CHAPTER 8

Luca’s POV

As I stepped out of my bedroom, the heavy wooden door clicking shut behind me, the picture of her still lingered in my head. My new bride. She had been curled up on the massive bed like a frightened kitten, her face half-buried in the pillow, her small shoulders shaking as if she thought I wouldn’t notice. Her dress had been wrinkled, her hair a little messy, but there was something haunting in the way she looked at me earlier, those wide eyes shimmering with fear and stubbornness at the same time. She didn’t know what she had gotten herself into.

I ran a hand through my hair and exhaled sharply, pushing her image out of my mind. She was not my problem right now. I couldn’t afford distractions. Not tonight.

The hallway stretched before me, silent and endless. The mansion was too quiet for its size, almost suffocating in its silence. The air smelled faintly of polished wood, leather, and something metallic—blood. It clung to me, always. My footsteps echoed against the cold marble floor as I walked slowly, like a predator not in a hurry to reach its prey because it already knew it would not escape.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, vibrating sharply against my thigh. I pulled it out, and the name flashing on the screen made my lips curve. Dante. My right hand. My most trusted man. The only one I knew would slit his own throat if I told him to.

I pressed the phone to my ear. “Speak,” I said, my voice low, commanding.

“Boss,” Dante’s deep, gravelly voice answered. Calm, but edged with the weight of what he was about to say. “One of the men from the attack… the one your soldiers knocked out. He’s awake.”

For a moment, silence stretched between us. I stopped at the top of the stairs, my hand tightening around the railing, knuckles whitening.

Awake.

The word filled me with a strange kind of thrill. My chest expanded, and I could feel my pulse quicken—not out of fear, but out of anticipation. Slowly, an evil smile curled across my lips.

“Perfect,” I whispered, almost to myself, but Dante would hear it. “It’s been a while since I had a proper conversation.”

I could almost hear Dante’s knowing smirk through the phone. He didn’t ask questions. He didn’t need to. He knew what kind of conversation I meant.

“Shall I prepare the basement, Boss?” he asked carefully, though the tone in his voice told me he already knew the answer.

“Yes,” I said, my voice like steel. “Have everything ready. I’ll be down soon. Make sure he’s restrained tight. I don’t want him passing out too early. I intend to enjoy this.”

“Yes, Boss.”

The line went dead, and I slid the phone back into my pocket, the dark grin still carved into my face.

The mansion’s staircase stretched before me, grand and polished, with golden banisters and a thick red carpet laid across it. As I descended, my reflection caught in one of the tall, framed mirrors lining the walls. I paused for just a second and studied myself.

The man who stared back looked every bit the monster they whispered about. My black shirt clung to my frame, sleeves rolled up, veins standing out on my forearms. My eyes looked dark, cold, merciless, and I could see faint smears of blood still clinging to my hands. Not mine. Never mine. Always theirs.

The devil. That’s what they called me. Some spat it in fear, others whispered it like a prayer they hoped I’d never hear. And maybe they were right. Maybe I was the devil. If not, then I was close enough. I had done things no man should ever do. I had killed, tortured, destroyed lives without blinking, without regret. And I would keep doing it.

I chuckled under my breath, a dark, low sound that echoed against the mansion’s high ceiling. “The devil is hungry tonight,” I muttered to myself.

Outside, I could hear faint noises—guards patrolling, cars moving in and out, the faint rustle of wind against the iron gates. But deeper in the mansion, underneath its polished and elegant face, lay the truth of who I was. The basement. My real kingdom.

A place where the screams never reached the outside world.

And tonight, it would be filled again.

I started walking, each step slow, steady, deliberate, like I was savoring what was waiting for me. The hallway was quiet except for the sound of my shoes tapping against the polished floor, every step echoing back at me. It felt like the whole house was holding its breath, as if even the walls knew something dark was about to happen. My chest rose and fell in calm rhythm, but inside me there was a storm of anticipation. The thought of the traitor—bloody, chained, broken—burned bright in my mind. He was already mine.

And I never broke promises.

The air changed the closer I got to the basement. It grew heavier, colder, as though it carried the weight of everything that had happened down there before. The heavy metal door loomed ahead, tall and merciless. It wasn’t just a door—it was a warning. Everyone in this house knew what lay behind it. Screams had died in the walls beyond, secrets had bled into the floor.

Two of my men were stationed there, their bodies stiff with discipline. Their hands rested close to their weapons, but when they saw me, their shoulders dropped slightly in respect. Both dipped their heads, almost bowing, though they tried to keep their eyes sharp.

“Boss,” one of them said softly.

I nodded, the smallest curve of my lips pulling into something cold, not kind. My hand hovered over the keypad, the faint glow of the numbers reflecting off my skin. I typed in the code slowly, each beep echoing like a drumbeat, and then the door unlocked with a sharp click. I pushed it open, the steel groaning, and stepped inside.

The door slammed behind me, shutting me away from the rest of the house, cutting me off from everything that was gentle or normal. Down here, only the truth mattered—and I was the one who dragged it out, no matter how much blood it cost.

The basement stretched before me, wide and unforgiving. The walls were bare concrete, gray and unfeeling, except for the faint stains that had seeped into them over the years—stains that no amount of scrubbing could erase. The smell hit me first, sharp and familiar. Sweat, iron, and old fear. It clung to the air, thick and sour, crawling into my lungs like smoke.

Chains hung from one wall, rattling softly as I passed, like they were whispering. On the far side, a table gleamed under the dim light, its surface lined with tools—knives, clamps, batons, even things that looked harmless until they were put to use. Each one had a purpose. Each one had a story.

Dante was already there, waiting for me. His tall frame leaned against the wall, his arms crossed casually, though I could see the fire in his eyes. He wasn’t nervous, no—Dante never was. But there was excitement in the way he stood, like he was eager to see how far I would go this time.

When he noticed me, he straightened, pushing off the wall, and gave me a sharp nod. His mouth curved in a small smirk, the kind of smile that promised trouble. Without a word, he tilted his head toward the far room. He didn’t need to explain. I already knew what waited for me.

We walked together, our footsteps echoing in the empty space. The deeper we went, the dimmer the light became, until it felt like the shadows themselves were closing in. Finally, we reached the room. The metal door here was smaller, rust eating at its edges. Dante pushed it open for me, and a faint creak groaned through the silence.

Inside, a single bulb hung from the ceiling, swinging slightly, casting harsh light that flickered across the floor. The man was there—our traitor.

He dangled from chains, wrists pulled high above his head, his weight forcing his shoulders to sag painfully. His shirt had been ripped away, exposing skin that was mottled with bruises, purple and red. Dried blood streaked across his chest, some of it cracked, some of it still fresh. His breathing was shallow and uneven, every inhale sounding like gravel scraping against stone.

His head lifted slowly when he sensed me enter. One of his eyes was swollen shut, the other stared at me wide, trembling, wet with fear. His lips quivered, cracked and bleeding, and though he opened his mouth, no words came out. Only silence. The chains rattled as his body shook.

For a long moment, I just stood there, watching him. Letting the weight of my presence fill the room. His fear was almost visible—it wrapped around him, choking him more than the chains ever could.

I smiled then. A slow, cold curve of my lips that had nothing human in it. This was the part I loved most—the silence before the storm. The moment where the man in front of me realized that every chance to escape, every hope of mercy, was already gone.

And the worst part for him was that he knew I would enjoy every second of what came next.