Pain has a way of humbling even the most powerful men. Tonight, I was no longer Luca Moretti—the feared mafia heir, the man who commanded armies with a whisper. I was a bleeding, bound prisoner in a cold, grimy warehouse that reeked of rust, blood, and death.
My wrists were raw from the ropes that tied me behind the iron chair. My blood stained the concrete floor in thick droplets. One of my eyes was swollen shut. My ribs felt shattered—every breath I drew came with agony, like daggers slicing my lungs.
And then, the door creaked open.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as a group of men entered, laughing—sick bastards feeding off the sight of my pain. One of them, the tall one with a twisted smile and jagged scar across his cheek, approached with mocking arrogance.
"Still breathing, boss man?" he sneered, crouching beside me. "Didn't think you'd last the night after that last round."
He reached out and mockingly wiped a smear of blood from my lips with a white handkerchief—laughing when I spat in his face.
"Feisty. I like that," he smirked, wiping it off. "But tell me… where's your army now? Where's that fire that made your name echo in fear?"
My jaw clenched. I said nothing. Every ounce of strength I had left was focused on keeping my head upright.
Behind him, two other men snickered and elbowed each other.
"You think the boss lady's really gonna touch him?" one whispered loud enough for me to hear.
"Wouldn't blame her," the other grinned. "He's handsome—even all bloody like this."
I glared through my one good eye. "Say that again…" I croaked.
"Oh? You care, lover boy?" The scarred man tilted his head mockingly. "Or are you worried we might take our turn with her?"
Rage burned in my chest, but my body betrayed me—I couldn't move, couldn't fight, couldn't even stand. I was helpless.
And then the door opened again.
They all straightened.
Moga walked in.
Her heels echoed with authority on the concrete floor, and the men parted like waves for her. She wore black leather—sharp, commanding—and her long dark hair was tied in a high ponytail, sleek and unapologetic. Her eyes locked with mine, unreadable, cold.
She moved closer, slowly, each step deliberate.
"Out," she said quietly.
The men hesitated.
"I said out!"
The growl in her voice sent them scurrying like rats. The door slammed behind them, and suddenly, we were alone.
She stopped a few feet from me, arms crossed. Her gaze bored into mine, not with cruelty, but with the weight of secrets too heavy to carry.
"You know…" she said softly, her voice like silk over steel. "I used to think revenge would feel sweeter than this."
I blinked through blood and sweat, trying to read her expression.
She knelt down in front of me. Her fingers traced the edge of my bruised jaw—not lovingly, but like examining a shattered trophy.
"Seventeen years ago," she whispered, "a little girl sat in a crushed car, her legs broken, face bleeding… watching her mother die in front of her."
My breathing hitched.
"She begged for help. Screamed. And then saw the man in the other truck… calmly step out, look at them… and walk away."
My stomach twisted.
"Don't tell me You were too young to remember, Luca," she said with a bitter smile. "Too busy playing with your toy guns while your father turned real ones on his own blood."
"Moga…" I rasped, realization crawling in.
"Don't," she snapped, rising to her feet. Her voice shook. "You don't get to say my name like you know me."
She took a shaky breath.
"You see," she said, pacing slowly, "I was raised in the shadows your family created. Vittoris gave me light. He taught me everything. Turned me into the weapon I am today. A weapon meant to pierce your father's heart."
"But you're not just here for my father," I said hoarsely. "You used Rose."
Moga's jaw clenched. Her eyes flashed—but this time, with something unreadable. Guilt? Regret?
"I needed access," she said after a pause. "She was the only door I could open without setting off alarms."
"She had nothing to do with this!" I roared, trying to lunge forward, but the ropes held firm. Pain exploded through my torso, and I nearly blacked out again.
Moga turned away. For a moment, she said nothing.
"You threw her out like garbage," she said flatly. "You think that's on me?"
"You set her up!"
"You're all the same!" she shouted, spinning around. "You destroy everything you touch and then blame everyone else!"
The silence after that was thick.
"You had a choice," I muttered.
She walked closer again and leaned down, her face inches from mine.
"And you had her," she whispered. "But you chose suspicion. You chose anger. Now live with it."
Suddenly, the door slammed open again.
DUBIOUS'S POV
"Where is he?" I barked as I stormed into the underground base, my voice slicing through the fear-struck guards.
They hesitated. One of them opened his mouth, but I was already grabbing him by the collar.
"My son is in this fucking rat hole and none of you idiots told me?"
"We… we just got confirmation, sir," the man stammered.
I let him go and turned to my second.
"And who took him?"
There was a beat of silence. Then the answer came.
"Moga, sir."
The name froze my blood.
My breath caught, and the world tilted for a second.
"Moga?" I repeated slowly, voice dangerously calm. "My niece? My brother's daughter?"
"Yes, sir. She's… alive. And she's the one holding Luca."
The fire in my chest erupted. I slammed my fist into the wall, cracking the concrete.
"She was supposed to be dead! They all were!"
"Sir, do we launch a strike?"
"No," I growled, eyes narrowing. "This isn't just about Luca anymore."
It was a ghost from the past. A shadow I thought buried 17 years ago.
And now, it had come back to collect blood.
But what Moga didn't know was this—
I'm not the same man she remembers.
And I don't lose.
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Hehehehe...
What would you do if you're just a struggling innocent girl dragged in by fate to pay for someone else's sin?
Please comment on this chapter, it will do alot for me 🥰🥰