MAFIA'S INNOCENT BRIDE

PART 2

Hello my beautiful readers!

So here is the second chapter

Enjoy!

Author's POV

On the other side

In the dimly lit basement, the flicker of a dying lightbulb cast long shadows across the cold, concrete walls. Sitting in a chair, shrouded in darkness, was a man of striking presence—he was the kind of figure whose very stillness commanded the room. His sharp jawline was illuminated every time he lifted a cigarette to his lips, the soft glow briefly revealing eyes that were as cold as ice. His expression was one of deadly calm, exuding a power that sent chills down anyone’s spine.

His features were striking, almost beautiful in a terrifying way. Thick dark hair, slicked back meticulously, framed a face that could have belonged to a model, but the sharp, cold edge in his gaze stripped away any sense of softness. His eyes were deep, the color of storm clouds, holding a darkness that felt endless, as if he had seen and done things no man should. His lips were pressed into a thin, calculated line, but there was a hint of satisfaction in the way he blew the smoke slowly into the air, savoring the moment.

In front of him, a man lay battered and broken on the floor. Blood trickled down his face, his body limp and trembling. The mafia king flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushing it under the heel of his polished leather shoe. He stood up slowly, his broad shoulders and imposing frame casting a shadow over the defeated man like a looming storm. The air felt thick with tension as he bent down, his fingers lightly gripping the man's bloodied chin, forcing him to look up.

"Tell me his name," the mafia king said, his voice dangerously low, a quiet, restrained fury underneath. It wasn't loud, but it carried weight—every word heavy with an authority that made it clear there was no room for defiance. His hand was calm, but there was a sharpness in his eyes, a coldness that promised what would happen next if the man didn’t cooperate.

The man on the floor whimpered, his lips trembling, but no words came out. The mafia king stood upright, rolling his sleeves methodically, revealing forearms laced with old scars—a silent testament to a past full of violence and power. Without warning, he delivered a crushing blow to the man’s side, a sickening crack echoing in the basement as ribs broke under his brute force.

“You think silence will save you?” he hissed, grabbing the man by his collar and lifting him to his knees with terrifying ease. The mafia boss moved with a calculated grace, his power always controlled but on the verge of unleashing devastation. His face remained composed, cold, and without mercy as he hit the man again, each strike precise, as though he had done this countless times before.

"Name. Now." His voice barely rose above a whisper, but it was enough to make the man's blood run cold. The king  wasn’t just violent—he was impatient, short tempered, a predator that toyed with its prey. And there was no escape.

The man on the floor gasped for breath, broken sobs escaping his lips as blood smeared across the floor. The mafia king  knelt beside him, his breath warm against the trembling man's ear as he whispered, "This is your last chance." and if you didnt tell me the name then get ready to face HAMAD MALIK'S LIVING HELL.

There was a terrifying pause, silence so thick that the dripping of blood felt deafening. And then, without another word, the boss grabbed the man’s head and twisted sharply, a brutal snap that sent shockwaves through the basement. The body slumped to the floor, lifeless.

The mafia boss stood up slowly, brushing off his suit, and calmly lit another cigarette. He stared down at the body for a moment, his expression unchanged—calm, cold, unbothered. To him, this was nothing more than a message, a routine. He was the embodiment of power without mercy, a man who controlled life and death with a terrifying indifference.