I hate waiting.

They also hate the weak.

The man kneeling before me, named 'Lucky,' embodied both traits. He lay sprawled on the cold concrete floor, his sweat and fear mingling to add a cheap, sour odor to the heavy scent of blood in the basement.

My cousin Marco pressed the muzzle of his gun against his back of the head, his face etched with the predatory impatience he always had. His gaze met mine, as if demanding a direct and swift resolution.

I shook my head slightly, took out a cigar from the pocket of my bespoke Armani suit, cut it open, and lit it. Taking a deep puff, the pungent smoke slid into my lungs, bringing a moment of clarity.

I need information. And the dead don't talk.

"Leni," my voice rang out with startling clarity in the silent basement, using his real name to pierce through his fear-ravaged mind. "You served the Verosso family for ten years. Ten years of comfort and respect." He shuddered like a rat drenched in rain. "Boss... I..." "You betrayed us," I cut him off, my tone as flat as a weather report. "Last month at the dock, that shipment. You leaked the information to the Voloning family." It wasn't a question.

He abruptly lifted his head, his face smeared with tears and snot—the once respectable visage now swollen like a pig's head. "No! It's not me! I swear..." I spat out a wisp of smoke, watching it rise slowly, morphing and dissipating under the dim light. Like a human life.

"Your loyalty is cheap, Lenny. But your life is now in my hands." I pressed the cigar to my lips, my eyes sweeping over his trembling fingers. "

Tell me something valuable—something that could buy you a few more minutes. About Mikhail Volonin." He shook his head frantically, mumbling incoherently. "I... I don't know... He leaves everything to his men..." Boring.

I tilted my chin toward Marco, my gaze fixed on the 'Lucky' one's unscathed left hand.

Marco smiled knowingly. He tucked the gun away and stepped on Lenny's wrist.

"No—please—ahhhhh!" The sound of bones cracking.

clear and melodious 。

agile

The screams pierced the basement's oppressive silence, only to be drowned out by his own sobs. I stared at him, expressionless, as he curled into a ball, his shirt soaked with cold sweat. Pain is the best language—universal and effective.

"Mikhail's weakness," I repeated, my voice devoid of emotion. "Everyone has one. Tell me his." He gasped, his sobs drowning out his breath, until he finally broke down as another finger was about to meet the same fate.

"Daughter! It's his daughter!" he screamed. "Not the eldest, Natasha Stasiya... but another! A hidden daughter!" My movements froze as the ash from the cigar fell onto the expensive handmade leather shoes.

A hidden daughter.

This is interesting.

"Continue." "Her name is... Sophia..." Leni's voice trembled like a leaf in the wind. "No one knows of her existence... She's an illegitimate child... Mikhail loves her more than anything! More than his family, his business, his eldest daughter! He protected her well, sent her to a regular school, gave her a normal life... She's his lifeblood!" Sophia.

The name rolled on my tongue like a cold, flawless black pearl.

I waved my hand. Marco will handle the rest. I don't need to hear another traitor's wail.

As I emerged from the basement, the crisp air filled my lungs, yet failed to wash away the stench of blood and betrayal. I climbed into the car, where the driver had already cranked the engine. Outside the window, the city's neon lights glowed like molten lava.

The phone vibrated, and the name 'Father' flickered on the screen.

I picked up.

"Is it resolved?" Salvatore Veroso's voice was as hoarse and impatient as ever, like a rusty gear grinding.

"Right now." "Don't waste time. Mikhail has caused us massive losses. Send someone to kill him immediately. I want his head on my wall." A traditional, old-school revenge method. Blood for blood. Simple, brutal, and utterly unimaginative.

"No," I said flatly.

A moment of silence followed the call, then came a suppressed gasp. "What did you say?" "I said no." I gazed out the window at the rapidly receding street, a cold smile curling at my lips. "To kill him outright—that would be too merciful." A thought formed in my mind like a precision shot, striking the bullseye. A plan more cruel than death, more devastating than shame.

What is Mikhail most cherished?

His youngest daughter. The secret he kept hidden under his wings, named Sophia.

So, I shall break her wings with my own hands—not to kill her, but to possess her. To turn her from his most treasured possession into the property of my Verosso family. To make her a living, eternal reminder of Mikhail's incompetence and failure.

I'm going to marry her.

The pleasure induced by this thought was more intense than any victory. It was a cold, electric-like excitement that spread along my spine to my fingertips.

"Luciano." The father's voice carried a tone of warning.

"I'll handle it, in my own way." I gazed at the cigar in my hand, about to burn out, as if contemplating the fate of the Voloning family. "I don't want his life, Father. I want his soul." With that, I hung up the phone and tossed it aside.

I could picture Mikhail's face contorted with rage at his incompetence. I could even taste the despair in his eyes. He would resist, struggle, but in the end, he could only watch helplessly as I took everything from him.

And she, Sophia Voloning, the princess sheltered in the ivory tower... Her world is about to face its demon.

I bent my fingers, the black tattoo on my knuckles faintly visible in the dimly lit carriage. My fingertips seemed to already sense the slender, warm neck, to feel each delicate pulse beating.

I closed my eyes and leaned back in my seat.

"Sofia Voloning." I murmured the name, as if signing a contract.

"It's mine."

Mafia's Vow: Tainted Saint — Chapter 8

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