The harsh glare of a single overhead bulb flickered as Santo's hands tightened around the throat of the trembling man before him. "Who did it?" he barked, every word slicing through the stale air like a blade. His grip constricted, forcing a desperate gasp, yet the man remained silent, stubborn and unyielding.
Frustration twisted Santo’s features, and with a sudden release, he stepped back toward his meticulously arranged toolkit. The air was thick with the metallic scent of oil and knives. "You had your chance to be honest when it was easy," he muttered darkly, pulling out a gleaming blade, its edge honed to a cruel sharpness.
The man’s defiance erupted again, spite spitting from cracked lips. "You're too young for this cruelty! I swear I don’t know anything!"
Santo's lips curled into a chilling smile as he held the knife up. "Do you appreciate art?" he asked, voice low and menacing.
The man’s eyes widened in terror. "What are you planning?" he stammered.
Slowly, deliberately, Santo closed the distance, the blade tracing a slow, deliberate line across the man’s cheek. A scream tore from the man's throat, sharp and raw, bleeding red onto the cold concrete floor.
The smile vanished from Santo’s face as he pressed the knife to the man's neck, the cold steel a stark promise. "Or maybe I should just end this now," he whispered, voice a deadly calm. "You know how much I enjoy finishing the job."
The man, panic-stricken, blurted out a name. "It was Benedict! I swear he intended to bring it all back!"
Lowering his weapon, Santo nodded slowly, signaling to the guard standing nearby. "Find him. Now."
"Yes, sir," the guard responded immediately, sprinting into the shadows beyond the warehouse walls.
Tears streaked down the captive’s face; his voice turned pleading, desperate. "Please, please don’t kill me, capo!"
With a cold glance, Santo leveled the knife once more. "Silence. Or you won’t live to regret it." The man snapped shut his mouth, sobbing quietly, the room swallowing his fragile protestations.
Suddenly, Santo’s phone buzzed sharply against the metal table. The screen flashed his father’s name. Normally, he would have ignored it, but the urgency in the call was unmistakable. He answered with a curt, "What?" laced with barely concealed disdain.
"Come over. We need to talk," his father’s voice was steely before the line went dead.
Santo sighed heavily. No room for refusal in that tone.
The warehouse door swung open abruptly as Benedict appeared, eyes wide with apprehension. "Boss? Is everything alright?"
"Did you steal from me during your delivery?" Santo’s voice was eerily calm, cold as ice.
Benedict glared at his terrified friend, shaking his head vehemently. "No! That’s a lie! I would never!"
Without hesitation, Santo raised his gun and fired a single shot into Benedict’s forehead. The man crumpled instantly, lifeless.
He already knew the truth. Nothing escaped him in this world.
Turning back to the now pale-faced captive, Santo leveled the gun, a silent warning. "Try anything like this again, and you’ll be next." He gestured to the guard to release him.
Outside, as Santo stepped into the cool night, Dante appeared, jogging up with a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
"Need a hand?" Santo asked, eyes flicking to the papers clutched in his hand.
"You handled it well," Dante said approvingly. "She’s quite something, isn’t she?"
Santo stiffened, eyebrow arching in challenge. "Not talking about her."
"What man wouldn’t want to talk about his wife?" Dante teased, nudging him gently.
Brushing off the touch, Santo retorted, "She’s irritating, arrogant, and utterly spoiled."
Dante chuckled. "You act like you were forced into the marriage."
A flicker of reluctant truth escaped Santo. "Maybe I was." His voice lowered, heavy with bitterness. Dante’s smile faded.
They had been inseparable since childhood, Dante the only one who ever breached Santo’s walls.
"She’s good for you," Dante insisted softly, "maybe what you’re missing."
Santo wanted to snap back, to reject it all, but something in Dante’s words lingered uncomfortably.
Dante, ever the optimist and loyal right-hand, believed in love in a way Santo could barely comprehend. Santo saw only shadows and survival.
"I’m not missing anything," Santo said flatly, meeting Dante’s pitying gaze.
That look—equal parts sadness and hope—was something Santo despised.
"She’s better than those fleeting women you chase after," Dante pressed. "None of them could ever be your wife."
"And why is that?" Santo snapped, anger flashing. "She couldn’t even handle a guard when trouble came."
Dante sighed deeply. "Just give her a chance."
But Santo was already turning away, opening the door to his car.
"She’s young and naive," Dante called after him. "Don’t be the one to break her."
Santo’s patience snapped. "By doing what exactly?" He stared hard, daring Dante to answer.
"You know who you are," Dante said quietly. "You hurt people for reasons they don’t understand. Don’t do that to her."
A bitter smile touched Santo’s lips. "So now my right-hand man is judging me?"
"Not judging, just reminding," came the reply, tinged with concern.
"Thanks for the reminder," Santo muttered, sliding into the driver’s seat and slamming the door shut.
The engine roared to life, tires spinning as he sped toward the imposing silhouette of his family estate. Everyone seemed to tread carefully around him these days, afraid of the storm he carried inside. He pretended not to notice, but it weighed on him like a chain.
At the grand front door, Santo knocked sharply. His mother answered, her smile warm but eyes wary. "My son, you’re here early."
He ignored her pleasantries and stepped inside. "Where is my father?"
She tried to stop him. "He’s in his office, but Santo—"
He brushed past her, the air thick with unspoken tension and history. His parents had inflicted wounds deep and lasting, wounds he was still learning to mask.
"I’m here," Santo announced, pushing open the heavy door to the study.
His father sat behind a sprawling desk, a bottle of beer in hand, eyes sharp and unyielding. "Sit."
Santo remained standing, rigid. "I won’t stay long. What is this about?"
"How’s the business?" his father asked, voice cool and commanding.
"It’s running smoothly," Santo replied curtly, eager to end this.
"Bring her to dinner tonight," his father demanded. "I want to meet her."
"You should’ve attended the wedding if you wanted that," Santo shot back, bitterness spiking his tone. Their eyes locked, anger simmering palpable between them.
"Are you treating her well?" his father pressed.
"What? Is she a child or a pet that needs care?" Santo sneered.
"Santo Valentino!" his father’s shout cracked the air. Santo clenched his jaw against the sting of a sharp slap that landed across his cheek.
He pressed a hand to his face, fighting the urge to retaliate as his father’s voice thundered, "Bring her to dinner tonight. I want to meet my daughter-in-law."
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, before Santo finally nodded, the weight of duty settling on his shoulders even as resentment gnawed deep within.
As his father retook his seat, Santo turned and walked out, the echo of the door closing behind him like a final verdict. Outside, the cold night air did little to soothe the heat of the confrontation burning in his veins.
He knew this would only be the beginning of a long, difficult evening. But for now, the tangled web of family, loyalty, and pain tightened relentlessly around him, pulling him deeper into the shadows he both feared and controlled.