The Devil in Chains
Pain was no longer a stranger.
Lucian had grown used to it—broken bones from street fights, knife wounds from ambushes, bullets that tore flesh but never killed him. Pain was survival. Pain was a reminder that he was alive.
But this—this was different.
He hung in chains from the rafters of an abandoned shipyard warehouse, wrists rubbed raw, blood dripping down his arms in steady rivulets. Every breath burned like fire through his cracked ribs. His vision blurred, but his mind remained sharp, anchored by one thought.
Elena. Isabella.
He would not die here.
Bootsteps echoed against the steel floor. Lucian forced his head up.
Dante Marino strolled into view, a wine glass in one hand, his tailored suit pristine despite the carnage at the docks. His dark eyes glittered with malice.
"Lucian Moretti," Dante drawled, circling him like a predator savoring the moment. "I've imagined this for years. The Devil of Naples, chained like a dog."
Lucian spat blood at his feet. "Better a devil than a coward hiding behind rats."
Dante's smile widened. He crouched, his face inches from Lucian's. "Oh, you're still sharp. Good. I wouldn't want this to end too quickly."
He gestured, and two of his men stepped forward, fists and batons raining down. The blows shook Lucian's body, splitting skin, reopening wounds. He gritted his teeth, refusing to give Dante the satisfaction of a scream.
Finally, Dante raised his hand. The beating stopped.
He leaned closer, his voice a venomous whisper. "Tell me, Lucian… how does it feel, knowing you murdered your brother?"
Lucian's chest heaved, rage and grief colliding until he tasted bile.
Dante's smirk deepened. "Oh yes. Word travels fast. Matteo's betrayal, your bullet in his chest. That's the beauty of it, isn't it? I didn't need to kill him. I only needed to push him far enough, and you did the rest for me."
Lucian's jaw clenched. He refused to give him a reaction.
But Dante saw it—the flicker of anguish in his eyes.
"Every man you trust will betray you, Moretti," Dante said softly. "Matteo was the first. Your capos will be next. And eventually, even the woman you clutch so desperately will slip through your fingers."
"Elena will never—" Lucian's voice was hoarse, but Dante cut him off with a laugh.
"Elena," Dante mused, savoring the name. "Beautiful, isn't she? Stronger than you give her credit for. I wonder how long she'll last without her king to protect her."
Lucian lunged against his chains, a roar tearing from his throat. "If you touch her—"
Dante's smile was cruel. "What will you do? You can't even stand."
He set the wine glass down and picked up a dagger from the table nearby. Its edge gleamed under the dim light.
"You see, Lucian, I don't want to just kill you. Death is too simple. Too merciful. I want to strip you bare. Break you piece by piece, until even your precious Elena wouldn't recognize the man who once terrified Naples."
He pressed the dagger's tip against Lucian's chest, drawing a thin line of blood. "And when you're nothing but a shadow, I'll claim what's left. Your empire. Your family. Your legacy."
Lucian met his gaze, fury burning through the haze of pain. His voice was a low growl. "You'll never touch them. I'll crawl out of this grave you've built, and when I do, I'll rip you apart with my bare hands."
Dante chuckled, stepping back. "Defiance. I expected nothing less."
He motioned to his men. "Keep him alive. Break him, but keep him breathing. I want him conscious when I burn his world."
The guards moved to obey, striking Lucian again and again until his body sagged against the chains, barely conscious.
---
Hours passed. Maybe days. Time blurred in a haze of agony.
Lucian drifted in and out of consciousness, haunted by Matteo's dying eyes, Elena's trembling voice, Isabella's innocent laughter. Each memory cut deeper than the wounds on his flesh.
I can't die here. I can't leave them.
A sound stirred him. A voice, soft but sharp, cutting through the fog.
"Lucian."
His head jerked up, eyes struggling to focus.
At first he thought it was a hallucination. But then he saw her.
Elena.
She stood in the shadows near the warehouse entrance, her figure cloaked in darkness. A gun trembled in her hands, but her eyes—God, her eyes blazed like fire.
"Elena…" His voice cracked, raw and disbelieving.
Her gaze locked on him, her jaw set. "I told you I'd come."
Before Lucian could warn her, movement flickered. One of Dante's guards spotted her, raising his weapon—
BANG.
Elena fired. The man collapsed, his body hitting the floor with a sickening thud.
For a heartbeat, silence reigned. Then chaos erupted.
Dante's men shouted, guns drawn, rushing toward her.
Lucian's heart pounded. "No! Elena, get out!"
But Elena didn't run. She ducked behind a crate, firing again, each shot fueled by desperation and love.
Lucian strained against his chains, fury burning hotter than the pain. He had to break free. He had to reach her.
The warehouse roared with gunfire, shadows flashing, screams echoing.
And for the first time since his capture, Lucian felt something stronger than despair.
Hope.
Because Elena had come.
And together, they would burn this place to the ground.