Chapter 3: The Devil Returns

ENZO’S POV

Two hundred thousand.

The moment I said it, silence devoured the room. The air snapped taut, the weight of my voice dragging every pair of eyes toward me. Glasses clinked against tables, chairs scraped. The auctioneer froze mid-gesture, his jaw slack, his hand trembling where it hovered above his little hammer.

I didn’t need to look to know what they saw: a ghost made flesh.

I stepped forward from the shadows, every stride deliberate, the soles of my polished shoes echoing like gunshots across marble. And then, because I fucking could, I slid into the empty chair beside Dante Moretti himself, unhurried, deliberate, as though the whole damn world had been waiting for me to sit. In truth, they had.

The fool stiffened like he’d swallowed glass. His expensive suit couldn’t mask the way his shoulders coiled tight, or how his jaw ticked when I smirked at him.

I leaned back casually, one arm thrown over the chair, the other adjusting my cufflink. “Don’t stop on my account,” I murmured.

The auctioneer swallowed, his voice cracking. “S-Signore…"

I let a slow smile curve my lips, one meant only to mock, and shifted my gaze trembling on the stage.

Her. Elena Russo.

Even through the haze of tears streaking her face, I knew her. I would never forget her. The stubborn nurse who had saved my life five years ago when the men I called brothers tried to bring me down. The girl whose face had been engraved in my memories for the past five years. My savior—and my mistake.

Now she stood in front of a room full of predators, nothing but silk straps covering her body, fear radiating from every inch of her. My jaw clenched. Dante’s hand was already raised, his voice deep and sure as he threw out his bid.

“Five hundred thousand.”

The room hushed. Of course they did. No one dared to challenge Moretti. He was Italy’s new monster, the man whispered about in boardrooms and back alleys alike. But to me, he was an upcoming, nothing more than a wolf pretending to be king of the forest.

I leaned back in my chair, let the silence thicken, then let my voice slice through it like a blade. “One million.”

Gasps echoed off the walls. Heads whipped toward me. Murmurs rose like a storm tide.

The auctioneer froze, his hand shaking as he clutched his microphone. His eyes widened, the color draining from his face. “D… Daviolo.” The name left his lips like a curse, one that tasted of fear.

Daviolo. The Devil. My name, my legend, the ghost they all swore was gone.

The crowd rippled with panic. Men shifted uncomfortably in their seats, some whispering prayers under their breath. Five years ago, they had all toasted to my death, believed the lies my brothers fed them. They had danced on my grave, celebrated my end. And now here I was, breathing, smirking, very much alive.

I turned my head then, slowly, finally meeting Dante’s stare. The veins in his neck bulged, his knuckles white where his hand gripped the armrest. I tilted my head, my smile widening just enough to taunt.

The auctioneer still stood there, stunned, sweat rolling down his temple as he croaked the number into the microphone. Elena just stood there, sweating, scared, fidgeting.

Dante didn’t back down. “One point five million!”

I chuckled under my breath. Good. I wanted him to be angry. I wanted him to be desperate. I wanted him to burn.

I raised my hand lazily, as though money meant nothing—which it didn’t. “Two million.”

The room erupted. Gasps. Shouts. Men craned their necks to see me, some gripping their seats as though holding themselves in place would keep them safe. Even the guards at the door stiffened, hands twitching toward their weapons though they knew better.

Elena on the stage flinched, confusion flashing in her eyes. She didn’t understand. Not yet.

Dante’s face darkened, his jaw clenching so tight I swore I heard it crack. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, with a hiss of breath, he spat, “Two point five.”

The crowd murmured louder, stunned.

I laughed. A low, sharp sound that cut through the tension. I leaned forward just enough for him to see the amusement in my eyes. Then I raised my hand again.

“Five million.”

The room fell silent. You could hear a pin drop.

Dante’s eyes flared with rage, but I saw the flicker of hesitation. Five million was a statement, not just a bid. A declaration of dominance. To outbid me now was to declare war.

He wanted her. I knew he did. But he also wanted to live.

The auctioneer’s voice cracked as he repeated the number, his entire body trembling. “Five million! Going once! Going twice!” He swallowed hard, darting nervous glances between Dante and me. “Sold! To… to Daviolo.”

I rose slowly, straightening my jacket with deliberate care. Dante’s glare burned holes into me, but I welcomed it.

I turned to him, lowering my voice so only he could hear. “Benvenuto all’inferno, Moretti.” Welcome to hell, Moretti.

His nostrils flared, but he said nothing. Not here. Not now.

I smirked, let the silence mock him, and walked out.

The guards didn’t stop me. They didn’t even breathe too loudly as I passed. They knew better.

The moment I stepped outside, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it free, glancing down at the message—a video. Flames devouring a villa, smoke rising into the night sky, men screaming as they fled into nothingness.

Below it, in crisp Italian: “È fatto, Daviolo.” It’s done, Daviolo.

A slow wicked smile tugged at my lips. I whispered back, “Sciammato, bastardo.” Checkmate, bastard.

My men were already waiting by the black convoy parked at the curb. The auction hall behind me buzzed with terror—whispers of my name already spreading like wildfire. Tonight, Naples remembered who ruled the shadows.

“Bring her,” I said, sliding into the back of the car.

They dragged Elena out behind me. Her wrists were still bound blindfold loose against her temple. She stumbled, nearly falling, half a hand at her elbow kept her upright.

The door shut with a heavy thunk. The city slipped away in streaks of light as the convoy rolled into the dark. Inside, silence pressed between us. I could hear her breathing—shallow, panicked— and the faint rasp of rope against her skin as she shifted.

“Where are you taking me?” she choked out.

I didn’t answer. I only watched her through the dim glow of the dashboard, my fingers drumming once against my knee. When she tried again, louder, one of my men snapped, “Quiet.”

Her head jerked at the sound. She bit her lip and stared down, fists curling, like she was trying to make herself small.

I leaned back, eyes never leaving her. “Save your voice,” I said finally, my tone low and even. “You’ll need it later.”

She shuddered.

The car took a sharp turn, tires hissing over wet stone. I glanced out the tinted window—the iron gates of my villa loomed ahead, swinging open at our approach. Beyond them, marble and glass glimmered under floodlights, a fortress disguised as paradise.

When the convoy stopped, I stepped out first. The night smelled of sea and rain. My men hauled her after me, her bare feet sinking into the gravel as she twisted and fought.

“Get your hands off me!” she screamed, her voice hoarse. “I’m not—let me go!”

No one answered. The heavy front door opened, spilling golden light onto the steps.

Inside, marble floors stretched like ice. Chandeliers burned overhead. The air tasted of whiskey and gun oil.

Marco shoved her forward, slamming the door behind us. Her hair fell across her face, tears streaming her cheeks though she tried to hide them. She spun on me instantly, wild and furious.

“You bastard!” Her voice cracked. “What do you want with me?”

I stayed still. Jacket draped across my shoulders, glass of whiskey in hand. I studied her like a puzzle I’d already solved. “You’re still loud, I see.”