Chapter 1- Athena and Azazel

Of all the beauty, hers was the most divine. Her purple eyes gleamed with her grey armor as she rose from the ashes, did her purple gaze shine with her tears or her enemy’s blood? They were afraid to call her by her name……. Athena. I am Athena Raven Lark, and this is my Story.

I am Azazel Black, and this is my story of falling in love with my mother’s murderer. I am the only one who could keep you safe; they all fear me. If they dare bare their teeth at you, darling, I will pull them out one by one and hang them as my necklace.

……………

As the golden sun peeked over the horizon, it ignited the sky with a fiery passion that could only be compared to the flames of a passionate lover's heart. Its rays cascaded over the cerulean waters as if painting a masterpiece of light upon the serene surface. The ocean, in turn, danced in response, shimmering with a brilliance that could rival the stars.

The small beach town, nestled along the shore, basked in the warmth of the sun's affectionate embrace. The quaint houses, standing like obedient soldiers in formation, waited patiently for their owners to awaken and take on the day.

And amidst this picturesque scene stood a grand home, its columns reaching up to the heavens like the fingers of the gods themselves. It exuded an aura of power and majesty, reminiscent of the palaces of ancient Olympus.

Yet, despite its grandeur, the home possessed a certain charm and warmth that could only be felt, not seen. Every corner of the abode was imbued with purpose and artistic intent, paying homage to the great Hellenic culture that had birthed it.

It was clear that the homemaker who had created this masterpiece knew the secret of transforming a mere house into a true home, one filled with love, warmth, and a deep appreciation for the beauty of the world around us. And as the sun continued to rise, casting its light upon this masterpiece, one couldn't help but be struck by the awe-inspiring beauty of it all.

The morning was a blur of soft sunlight, streaming in through the windows and casting a warm glow over the room. The air was thick with the scent of passion, and the sheets were like a canvas, painted with the memories of their love. Two bodies were entwined under the covers, lost in the aftermath of their shared ecstasy.

The woman opened her eyes, her gaze meeting that of her lover's, and for a moment, time stood still. Her purple eyes sparkled like gems in the morning light, and he was spellbound, unable to look away.

"Good morning, my love," Damien whispered, his lips brushing against her forehead in a gentle kiss. She smiled at him, her beauty shining like the first light of dawn, a beacon that he could not resist. She was his Iris, his rainbow, the one who brought color to his dark world. But their moment was short-lived, interrupted by the sound of their children stirring in the next room.

"I need to go, Dame," she said, her voice tinged with regret, and he pouted. “The kids are up, and we promised to take them out today." He watched as she slipped out of bed and disappeared into the bathroom, leaving him alone with his thoughts. But before he could dwell on his disappointment, he heard a familiar voice calling out to him. It was the light of his life, the one who made everything worth it. The man closed his eyes, listening to his family’s happiness.

The little girl's words echoed through the kitchen, bringing a smile to her mother's lips. "I am water-hungry, mommy," she said, her big eyes looking up at her mother with innocence and wonder. Her mother couldn't help but giggle at the adorable mispronunciation.

"Thirsty, baby girl. We call it thirsty," she corrected gently. But the little girl wasn't convinced.

"Water hungry sounds better, mommy," she insisted, her smile widening. Iris gave in to her daughter’s cute tactics.

As the family chatted and laughed, little Cleon toddled around the kitchen island, his older sister trying to catch him before he fell. But it was too late, and he landed on his diapered bottom, much to everyone's amusement. His little legs kicked in the air, and he giggled, clearly pleased with himself.

The happy moment was interrupted as Damien walked into the room, scooping up his children in his arms. Iris couldn't help but sigh as she watched her husband spoil their children. "Put them down, Damien. You'll spoil them rotten. Thena is nine now. She doesn't need to be carried everywhere," she scolded playfully but with a hint of concern in her voice.

But Damien chuckled and kissed his children's cheeks. "If I want to spoil them, I will. After all, my daughter and son deserve the world," he said, his love for his family shining in his eyes. Iris felt her heart swell with love for her husband and children, tears welling up in her eyes.

Damien and Athena teased Iris with words of love that she often used for them. Even in the midst of their playfulness, the deep love that bound this family together was evident, a beautiful and unbreakable bond that would withstand any storm. The sound of Cleon's giggles mixed with Athena’s infectious laughter filled the air with joy. Damien scooped up their children, one in each arm, his muscles bulging beneath his shirt. Iris couldn't help but smile at seeing her husband doting on their little ones. Though she loved his devotion to their family.

He turned to his wife and asked, "Ready, my love?" Before she could answer, Damien and Thena interrupted in unison, teasing Iris with the words she would use to express her love to her family: "You all are my world." Iris pouted and said, "God, you look beautiful," as Damien kissed her again.

“Stop it, not before the kids,” she hit her husband playfully. He chuckled, putting little Athena down.

As the family left their home, they entered a bustling world full of life. Tourists and locals intermingled, creating a colorful tapestry of culture and community. Little Thena couldn't help but be enchanted by it all, tugging at her mother's hand to explore.

With her curious eyes and radiant smile, she attracted attention everywhere she went. Her natural beauty was striking, with the purple hue in her eyes growing more vibrant in the sunlight. To Iris, her daughter looked like a miniature version of the Greek goddess Athena - intelligent, bright, and sunny.

But as the family meandered through the crowded streets, little did they know that danger was lurking in the shadows. Monsters of all kinds watched from the sidelines, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

Somewhere in the South of France…

“That’s it, son. Yeah… HIT HIM,” Charles encouraged his son, pitting him against a gruff-looking 40-year-old man.

The little boy, who was 14, didn’t seem to be phased by the noises around him; his green eyes trailed on the 40-year-old man like a cheetah, ready to lunge on a gazelles neck. He toyed with his opponent, taunting him with a wicked grin. The older man, taken aback by the boy's bravado, charged recklessly, only to meet a punishing fist in the face. The boy attacked ruthlessly, each blow calculated to inflict maximum pain. His father's voice echoed through the room, urging him on. The boy's assault intensified, culminating in a brutal final strike that left his opponent lifeless on the ground. The boy's eyes shone with a cruel satisfaction as he surveyed his handiwork. This was Azazel, and he was destined to take over his father's mafia with a brutality and cunning that would make even the most hardened criminals tremble.

“That’s my son. Yeah, strike him; he shouldn’t get up”, Charles shouted from outside the ring. The older man got up and tried to punch the boy, but the boy ducked in a second, rounding the man up and jumping onto his shoulders, hitting him repeatedly on his head with his elbow. Every punch he delivered was a death blow to his innocence and childhood. His punches were like the sound of metal crashing, like there was armor beneath his skin. With his every impact, the man started to wither like a willow in a field, his eyes closed on their own accord, and within seconds the man fell to the ground like a leaf falling from a tree, light and dead. The boy got up with sadistic satisfaction looking at the dead body.

Charles jumped into the ring, not wasting a second, “I am fucking proud of you, son,” he hugged his son. But the little boy said nothing; he brushed his father off and walked to clean himself. He let the water wash away the remnants of his sin; he felt the death in his hands; he allowed his tears mingle with the flowing water washing his eternal pain, taking them down the drain. He came out to see his father waiting for him, “Let’s go, son,” he dragged his son to his office.

“Here, sit,” he made his son sit in a chair; he pulled out a velvet container, “This is yours for passing the training with flying colors. I am so fucking happy you could take him down in minutes” he looked at his son for any emotions in his eyes, but there were none.

Charles sighed, “here is your present” he handed him the colt version of the most expensive gun that could’ve easily cost a million dollars. The little boy’s eyes lit up in happiness, but he said nothing. The following minute, he ran into a room where his father would hold his hostages; Charles stood behind his son, “Pick one,” squeezing the boy’s shoulder. The boy eyed everyone tied; he picked the most muscular man of them all; the man looked bloodied and beaten up already.

Charles chuckled, “Good choice, son. Now I want to know why you’ve picked him” Charles waited for Azazel to say something, but the boy shrugged his shoulders; grabbing a piece of paper, he wrote, “Because he is the strongest of them all” he handed the note to his father. Charles read the paper’s contents intently; he looked up to his son, who was proudly looking at his father, “No, son,” his disapproval dampened the boy’s mood.

Charles walked to the man Azazel picked to kill. He eyed the man inspecting the magnitude of the injuries he had inflicted. He grabbed a knife and plunged into the man’s already injured leg. Still, the man being strong gave Charles no satisfaction, “Looks like you need more motivation,” he dug the knife deeper into the man’s leg. This time, Charles managed to get a hiss out, but the man said, “do what you want. I am not going to bend,” he said to which Charles smiled, much to Azazel’s confusion.

“Tell me, how is your wife doing?” Charles asked the muscular man, and the man’s eyes widened in pain, “Don’t,” he gave Charles a much-needed reaction.

“Don’t worry. My men will take good care of her,” saying this, he called Azazel to come closer, which Azazel obeyed. In contrast, the man struggled against the chains.

“Please,” he begged. “No,” he begged again.

“You don’t pick the strongest, Azazel. You pick someone who has a weakness,” Charles’s words confused Azazel. Of course, they would; he is a little boy who hasn’t mastered the art yet.

“Always remember, Azazel, physical pain is nothing compared to emotional pain. This man struggling against his chains is proof”, he pointed to the tied-up man. Looking at Azazel, Charles continued.

“Would you be happy if one of your family members died?” Azazel sadly shook his head as a no. “There is your answer”; Azazel understood what Charles was trying to convey. He smirked, knowing what his father wanted to explain. The little boy picked the weapon up and pointed it at another muscular man’s head, point blank; the boy put his foot in the man’s crotch and emptied the magazine into his head, ensuring he felt the most tortured, and Charles smirked like a sick sadist.

“Did it feel good, son?” he asked the little boy, but again, the boy said nothing other than giving his father an emotionless glare. Charles let it go and turned to his men, “send this body to his family,” Charles ordered, giving the boy a glimpse of his father’s idea of inflicting pain.

“I understood, dad,” he gave another paper to his dad. Charles’s eyes lit up in happiness.

“That’s my boy, always remember their weakness is our strength,” he hugged his son, “let’s go; they will be waiting.” Both son and father walked into the hall, where his mother and siblings were waiting for them.

He hopped into the car with his family to celebrate his day off without a care in the world. The man valued only one thing, “family above all and his cruel passions,” but the thing about evil passions is those foul passions destroy families, bend those to their will, and in the end, rip the things you about.

………

Somewhere in Spain…

A man was seen walking down the alleyway of a quiet corner street; he had a habit of taking a calm walk before going to bed. That night he went out as usual for his nocturnal walk, taking his cigar out and lighting it. It had rained earlier, and the man’s footmarks were easily traced down where he was walking, producing a squelching sound of water under the boots. Halfway down this walk, a gate led out onto a park. The man stood there for a while, lost in smoking the cigar, and he did not notice someone was following him.

A voice startled him, “Hello, Reginald”; a voice he knew the voice all too well, a voice that was etched in his mind even after seven long years. He knew what was coming for him.

“I shouldn’t have underestimated you, Regi. You managed to hide well all these years; I must say finding you was the most daunting task I have ever taken upon”, he chuckled.

“You slipped out of my hands like sand between closed fingers every time I came close” he grabbed Reginald’s cigar and lit his own. Reginald snorted in the ugliest way possible.

“I am not going to ask you how you found me. I know what you are here for, and you won’t get it” Reginald blew a puff of smoke into the air, taking the cigar back from the man.

“I know,” the man followed Reginald’s suit in, blowing a puff of smoke into the air. There was an eerie silence; the only noise heard was the metal of the swing scarping on iron bars due to the wind.

“So, where are Iris and Damien?” his chill tone broke the silence. Reginald tapped his cigar with his fingers letting sparks fall on the wet ground.

“Someplace safe, someplace you can’t reach” Reginald knew he was going to die, but he wasn’t going to rat out people who trusted him with their life.

A loud laughter ripped over the metal scraping. The man’s laugh wasn’t something people enjoyed,” I know you won’t rat them out. I also know I have to persuade you somehow. Perhaps your niece in Somalia would do?” this grabbed Reginald’s attention. Still, he made no move to indicate that he managed to strike a chord of fear in his heart.

“Clever man, you are Regi; you sent her to a place where no one can find. As clever as you are, you forgot to mask your face when you returned with her, especially when you knew you were being tracked. Maybe you got sloppy; maybe you thought we forgot about you; whatever the reason, you shouldn’t have let your guard down, Reg. A little mistake will cost your life and maybe your nieces”, the man smirked in Victory. He pulled out his phone and showed the video of an 18-year-old tied to a chair with her clothes torn in his own house.

“We never stopped tracking you,” he winked.

Reginald impassively looked at the video of his niece. He was trained for the worst but didn’t let his face show those expressions. He was willing to sacrifice his life but not put his niece’s life on the line.

“Tell me, Regi, is friendship thicker than blood? Are you ready to willingly offer her as a ceremonial goat?” he asked Reginald, knowing he knew where he wanted him to be.

Reginald knew he had no options, so he gave what the man needed to hear. “Greece. I don’t think you need more information than that; I know you will find them with just that, and I hope you burn in hell”.

“I know I will, Regi, but I will drag you all with me. I searched for seven years for this, and every time I come close, I lose this information. Now I have what I need, thanks to your betrayal” he leaned on the wall looking at the swings in the park.

“I will let you live, Regi. Do you know why?” he asked, but Reginald did not respond. “I want you to live with the guilt of betrayal. You know betrayal never comes in the form of enemies,” the man smirked, and Reginald closed his eyes.

“If you try to alert them, your niece will be sold to the cartel; you know how they are, don’t you?” he asked with a wide grin, throwing the cigar, and turned around.

“I will be watching you, Reg, and my men will be there to see if you are going to alert them” he crushed the cigar on the ground.

Reginald knew there was no way he could warn them; he knew the man wasn’t playing, and he knew it would cost his niece’s life, “Sorry, Amigo, I have no choice,” he cried in betrayal.

He ran back home to find her on her knees, drugged and beaten, “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have left you alone”, he hugged her crying his heart out for the impending doom.