Chapter 4 The Execution

• Lorenzo’s POV
• Two Weeks Later
• The warehouse reeked of oil, rusting iron, and the faint metallic tang of blood. A single bulb swung slightly overhead, casting jagged shadows across the concrete floor the kind of place you’re only brought to after committing a serious felony.
• The sweating maggot knelt before me, trembling violently, his face etched with raw terror, battered and bloody from our earlier “conversation.”
• “You failed me,” I said, my voice calm, deliberate, and low but loud enough to send him into fresh tears.
• “I… I didn’t… Boss… I swear, I didn’t have a choice… I wasn’t—”
• I let his words hang in the air before taking a step toward him. My boots echoed as I circled him like a hungry shark.
• “You always have a choice. And you chose wrong.”
• A shaky breath escaped him. “Please… I’ll do anything. Please… I have a family… I’ll do anything. Please… Please…”
• I stopped in front of him. He lifted his head slightly a futile attempt at courage and began reciting the Lord’s Prayer, voice trembling:
• “Our Father, who art in heaven…”
• My jaw tightened. I chuckled once, sharp as broken glass.
• “Interesting. You betray me. You spill innocent blood. And now… you remember God?”
• He froze, wide-eyed.
• “I hate when men do that,” I said softly. “They drag His name out only when the barrel is pressed to their head. You think He’s your last shield. He’s not.”
• His lips quivered. Sweat ran down his temple, dripping onto the floor like tiny sacrifices.
• “Since you’ve chosen to pray,” I murmured, straightening, “I’ll grant your prayer a form… memorable.”
• Bruno stepped from the shadows, leaning casually against a steel support beam. His presence was quiet, controlled, deliberate he knew exactly how far to push the tension without tipping the scales.
• “Plane’s ready,” he said, his tone almost conversational, though the words tasted like ice.
• I said nothing. I let the silence stretch, letting the man’s panic gnaw at itself. Guards flanking him held his arms and shoulders firmly, unyielding. One brought a sharp dagger.
• I knelt before him, eyes locked on his. His gaze darted between my face, the blade, and the shadows behind me. The faint smell of burning metal made him wrinkle his nose involuntarily.
• “First,” I said softly, almost gentle, “we mark you.”
• I grabbed the dagger, pressing the tip to his forehead not too deep. Where’s the fun in that? I drew a slow cross, from the start to the end, side to side. He whimpered, unaware of what was next.
• I circled him slowly, chains rattling faintly with each powerful step. His struggles were futile, but they amused me more than they irritated me. A guard approached with a branding iron, red-hot from the forge. Smoke hissed from its tip, curling upward.
• Next came the De Luca crest.
• The scream that erupted when the iron met his forehead was almost musical in its rawness, tearing through the warehouse like a living thing. Smoke rose from the burnt flesh, curling like black ribbons. I watched him flinch, feeling a cold thrill at the sudden, sharp realization of his helplessness.
• Each hiss, each flinch, each choking plea was a note in my symphony of control. He sobbed, words meaningless, panic flooding his voice like a tide. And I didn’t move. I didn’t speak. I didn’t blink.
• “The plane is still waiting,” Bruno sighed. I turned briefly, eyes locking with my head Capo.
• “You know what to do.”
• He walked forward, long blade in hand, the De Luca crest etched into it. The blade fell swiftly, a single motion. No hesitation. No theatrics. The thud of severed flesh against concrete echoed in the empty warehouse. The man’s head rolled slightly, eyes wide in disbelief, mouth frozen mid-plea.
• I stepped back, expression unreadable. A guard caught the head in a crude basket, crimson streaks vivid against steel. Another worker fixed a crude stick in the ground outside, just beyond the warehouse gates. I watched as they raised it, impaled for all to see.
• “Shall we?” I nodded. Outside, the city stretched into the morning light. The head on the stick glinted in the sun a warning for anyone foolish enough to cross us. The De Luca crest, freshly carved into his forehead, burned red against pale skin, unmistakable and permanent.
• I climbed into the car, Bruno at my side, guards flanking. Engines roared, black cars gleamed in the sun. I cast one final glance back. The display on the road the head, the mark was the warning itself.
• Fear has teeth. And it bites hardest when people can see it in others.
• And that power, control, domination that is the sweetest lesson.