"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 symphony of the mafia, each note a crescendo of power, every brutal act a lyric in the ballad of dominance. It is not chaos; it is art. A tapestry woven with the threads of pain, fear, and submission, it demands reverence. Violence does not exist for its own sake—it is a language. A whispered warning to the foolish. A guttural roar to the defiant. For those of us who wield it, it is more than a means to an end. It is a mirror, reflecting the deepest recesses of human frailty and the intoxicating thrill of control.
The true satisfaction does not come from the act itself but from what lingers afterward—the fear. Fear is exquisite. It blooms in the eyes of the condemned like a flower wilting in the sun, its petals curling under the weight of dread. Watching hope drain from a man's gaze is like watching the final grains of sand fall in an hourglass. Irrevocable. Eternal. The agony I inflict is not meant merely to wound the body. No, that would be a waste. My intent is to shatter the soul, to leave nothing behind but the hollow shell of what once dared to oppose me.
Before me lies a man—no, less than a man now. A crumpled heap of flesh and despair, a macabre exhibit of life's fragility. His body sprawls across the cold concrete like discarded refuse, his blood painting the ground in grotesque crimson swirls. His stomach has been torn apart, the ragged edges of flesh framing the glistening tangle of exposed intestines. The sight is obscene, and yet, I feel nothing. Not pity. Not revulsion. Only a detached curiosity, as if observing the dissection of a lab specimen.
His face tells a story—a final chapter written in agony. Skin waxen, cheeks sunken, his lips parted in a silent scream that never reached the air. His features are locked in a grotesque mask of pain, even in unconsciousness. Infection will claim him soon, if the blood loss doesn't steal him first. Either way, he is already dead. He just doesn't know it yet.
I stand above him, my arms crossed over my chest, my stance a portrait of unyielding control. My heels click against the blood-slick floor as I take a deliberate step closer, the sound echoing in the cavernous silence like a judge's gavel sealing a verdict. I tilt my head, studying him as though he were a piece of abstract art whose meaning eluded me. The stench of blood and sweat curls in the air, acrid and cloying, but I breathe it in like perfume. This is the smell of justice. My justice.
