Ripped The Fabric.

{EDMONDO'S POV}

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Smoke curls around me, thick and bitter, as I take another drag from my pipe.

The faint flicker of torchlight dances across the cold stone walls, casting shadows that writhe like restless spirits. The air is damp here, heavy with the metallic tang of blood and the stench of decay. It clings to my skin, to my thoughts, to every breath I take.

She’s here, chained against the far wall. Cara La Rosa. Her name alone ignites the fire in my chest, a rage I’ve carried for far too long. I hate the Southern Italy Mafias. I hate their disunity and weakness.

Just like the La Rosa; they couldn't take the fight head on, so they decided to do their deeds in the shadows. She doesn’t belong here.. not in my world, not in my plans, not in my head. And yet, here she is.

I lean against the slaughter table, the weight of the room pressing down on me like a stone. The pipe burns hot between my fingers, the acrid smoke doing nothing to calm the storm inside. I hate the way she looks at me, trembling like prey cornered by a predator. I hate it because I know I should feel nothing, and instead, I feel everything.

“Giovanni,” I call, my voice sharp enough to cut through the oppressive silence.

He steps out from the shadows, his expression unreadable. He’s always watching now, measuring me, waiting for the moment I lose control. Maybe he thinks it’s already happened.

“You think I’ve gone soft,” I say, exhaling a plume of smoke that twists and dissipates in the flickering light.

He doesn’t respond immediately. His silence is deliberate, pointed. Finally, he says, “I think you’ve let this one get under your skin as well. Revenge doesn’t work when you’re distracted.”

His words hit harder than they should, but I push the sting aside. I can’t afford to doubt myself. Not now.

“She’s a La Rosa,” I spit, my voice low and venomous. “Her blood is poison. Do you think I’d hesitate to spill it for the north?”

Giovanni doesn’t move, but his gaze hardens. “I think the longer you keep her alive, the more dangerous she becomes. You need to decide, Edmondo. Do you want her blood, or something else?”

My fingers tighten around the pipe until I feel the wood press into my skin. His words hang heavy in the air, but I refuse to acknowledge them. I can’t.

My eyes shift to her.

She’s slumped against the wall, her wrists now bound high above her head with the chains biting into her pale skin. She looks small, fragile, but I know better. She’s a La Rosa, and their kind are never what they seem. Just like her sister, Agata. A fucking seductress.

“You,” I bark, striding toward her.

She flinches, her body tensing as I approach. The sight of her fear stokes the fire in my chest.

When she doesn’t look up fast enough, I grab the chain and yank it, forcing her arms higher. She gasps. Her feet scramble for purchase on the slick stone floor.

“Look at you,” I sneer, circling her. “Hanging there like a lamb to the slaughter. Is that what you are? A sacrifice? Or did your father train you better than this?”

Her lips part, but no sound comes out. Her silence feels like defiance, and it ignites something darker in me.

“Speak!” I roar, slamming the pipe against the wall beside her. The sound echoes through the chamber, sharp and violent. Just the way I like it. It gives some kind of ominous vibes.

“I…” she whispers. My pounding heart was definitely louder. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Her words twist something inside me. I hate it. I hate her.

I grab her chin, forcing her to meet my eyes. They’re wide and wet with unshed tears, and for a moment, I see something I can’t explain. Something that makes my grip falter.

“You don’t know?” I hiss. “You don’t know how many have died because of your family. You don’t know what it’s like to bury your people, to hear their screams haunt your nights.”

I release her chin with a shove, and she slumps forward. The chains clink softly as her body shakes. The sight of her weakness fuels my anger.

Her dress.. simple, unassuming.. feels like a mockery to my devilment. Without thinking, I grab the fabric and rip it, exposing her back. She gasps, twisting against the chains. But there’s nowhere for her to go.

“Shame,” I mutter, the word heavy with disdain. “That’s all you have left. Shame is nothing compared to death.”

“Please,” she whispers, her voice cracking. “Don’t…”

The word hangs in the air, and for a moment, I freeze. Not because of her plea, but because my eyes catch something; a raised line of skin on her back. A scar.

I step closer, my anger faltering as I push the torn fabric aside to reveal it fully. The scar is deep and jagged. Like a testament to pain that lingers long after a wound has closed.

“What is this?” I demand, my voice low and dangerous.

She doesn’t answer.

Her body curls in on itself as much as the chains allow. But I won’t let her hide. I grab her shoulders, forcing her to face me.

“You think this changes anything?” I hiss, shaking her. “Do you think I care about your scars? About your pain?”

Her eyes meet mine, and for the first time, I see something that stops me cold. It’s not just fear. It’s understanding. It cuts through me like a blade, sharp and unrelenting.

“Don't act like you understand me,” I whisper, my voice trembling with something I can’t name, “Or do you?”

Her lips tremble, but she doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. The truth is written all over her face.