Camila Rodrigo;
"You're wondering why you're here." His voice was calm as he reached out, pulling me gently to sit beside him. "Now you'll understand."
He turned back to the group—shaken, terrified, and clearly in pain.
"Doctor, meet my prey. Prey—meet your executioner."
Revulsion churned in my stomach as the horror of his words settled in. It all clicked. Alessandro Giovanni wasn't just twisted—he was unhinged. A brilliant, cold-blooded psychopath.
His concept of control was perverse, terrifying. And no matter what he thought, there was no chance I'd stand by his side in this slaughter—innocent or not.
"I want nothing to do with this madness. Count me out!" I spat, the defiance rising like bile in my throat.
He looked at me—unshaken. No flicker of surprise. Not even irritation.
"You wouldn't say that if they had laid their filthy hands on you, Doctor. But they did, didn't they? And you still refuse to avenge that?" His voice was laced with disbelief.
"You pushed me toward them! Whose fault is that, huh? You think I chose this? You think I wanted to witness a damn ship go up in flames with a flick of your wrist?" My voice cracked as tears welled in my eyes. "I shouldn't be here…"
I closed my eyes, images of fire devouring steel flashing through my mind—screams echoing, the heat still crawling on my skin.
"You are here, Doctor. Deal with it." His growl was low, final, as he turned his attention back to the captives.
My gaze drifted down his back—broad, the black shirt hugging him like second skin. His legs were strong, grounded. He was older, no doubt. But his presence was magnetic. Dangerous. Commanding.
Wait a minute…
Did I just salivate over a mafia king?
A psychotic one at that?
God, I've seriously been watching too much romance… Argh!
The fire raged behind us, monstrous and untamed. The ship had already split in two—part of it now sinking into the ocean, flames still licking at its skeleton. Charred bodies littered the deck. The only survivors were those lucky enough to have been on the dock during the offload.
It was a devastating sight—fathers, husbands, brothers… even uncles. All gone. All because one man decided to make a statement.
One man.
I exhaled, shaky. I don't know how much more of this I can take. I really don't.
"Which of you bastards asked me to crawl back to my crack house?" Alessandro's voice cut through the air, pulling my attention back to the line of trembling men kneeling before him.
They glanced around, no one daring to answer.
"I love this," he said, sarcastic. "Men supporting men. The tight-lipped brotherhood." He chuckled darkly and turned back toward the makeshift table.
He picked up a steel mallet. Heavy. Cold. And then—
WHACK.
The sound echoed like a gunshot.
I shoved past Alessandro, needing to see what he'd done.
Instant regret.
One of the kneeling men was now crumpled forward, howling. Blood gushed from his leg—no, not a leg anymore. It was mangled. Crushed. The knee shattered beyond recognition, bone and muscle flattened like wet pulp.
He'd never walk again. Hell, he might not even survive the pain.
And Alessandro? He just stood there. Calm. Collected.
As if it were just another Tuesday.
Alessandro strode back to the steel case, dropped the mallet with a heavy clang, and turned to face the men again.
"Next time you feel like forming your own little brotherhood of clandestine monks," he said, voice laced with venom, "remember—your friend here no longer has a left knee."
He signaled with a casual flick of his fingers. Instantly, one of his men brought forward a chair, placing it directly in front of the trembling line. Alessandro lowered himself onto it, his posture deceptively relaxed.
Then he looked over at me and extended his hand.
Panic shot through me like lightning. I froze, shaking my head slowly, hoping he'd back off. But he didn't. He just kept his hand outstretched, a silent command masked as a gesture.
I refused again, firmer this time.
He stood, walked over to the man still writhing in agony, and—without hesitation—pressed his boot into the shattered knee.
A scream tore through the night, raw and broken.
"Take my hand," Alessandro said coldly, "or watch him drown in pain."
My feet moved before my brain could. I rushed to his side, heart hammering, just to make it stop. Just to save that man from more suffering.
The devil smiled.
He sank into the chair once more, calm and composed, with me now beside him—a front-row witness to his brand of madness.
"I believe," he began, voice low and dangerous, "I have your attention now. For clarity's sake, let me repeat the question…"
He leaned forward, eyes glinting.
"WHICH ONE OF YOU MAGGOTS CALLED ME A WHACKHEAD?!"
The men flinched. Then, almost in unison, they pointed to one of their own—shaking, wide-eyed, and crouched beside the injured man.
"See? That wasn't so hard," Alessandro muttered. He tilted his head toward the accused. "Now you, my brave little critic… Let me show you what a real crackhead does."
He stood and returned to the steel case.
"Please," the man begged, his voice cracking. "I'm sorry… have mercy, Don, please!"
But something about Alessandro Giovanni made it clear—mercy was not part of his vocabulary.
He picked up a blowtorch—one of those brutal tools that flickered between red and blue flame depending on the fuel mix. The moment the others saw it, they flinched, trying to back away. But Alessandro's men had them surrounded.
Alessandro clicked the trigger. Once. Twice. The flame snapped to life, shifting from red to a fierce, icy blue.
His grin twisted into something wicked.
"I might've let the red flame do the job," he said smoothly, "but your whimpering irritated me."
He clicked again. The flame intensified, howling quietly as it roared to life.
"Enjoy the pain you asked for."
Alessandro moved closer to the accused man, slow and deliberate. His men pinned the poor soul to the ground, gripping him so tightly he couldn't even flinch. Alessandro closed the space between them and seized his chin.
I turned away instantly, burying my face in my hands. I couldn't watch—not this. Not something that felt like a scene torn from hell. My heart pounded violently against my ribs.
Then came the screams.
Blood-curdling, raw, and agonized.
He screamed until his voice gave out, until the cries turned to broken whispers, and then… silence.
Complete silence.
It was the quiet that made me look again—a fatal mistake.
The man lay sprawled on the floor, eyes wide, still alive… but barely. His chest rose and fell in ragged breaths. Whatever Alessandro had done to him—it was unspeakable.
A metallic glint caught my eye.
My stomach twisted.
His mouth—sealed shut—fused together with molten metal. The edges of his lips were scorched, flesh blistered and blackened, welded shut by the glowing chunk Alessandro had torched with the blowtorch.
This wasn't punishment. It was torture—inhuman, savage.
The reek of scorched flesh and metal filled the air, thick and vile. It crept into my lungs, my throat. I stumbled away, retching violently until I had nothing left to give but dry, shaking heaves.
"A crackhead did that," Alessandro said mockingly, standing over the mutilated man. "Hope you enjoy your new look."
The man collapsed—either from the pain or the shock. Probably both. Where his lips had once been, there was now only a smoothed-over plate of metal—twisted and fused into his face.
Alessandro returned to his chair like nothing had happened, fixing his cold gaze on the remaining six men.
"Next question," he said, voice casual, almost amused. "Which one of you called me a sissy king with a kingdom past its prime?"
The response was instant. Just like before, the others pointed to one of their own—no hesitation, no loyalty. Fear ruled them now.
"Good," Alessandro drawled. "We're making some excellent progress tonight."
He didn't even need to say it twice.
"Strip him."
Before I could blink, the man was dragged forward, every piece of clothing ripped off him like paper. Left exposed and trembling at Alessandro's feet.
The devil leaned forward, a wicked smile tugging at his lips.
"Takes a sissy to know one."
Then he straightened up, addressing the room like a master of ceremonies at some unholy ritual.
"Well… allow me to show you what a sissy looks like."
He turned back to the steel case—the one that now felt less like a toolbox and more like a gateway to hell.
And I couldn't stop shaking.
Alessandro unzipped a small black leather bag, placing it neatly on the table. He folded open both sides, revealing an array of tools gleaming under the low light.
At first glance, it resembled a makeup kit—sleek, organized, precise. But the air around it was too cold, too ominous. My gut twisted.
"This," he said softly, running a gloved hand across the instruments, "isn't for cosmetics. Each tool here is crafted to peel the skin—slowly, precisely—all the way down to the bone."
He looked up, eyes dark and wild.
"I may not be an artist, but trust me… I'll make you cry."
His men wasted no time. They forced the accused man to the floor, pinning him hard against the ground.
And then, Alessandro began.
I turned away at once, covering my ears—but nothing could block out those screams.
They were unlike anything I'd ever heard—raw, primal, shattering. The kind of sound that didn't just pierce your ears, but your soul.
I didn't know a man could scream like that.
Minutes felt like hours.
The cries turned to whimpers, then silence.
I finally looked.
I shouldn't have.
The man was unrecognizable. Blood streamed down his face like a grotesque mask. His brows—gone. His eyelids—torn off, leaving bulging, unblinking eyes vulnerable and exposed.
Where his nose had been, there was only a gaping cavity. His lips had been stripped away, revealing teeth, gums, and blood—a skeletal grin soaked in horror.
He looked like something out of a nightmare. Like a corpse dragged out of hell.
As he tried to scream again, his eyes shifted unnaturally, having nothing left to shield them. Blood dripped from every inch of his mutilated face.
Then, as if to deliver the final blow, Alessandro held up a round mirror to him.
"Beautiful, sissy," he sneered, laughing—loud, manic, victorious.
The man stared at his own reflection in stunned silence, the horror of what he'd become crashing into him all at once.
His body trembled violently.
And then… he collapsed.
Dead.
From the shock, the pain, the sheer inhumanity of it all.
But as I stood there, tears still sliding down my cheeks, a twisted sensation bloomed deep within me.
A smile.
I smiled.
And that scared me more than anything else.