His greatest love.

Chapter 48.

Gio was so calm and composed even as he walked through the chaos, cars in flames and Victorino's men that were lying lifeless scattered around. He was wearing his shirt without a tie and top buttons open exposing his silver necklace, matched up with a black half coat that also complemented his attractive physique. His sleeves was folded exposing his veined arms and his luxurious watch as he pocketed his arms in his suit pants. He looked at the open container that had his shipment that went missing but the screams from the other end brought the silence in the chaos. 

He walked patiently toward the secluded room, where the sound grew louder. Inside, Matteo was doing the Lord's work—bloodied fists and a cruel smile as Victorino sagged in the chair, barely conscious. Around them, men stood at attention, but when Giovanni stepped in, the atmosphere shifted instantly.

Matteo looked up, breathing hard, and stepped back with a smirk.

"Gio," he said simply, wiping blood from his hands. "He's still alive. Barely."

Giovanni's gaze settled on Victorino. The man was barely recognizable—his face swollen, lips split, shirt torn and soaked red. But his eyes... his eyes still clung to the fragile thread of hope that maybe, somehow, he could talk his way out.

The silence was suffocating. Even Matteo didn't dare speak.

He didn't approach immediately. He walked the small circle around him once, studying him like a man inspecting a fragile watch. Then he stopped and produced, without a showy flourish, a plain black box Matteo hadn't noticed before. The sound of its lid snapping open was louder than any shout.

"What's that?" Matteo said, before the question died in his throat. He'd seen Giovanni do many things—throwing men from moving cars, setting whole yards on fire—but something about the way Gio lifted the object made the room go colder.

Giovanni set the box on the table with all the weapons and opened it like a man revealing a private joke. Inside was not the kind of instrument you could describe in detail and remain healthily fictional—enough to suggest a tool for pain, small and precise, designed for control rather than spectacle. Victorino's eyes tracked it; his face lost whatever foolish hope had been left.

Finally, Giovanni broke it. His voice was calm, almost casual.

"This is a quite a change from our previous discussion, don't you agree?"

Victorino swallowed blood, his voice rasping. "Gio... please... I swear, it's just a misunderstanding—"

"Don't." Giovanni's tone cut him off, sharp as glass. He crouched in front of the chair, resting his forearms on his knees, dark eyes steady on the broken man.

"You stole from me. You lied to me and played dumb when I asked about it. And worse..." His gaze hardened. "...you thought I was bluffing."

Victorino shook his head frantically, tears spilling. "I swear this is a set up!"

Giovanni tilted his head, studying him like an insect pinned under glass. His lips curled faintly, but the expression never touched his eyes.

"You are right. A set up."

He reached into Matteo's steel case, selecting a pair of pliers, gleaming under the harsh bulb. He held them up, admiring their weight.

"You know the funny thing, Victorino?" His voice softened, conversational, almost kind. "I already knew. The moment the second shipment vanished, it had you written all over it."

Victorino whimpered, shaking.

Giovanni gripped his hand, snapping the pliers shut around his finger. He leaned close, whispering, "Because you're sloppy." Then he ripped the nail out in one brutal motion.