Bound to the Don

Chapter 31

ARMANDO+++

I told myself it was for Louis' sake. That taking Salma from him would keep him focused, grounded — as he should be. But that was a lie. A beautifully crafted lie to mask the truth I didn't want to face.

I didn't take her for him.

I took her for me.

Because the moment I saw the way he looked at her — like she was the only light left in his miserable world — something inside me stirred. Something dark.

We had always been connected, Louis and I. Since the very beginning, we had walked the same cursed path, different shoes but identical wounds. And never — not once — had either of us found something just for ourselves. Not love. Not peace. Not hope.

So when he found Salma... I took her. Not because I wanted her. But because I couldn't stand the idea of him having something I didn't. I needed him to feel the same void I lived with. I needed him to be just as alone.

Because we both came from ruins. And ruins don't deserve redemption.

The memory pulled me back without warning — a flash of blood and rage, the scent of revenge and expensive cologne.

I was just seventeen when the dark seed of vengeance first took root in my mind. The idea of ending my father's reign wasn't born out of hate alone—it was a desperate necessity, a way to free my mother and myself from the nightmare he had created. For months, I carefully mapped out every detail, studying his habits, his weaknesses, and the walls that surrounded him. Every moment was consumed by the weight of the plan, knowing that one wrong move could mean death—not just for me, but for everyone I cared about. When I finally turned eighteen, the time had come. The plan I had nurtured in silence, with cold precision, was ready to be put into motion.

Standing outside his door.

I crept in. My hands were shaking. My heart wasn't.

I killed my father in the dead of night while he lay asleep in his room. I knew that his death would mean my mother's end too—based on his cruel orders—but I was prepared to face that. My mother had already endured unbearable pain, and living under his shadow would only have destroyed what little peace she had left. So I silenced him quietly,no gunshot to alert the guards.

But after the life left his body, something inside me shattered. All reason and restraint vanished. I became a wild, ruthless beast. Using the very knife my father had given me when I was just fourteen, I ripped open his chest and tore out his heart. I stabbed again and again, never satisfied, until I was spent. And yet, when it was over, I felt nothing—no remorse, no fear, no regret. Only a hollow void.

By the time his body stopped twitching, my hands were no longer shaking. I stood over him, blood splattered on my face, and all I felt was relief.

Freedom.

That night broke me, and I have carried that brokenness with me ever since.

I was on the brink of inheriting my father's empire, but instead of stepping into his world, I ran away—lost and empty. That's when fate brought me to Louis, a stranger returning from France.

Fresh off a flight from France. Hair tousled, eyes dead.

I still remember the pale, haunted look on his face as he wandered aimlessly through the streets of Italy.

He carried his grief like armor, wore his pain like a badge. And somehow, in that twisted mess of pain and rage, we found each other.

Louis had just buried his mother, who was mercilessly murdered by his own father. In a fury born from grief, he stabbed his father fifty times—one for every wound his mother had suffered—before disappearing into the shadows, much like me.