There's a rat in our midst, selling information to the police. Marco's on it, but I need you to expedite the process. Use every resource we have. I want this bastard found and dealt with."
"Understood, Lorenzo. I'll handle it," Giovani replied, his voice steady and reassuring.
"Good. And Giovani, be careful. I can't afford to lose more good men," I added, my voice softening slightly.
"We'll get through this, Lorenzo. We always do," Giovani said before hanging up.
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling as the weight of the situation settled over me. The life I led was filled with danger and betrayal.
__________________________________________________________________________________
Who do you think it might be? Maybe Isabella knows that he is in mafia and she is selling information? Or maybe it's that weak guy who couldn't punch properly earlier?
Let me know👉🏻
YOU ARE READING
Daddy |18+
Lãng mạnDaddy has always been caring and everything, being gentleman, but it all breaks and disappears, when I break the rule or when we have fun. --- But little one doesn't know yet, that her Daddy is a mafia boss, most dangerous one. Daddy's Little One ha...
