Mafia Series 2
A Dance With Darkness
~ Where Darkness Meets Desires
In the ruthless underworld where power and loyalty are everything, Alessandro Santangelo reigns supreme-a man...
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Author's POV :-
MILAN (ITALY)
Deep within the heart of a dense, ancient forest, where the sun's rays barely penetrated through the thick canopy, stood a towering, ominous warehouse. Isolated from the city's chaos and prying eyes, this massive structure belonged to the most feared and powerful family in the world — the Santangelos. Their name alone was enough to send shivers down the spines of even the most ruthless criminals. The air surrounding the warehouse was thick with a suffocating tension, a grim silence broken only by distant echoes of screams and muffled pleas. It was a place where hope came to die, where mercy was but a forgotten word.
The warehouse, a fortress of torment, was built like a fortress with reinforced steel doors and windows barred with heavy iron. Inside, it was a maze of cold, damp corridors lit sporadically by flickering, dim bulbs, casting eerie shadows that danced like phantoms against the stained walls. The stench of decay and iron was overwhelming, mingling with the musty scent of mold and dampness, a testament to the unspeakable horrors that had transpired within its walls.
Deeper within the warehouse, in its darkest depths, lay a room that was a chamber of nightmares. It was small and suffocating, illuminated only by a single, faint bulb swinging from the ceiling. The light was dim and weak, casting a sickly yellow glow that barely pierced through the darkness. The floor was a sticky, crimson sea of dried blood, and the walls were stained with dark, rusty patches, remnants of previous victims who had met their cruel fates here.
In the center of this hellish room was a broken man. He was on his knees, trembling and shivering, stripped of any clothing that could offer him a shred of dignity. His hands were bound tightly behind his back with thick, unforgiving ropes, cutting into his flesh. His legs, equally restrained, were swollen and bruised, the skin a patchwork of purple and blue hues. He was a skeletal figure, his body gaunt and malnourished, every rib visible beneath his paper-thin skin. It was clear that he hadn’t been fed in days, perhaps even weeks, a cruel form of slow torture that drained him of his strength and will.
His body was a canvas of agony, painted with the fresh crimson of open wounds that glistened in the dim light, and the dull brown of scars that had long since scabbed over. The metallic scent of blood hung heavy in the air, mingling with the repulsive stench of rot and decay. His fingers, or what remained of them, were a mangled mess. Each hand had two fingers brutally severed, the stumps wrapped haphazardly with dirty, blood-soaked rags that barely stemmed the bleeding. His skin was flayed in places, peeled away like the layers of an onion, leaving raw, exposed flesh that throbbed with each beat of his failing heart.
Yet, amidst the unbearable pain, he was still conscious, still breathing. His eyes, sunken and hollow, were wide with terror, darting around the room as if searching for some divine intervention, some miracle that would free him from his misery. But there was none. Only the cold, indifferent gaze of the shadows that watched him, waiting.
