The Mafia's Rose

The Pull of Darkness

Alessandro's POV

*TW: Torture, gore, blood*

The metallic scent of blood, thick and cloying, filled the air. The man whimpered, a pathetic sound that grated on my nerves. I tightened my grip on the pliers, the cold steel a reassuring weight in my hand.

"Where is he?" I asked, my voice a low growl, barely audible above the man's ragged breathing.

"I... I don’t know," he stammered, his voice a broken whisper, his eyes wide with terror. "I swear, I don’t know."

He was lying. I could see it in the way his gaze darted around the dimly lit basement, the way his sweat-slicked skin glistened under the single bare bulb that hung from the ceiling.

I leaned closer, letting the full weight of my presence bear down on him. He flinched, his whimpers turning into a choked sob. I wasn't a man known for his patience, especially not tonight. Lorenzo, my brother, lay in a hospital bed, his life hanging by a thread, because of this man, because of his crew of cowardly thugs. And I would have my answers.

"You think I'm playing games?" I hissed, my voice dangerously low, letting a hint of amusement colour my tone, the kind that sent chills down the spines of even my most hardened men. "Think about who you're dealing with."

He shook his head frantically, his fear palpable, the stench of it almost overpowering the metallic tang of blood in the air. He knew my reputation. Everyone in this city did.

"I... I told you everything I know," he whimpered, his voice cracking. “Please," the man sobbed, "I have a sister. She needs me…"

A sister. The word echoed in the cold silence of the basement, a ghost of a memory, a phantom pain that never truly faded. Isabella. Her face, young and vibrant, flashed in my mind. Her laughter. Her warmth. Those warm, chocolate brown eyes, always sparkling with mischief. The promise I'd made to protect her, a promise I'd failed to keep.

I should have been there. I should have protected her. The guilt, a familiar ache that never fully subsided, gnawed at my insides, a constant reminder of my failure, of the price of my world.

And now, this nurse, this Illyana... She had those same delicate features, the same stubborn set to her jaw, the same quiet strength as Isabella. But her eyes were emerald green, flecked with gold, a glimmer of something wild and untamed. She'd somehow wormed her way into the fortress I'd built around my heart, reawakening a protectiveness I thought I'd buried with my sister.

Damn her. What was it about her that pulled me in? The innocence? The strength? The way she looked at me, a mixture of fear and fascination, as if she saw something beneath the surface, something she couldn't quite comprehend?

It was a mistake to have her followed, a reckless impulse driven by a protectiveness I had no right to feel. She was a light in the darkness, a fragile bloom in a world of thorns. My world would crush her, consume her, leaving behind nothing but ashes and regret.

I pushed the thoughts of her away, forcing myself to focus on the task at hand. This man, this piece of garbage who dared to threaten my family, deserved nothing but pain. But even as I continued my brutal interrogation, the memory of Illyana, her emerald eyes, the face that reminded me of my past failures, lingered at the edge of my awareness.

Finally, when his screams had faded to whimpers, when his body was a broken vessel, a testament to the price of betrayal, he gave me what I wanted. A name. A location. A chance for vengeance.

I left him there, a broken doll discarded in the shadows. The air outside the warehouse was crisp and cool, a welcome contrast to the stifling atmosphere of the basement. I drew a deep breath, the scent of rain and exhaust fumes filling my lungs, grounding me, reminding me of the city I ruled.

I walked for hours, the streets of Rome a labyrinth of shadows and secrets, my mind a battlefield of conflicting emotions. The anger, the grief, the guilt – they all battled for dominance, leaving me exhausted, drained, and empty.

Without realising it, my feet led me to a familiar street, a quiet residential neighbourhood far from the glittering lights of the city centre. The hospital. I hadn’t meant to come here, hadn’t wanted to revisit the place where I’d first seen her, the woman who’d stirred something within me that I’d thought was long dead.

But here I was, drawn to her like a moth to a flame, my better judgment battling with a primal urge, a need to see her, to make sure she was safe.

And then I heard it. A scream, a woman’s scream, sharp and piercing, cutting through the quiet night. My blood ran cold. And as I rounded the corner, my heart pounding a heavy rhythm against my ribs, I saw her – Illyana, struggling against a man who was trying to wrestle her purse away, her face pale with terror, her emerald eyes wide with a fear that mirrored my own.