Chapter 9

THE PHOENIX CLAN – TORTURE CELLAR, 2:13 A.M.

The scream that ripped through the air wasn’t human anymore.

It bounced off the concrete walls, tangled in iron chains, and dissolved into the dark like a final breath clinging to survival.

The Phoenix sat unmoved in the high-backed leather chair. His mask glinted under the exposed bulb swinging above, black as midnight, still as death.

Rambo stood beside him, expression carved from granite. Matteo knelt by the man strapped to the steel chair—bloodied, shaking, but still breathing.

“Fifteen minutes,” the Phoenix said flatly. “Still alive.”

Rambo grunted. “He’s tougher than he looks.”

“He’s wasting my time,” the Phoenix replied, voice like ice poured into a glass. “Matteo?”

Matteo didn’t respond—he didn’t need to. He reached for the blade resting on the rusted tray beside him. Clean. For now.

The man tied to the chair jolted. “P-please! I already told you everything!”

Matteo pressed the tip of the knife to the man’s shoulder. “Not the part we want.”

“You knew the port schedule,” Rambo growled. “The drop was ambushed. Four men dead. Someone gave that to the Fiores.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

Steel sank into flesh.

The man screamed. Matteo twisted the knife just enough to keep the pain sharp, not lethal.

“Talk,” he said.

The man sobbed. “I leaked the schedule to the Fiores! I thought they’d pay! I didn’t think they’d go after your men!”

The Phoenix rose.

The room stilled.

He approached the traitor, steps silent, measured. He tilted the man’s head up with gloved fingers, expression unreadable behind the mask.

“You thought?” he said quietly. “That’s your excuse?”

“I was desperate,” the man whimpered. “I didn’t want to die.”

“You should’ve died before betraying me.”

The Phoenix turned to Matteo. “Get rid of him.”

Matteo nodded once, calm as ice. “How clean?”

The Phoenix paused, then glanced over his shoulder. “Make it loud. Let the rats in the walls hear what happens when you deal with the Fiores.”

Matteo smiled faintly. “Understood.”

As Matteo dragged the man’s chair backward toward the cellar pit, the traitor’s screams were cut off by a sudden, wet crack.

Rambo lit a cigarette.

“We’ve got a war now,” he said.

The Phoenix looked at the blood trailing across the floor, then toward the sealed vault door.

“No,” he replied. “Now we start cleansing.”

* * * * * * * * * * THE RODRIGUEZ VILLA – PRIVATE HOUSE * * * * * * * * * *

Isabella Rodriguez sat gracefully in a high-backed velvet chair, swirling a glass of red wine in her hand, her green eyes fixed on the flames — sharp, thoughtful, dangerous.

Across from her, Ryder lounged with one leg crossed over the other, dressed in black, a smirk ghosting across his face.

The atmosphere of calm was shattered the moment Ryder spoke.

“So,” he said, voice silk-draped poison, “our golden boy has officially lost his mind. Throwing tantrums, talking back, chasing after some nobody.”

Isabella didn’t look away from the fire.

“He's always thought himself untouchable,” she murmured. “Like the world should bend to him because he carries Reginald’s name.”

Ryder snorted. “And you—you still play the doting mother. ‘Cheng, darling this… Cheng, darling that.’” He leaned forward. “You really deserve an award for that performance.”

Isabella’s eyes flicked toward her son, slow and glacial.

“Don’t mistake performance for preference,” she said coldly. “I don’t love him. I tolerate him.”

Ryder’s smile widened. “So we’re on the same page.”

There was silence again — the kind that clung, the kind that slithered.

Then Isabella stood and walked to the liquor cart, refilling her glass. Her voice dropped.

“Your father may be too proud to see it, but Cheng is no longer an asset. He’s a liability. Emotional. Rebellious. Stupidly in love with someone so miserable.”

“She's not even worth killing yet,” Ryder said bitterly. “She hasn’t done enough damage. But he’s blind. He’d burn the entire empire for her.”

Isabella looked at her son, expression unreadable.

“Then let him light the match.”

Ryder tilted his head. “You mean...?”

“Let him spiral,” she said, walking back toward the fire. “Let him think we support him. Smile. Pretend. Give him rope.”

A cruel smile touched Ryder’s lips. “So he can hang himself with it.”

She clinked her glass against his.

“To loyalty,” she said smoothly.

“To family,” he replied with a grin.

Ryder’s eyes gleamed. “We burn her to ash.”

Isabella raised her glass again,

“To destroying Cheng… from the inside.”