Betrothed to a CEO, inlove with a MAFIA

Episode Five

DERRICK’s POV

My heart pounding, I drive furiously towards Mr. and Mrs. Smith's house. The engine's roar seems to mirror my own frustration and urgency. As I enter the house, I stride purposefully into the living room. Mrs. Smith is seated on the sofa, her posture conveying a mix of worry and sadness. A maid stands by her side, offering comfort in the form of a gentle touch. Mrs. Smith rises abruptly as soon as she notices me, her eyes betraying a glimmer of hope.

Across the room, at the far end of the dining area, Mr. Smith stands engaged in a heated argument over the phone. His voice is strained with anger as he vents his frustration.

“Don’t tell me to calm down, it’s been more than 48 hours but you still haven’t found my daughter. What the f**k am I paying you for then?” His words are a storm of rage, crashing against the person on the other end of the line.

Beside me, Mrs. Smith's voice trembles, breaking the tense air. “Where’s my daughter?” Her voice is a desperate plea, her eyes brimming with tears that threaten to fall.

Mr. Smith turns his attention from the phone call, his gaze locked onto his wife. The call ends abruptly as he spots me, and with determined strides, he moves towards me.

“Derrick, where’s Claire? Thought you said you’ve been able to track her location the last time we spoke on the phone?” His voice quivers with a mix of worry and impatience.

“True, I found her. My men and I located her, but we couldn't extract her right away. Her life was in danger, Mr. Smith. That bastard used her as bait,” I explain, my jaw clenched as I struggle to contain the anger and frustration bubbling inside me.

Mr. Smith stands there, seemingly lost in his thoughts, his expression a complex mix of emotions.

“Is my princess okay? How did she look? Did he hurt her?” Mrs. Smith's voice trembles as she grapples with her emotions, her tears now freely flowing down her cheeks.

“I'm afraid she didn't look well,” I say gently, my voice a reassuring balm even as my heart aches for her.

A surge of emotion washes over Mrs. Smith, and she collapses onto the chair, her sobs echoing in the room.

Turning to face Mr. Smith, I ask, “What's the status of your private investigators?”

Frustration and fear carve lines across Mr. Smith's face. “Those morons! They haven't uncovered anything—not even a trace of information about the man who took my daughter. It's as if he's a ghost.”

I watch Mr. Smith, a man I've known since my teenage years, a second father figure to me. His typically unshakeable demeanor is replaced by a palpable fear. Claire means the world to him—his eyes reveal a love that knows no bounds. While Claire and I might have our differences, and I've faltered in the past, my love for her remains unwavering. I will do whatever it takes to bring her back, even if it means risking my own life.

“Don't fret too much, Mr. Smith. I promise I will bring Claire back, even if it means…” My words are interrupted by my mother, who storms into the living room.

“So this is where you are? I've been to your house twice,” she said sternly, her gaze fixed on her surroundings, seemingly unaffected by the fact that she was in someone else's home.

The sight of her immediately triggered a headache. Dressed to the nines, she appeared as though she were headed to a glamorous party. Don't get me wrong—I love my mother dearly, but she can be overwhelming. Today is one of those days when I wish I could avoid facing her.

“Where else would you expect me to be, Mum? My wife is missing, for goodness' sake,” I responded, massaging my temples with both hands, attempting to soothe the throbbing in my head.

“Fiancée! Fiancée, Derrick. You're not married to her yet,” she retorted with a disdainful undertone.

I moved over to the chair adjacent to where Mrs. Smith was seated and sank into it. If I knew my mother as well as I did, she was about to launch into one of her melodramatic episodes, and frankly, I had no energy to spare for that.

“Elena, this isn't the time for this. My daughter is still missing,” Mrs. Smith interjected, her voice carrying an air of restrained calm.

“Oh, please... Enough with the pretense already. Enough! Do you think I don't see through this scheme? I won't sit idly by as you manipulate my son and me,” Mrs. Elena erupted in anger.

“What are you suggesting?” Mr. Smith inquired through clenched teeth, his demeanor tense.

“Did you not sell out your promiscuous daughter for money? Don't try to deny the rumors!” My mother accused, her voice brimming with conviction.

“Mother!” I interjected, taken aback by her audacity.

“How dare you... How dare you label my daughter promiscuous, and who has poisoned your mind with these lies?” Mr. Smith shot back, his words infused with venom as he confronted my mother, his eyes flashing with anger.

For a brief moment, a flicker of apprehension danced in my mother's eyes, only to vanish as swiftly as it had appeared.

“You don't frighten me, Mr. Smith,” she retorted, her resolve unshaken.

“Resolve this situation and ensure this wedding takes place. Otherwise, I'll erase any trace of the connection between you and my late husband. I'll obliterate everything you hold dear,” she threatened, her gaze piercing Mr. Smith's eyes with unwavering intensity.

As she made her way toward the exit, she pivoted sharply. “One more thing—don't you dare entangle my son in this mess,” she warned, her parting words echoing through the room as the door slammed shut behind her.

DAMIAN’s POV

As the car comes to a stop at the entrance of the vault, my driver opens the door with a bow, "Boss," he utters, acknowledging my presence.

This vault is my private chamber of torment, distinct from the one my father and I co-own. It remains concealed in a remote area, its existence known only to a select few of my most loyal men. Here, I address complications I wish to resolve without involving my father.

"Welcome, boss," my men, entrusted with safeguarding the surroundings, greet me with deference as I step inside.

Entering the vault with an impassive expression and a chilling gaze, my attention fixes on a man hanging upside down, his head restrained. This betrayer, Rico, dangles before me. An unbidden surge of revulsion and outrage courses through me. How astonishing, that the very man I had lifted from the dregs, offering shelter to him and his younger brother, would now plunge a dagger into my back due to a woman he met just a year ago.

"Has he divulged a name?" My voice, devoid of warmth, cuts through the heavy air.

"No, boss. Despite our efforts, he remains steadfast in his silence," one of my men responds.

"Retrieve the wipe and the toolbox immediately," I commanded , my irritation seething beneath the surface.

Swiftly, my men return, bearing a weighty container brimming with an assortment of tormenting implements.

"Pass me the wipe," I ordered, extending my hand.

The moment the wipe meets my hand, I begin to ruthlessly scour Rico, channeling every ounce of anger and disdain into each stroke. His anguished cries resonate with a perverse symphony in my ears, fueling my resolve. I continue the relentless assault, only ceasing when blood starts to ooze from his lacerated flesh.

"Who was behind your mission to spy on me?" I inquire, my tone chillingly composed.

"No... No one. It was me alone," he pleads, his words faltering.

I pose the question again, my voice a taut thread of danger. Still, I receive no answer. Stubborn resistance delights me; it affords me the chance to indulge in my own brand of entertainment. It's been a while since I've had such playthings.

"Release him, and shackle his hands to the table," I command.

The orders are executed swiftly as I rummage through the toolbox, searching for the ideal instrument. Settling upon a poultry shear knife with rusted, jagged blades, I prepare to proceed.

Rico kneels before a table, his hands bound and spread out. The man before me appears almost lifeless, his countenance marred beyond recognition by the beatings inflicted by my subordinates. I relish delivering unexpected twists during my torture sessions—after all, who doesn't enjoy a good surprise?

Positioning myself behind him, I squat down. "Last opportunity, Rico. Who sent you?" I murmur into his ear with unsettling calmness. My reward is continued silence. Annoyance courses through me, and I seize his ear, initiating a merciless incision.

"Ha... Please," he screams, his voice a symphony of agony and desperation. His cries are a haunting melody, amplifying my satisfaction as I meticulously slice through his ear, until it separates from his head, blood cascading.

"Ha...!" he howls in torment.

"Talk!" I command, venom dripping from my words.

"I can't... They threatened my girlfriend and unborn child... I couldn't reveal their identities," he cries out, his voice trembling.

I step around to the front of the table, squatting to meet his gaze, my eyes probing him for truth. "They? Who are they, Rico?" I query calmly, but again, my query is met with silence.

With care, I place his hands on the table, straightening his pinky finger before initiating a deliberate cut. He writhes, shrieks, and groans as anguish courses through him. Continuing until the finger separates entirely, I proceed to the thumb. Just as I embark on the next cut, my phone interrupts.

"Hold this," I instruct, passing the knife to one of my men as I answer the call, my hands soaked in blood.

"Speak," I demand, my voice tinged with urgency.

"Damn it! Summon the family Doctor immediately; I'm en route," I urge anxiously.

Hurrying back to the torture scene, I grab a towel and provide final instructions before dashing out once more. "Send his head as a souvenir to his pregnant girlfriend, along with his fingers and a note crafted with his own blood to his brother," I decree, storming out of the vault.