The Mafia Lord pursuit.

Chapter 3.

As Jerald took slow, deliberate taunting steps toward Jazmine, she felt the tension coil in the air like a snake ready to strike, but she stood her ground. Her heart pounded, but she refused to shrink. If she was going to die for this mistake, then she would die standing tall.

His deep voice cut through the silence, pleasure-laced and deadly.

“How dare you barge in on me?”

The air in the room stiffened and the men in the room shifted uncomfortably, bracing for the inevitable.

Jasmine's grip against her purse tightened, but she lifted her chin, her voice smooth, and refined. She refused to be intimidated by height and aura. “Apologies for the intrusion. But I’m not here to eavesdrop. I simply need directions to the auction hall.”

Jerald remained silent, his gaze devouring her, inch by inch.

He was intrigued. Not by her beauty. But by the boldness that didn't waver.

The room, the deal, the men waiting for his orders—none of it mattered anymore.

She had just stolen his attention.

His voice came again, low and dangerous. “Barging in on me is a death sentence, young lady.” He tilted his head, his expression unreadable. “Leave, before I kill you first… before the intended person.”

The words should have sent her running. Should have made her beg for forgiveness. Instead, Jasmine’s lips curled into a slow, daring smile.

A challenge. A provocation.

Without another word, she turned on her heels and walked away, every step deliberate, every movement exuding the kind of defiance that made men reckless.

Jerald watched her disappear down the hallway, his nerves clenching.

That smile was so challenging, yet it intrigued him. How dare she toil with his power? His eyes lingered on the slightly ajar door. Muscle stiffened.

The meeting—the deal—everything else faded.

With a single movement, he turned to the table and grabbed his gun. He stormed out of the room each step hurried yet brief.

Nineteen years ago. It’s been Nineteen freaking years since someone last caught his attention. And this time it wasn't about beauty, it was about confidence.

********

The walls of the dungeon, thick and soundproof, had seen more blood than sunlight. Chains clanked softly against the damp stone as a single bulb flickered above, casting eerie shadows over the trembling figure kneeling in the center of the room.

Jerald stepped inside.

Every movement was slow, deliberate. The air itself seemed to shrink under his presence, thick with the weight of death. His polished shoes clicked against the cold floor, a haunting rhythm that sent fresh shivers down the bound man’s spine.

The bastard was already whimpering.

Pathetic.

Jerald’s face remained unreadable, but his almond eyes burned with something lethal. The rage inside him hadn’t dulled, not even after all the bodies he had left in his wake these past few days.

His father was dead.

And someone had to pay before he found the actual culprit

Jerald’s fist tightened and his jaws clamped. The thought that his father died because of him sliced deeper than a cut of a knife.

His chest tightened and an itching pain stung his heart. Weeks back was meant to be his coronation as the Mafia heir. His father had announced to the world that Jerald DeLuca—his illegitimate, underground first son, was going to be the ruler of his mafia empire, and just that instance, he lowered to the floor, his nose spilling blood as much as his mouth.

A vein in his temple pulsed and he swallowed in, gripping his signature La Lama di Sangue dagger.

The man on the floor trembled as Jerald crouched before him, his grip tightening on the blade in his hand. It was a simple hunting knife—nothing extravagant. But in Jerald’s grasp, it was a tool of exquisite suffering.

“You betrayed me,” Jerald murmured, voice void of warmth. “And you thought I wouldn’t find out?”

“P-please,” the man stuttered, tears streaming down his face. “I—I didn’t—”

A low taunting smirk curled at the corner of Jerald’s lips and he moved the blade, faster than the man’s breath.

A sharp scream tore through the dungeon as Jerald drove the knife into his thigh, twisting it cruelly.

The sound of tearing flesh filled the air.

The man howled, his body convulsing as the agony shot through his leg. Jerald kept the knife buried deep, twisting it further, slow and precise. He wanted the bastard to feel it—to understand, even in his final moments, that there were consequences to crossing him.

“I hate liars.” Jerald’s voice was almost conversational as if discussing the weather. He yanked the knife out, blood spurting onto the floor, then slowly ran the blade along the man’s arm. Not deep enough to kill—just enough to make him suffer.

Every drag, every puncture, every agonizing stroke was calculated.

Pain was an art.

And Jerald? He was a goddamn master. He braided the pain and served them like a Sicilian favorite meal—Cassata Siciliana.

The man thrashed, his screams raw and wretched. His body jerked violently, arms trembling against the restraints, but there was no escape. The chains rattled, but they held firm.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

Jerald crouched lower, pressing the bloodied knife against the man’s cheek, feeling his breath hitch. The terror in his eyes was intoxicating, filling Jerald with utter satisfaction.

“You know,” Jerald mused, tilting his head. “I could end this quickly.” He dragged the blade down, slowly, a teasing ghost of pressure against his throat. “One swift slice and it’s over.”

The man sobbed, his whole body shaking. “Please, I—I have a family—”

Jerald’s lips curled into a cold, humorless smirk.

“So did I.”

And then he struck.

The knife slashed across the man’s other thigh, this time deeper, cutting through muscle like butter. The man’s body seized, his screams clawing at the air as his blood painted the cold stone floor.

Jerald watched. Unmoved.

He let the man cry, let him shake, let him experience every moment of agony without mercy.

When the man’s head drooped forward, body wracked with sobs, Jerald grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked him back.

“Do you know what the last person I killed said to me before I slit his throat?” His voice was eerily soft.

The man was beyond speech now, only pitiful, choked sobs escaping his throat.

Jerald smirked.

“Nothing. Because I carved out his tongue first.”

His free hand snatched the man’s jaw, forcing it open. The bloodied knife pressed against his tongue, slow, deliberate—

“No—please—no, no, no—”

Jerald sliced.

The scream that erupted from the man was beyond human, a garbled, choking sound as his mouth filled with blood. His tongue dropped to the floor with a sickening plop, and Jerald merely wiped his gloved hand on his coat, indifferent to the carnage.

Tears streamed down the man’s face, his body shaking violently from the shock. Blood dribbled from his lips, his cries were reduced to pitiful gurgles.

Jerald sighed, standing to his full height. He rolled his shoulders, adjusting his cuffs like this was just another day at the office.

Then, in one fluid motion, he dragged the knife across the man’s throat.

The blade cut deep. Clean.

A spray of crimson burst forth, warm droplets splattering across Jerald’s sleeve. He stepped back, watching as the man collapsed forward, twitching, drowning in his own blood.

And then, silence.

Jerald exhaled.

His heartbeat was steady. His hands, still gloved, remained unshaken.

It wasn’t enough.

No amount of bloodshed would bring back what was taken from him and the pain burned greater than fire. He would kill, until he found his father’s murder, he would never stop shading their bloods.

Without a word, he let the knife drop onto the floor with a dull clank. He stepped over the corpse, wiping his hands against a cloth before tossing it aside.

“Bury him at the vineyard.” His curt order reverberated through the air. And the guard who stood by and watched everything without daring to make a whimper nodded, his legs wobbling at the horrific sight.

As Jerald stepped out of the dungeon. The thoughts of Jasmine visited his mind and his fist instinctively tightened.

Bold. Fierce. Confidence. She would make a stubborn submiss and guess what?… he loves them stubborn.

The thought of her being claimed by another man sent a slow, cold burn through his veins. His jaw clenched.

He owned this auction.

He had the power to unseal any deal, to rewrite any contract, to snatch her from whoever dared to think they could keep her.

But the problem wasn’t power.

The problem was her.

She wasn’t the type to be bought.

And that only made him want her more.

Jerald adjusted his cuffs, stepping into the auction hall, every step calculated.