"I didn't expect the Bratva's tech queen to be quite so... captivating," Lorenzo's voice dripped with irony as he observed Galina, who was absorbed in deciphering a web of encrypted data.
Galina's gaze remained fixed on her screens, her expression a...
NOTE - This chapter contains mild violence. Please proceed with care.
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Violence is the lifeblood of the mafia, an integral part of its dark essence. It embodies power, a brutal testament to the strength and dominance of a leader. Violence serves as a dire warning, a reminder that the deadly intentions and primal urges within should never be provoked out of curiosity or folly. For those who wield such power, the true satisfaction lies not just in the act of violence itself, but in the palpable fear they instill in their victims. They revel in the terror of their captives, deriving a twisted pleasure from the dread reflected in their eyes. This fear feeds into their egos, affirming their dominance and providing a perverse sense of achievement. The agony they inflict is not merely about physical pain but about breaking the spirit of their victims, watching as hope crumbles into a mere shell of a person.
Before me lies nothing more than a human carcass, a mere representation of life's frailty.
The man sprawled on the floor is a pitiful sight. His body is drenched in a pool of his own blood, the grotesque sight of his stomach torn open, intestines exposed. His face, contorted in an expression of excruciating pain and exhaustion, is a testament to his suffering. Unconsciousness has claimed him, yet he remains a canvas of torment, suffering the repercussions of his actions without the mercy of treatment. In this state, infection is inevitable, a final cruelty to his already tormented existence.
I stand over him, my stance rigid, arms crossed as I observe his tragic condition with cold detachment. I am here to carry out what I came for, and I am determined to see it through. The anticipation of his suffering heightens my senses, preparing me for what is to come.
With a sigh, I stretch my neck and shoulders, the crack of my joints resonating through the still, oppressive air of the basement. My eyes scan the dimly lit room until they land on the axe leaning against the wall. I retrieve it with deliberate movements, the heavy weight of the weapon a tangible reminder of the brutality about to unfold.
I approach him again, the axe held firmly in my grasp. My voice cuts through the silence with a chilling calmness. "Get up," I command, the words cold and devoid of sympathy.
The man remains unmoved, his unconsciousness a feeble shield against the torment awaiting him. I step closer, my expression unwavering, and with a grim finality, I bring the axe down. It strikes with a sickening thud, severing his left leg at the ankle. The sound of flesh being cleaved from bone is accompanied by his sudden, agonized scream. His eyes flutter open, the sharp edge of pain jolting him into a harrowing awareness.
I observe his reaction with a mix of curiosity and satisfaction, the sound of his agony a twisted symphony to my ears. His suffering is just beginning, and though he may not last long, I will ensure he endures as much as possible.
