Page 54 of Marriage of Revenge

The door clicks behind him with prison-door finality, leaving me alone with silence that rings too loud. Stillness has never sat well with me - not since flames wrote their story on my skin. I push up from the chair, ignoring how the room tilts like a ship in storm. The desk steadies me as I reach for Forever Diamonds' blueprints, each movement sending fire through my side.

"A few days," I mutter, spreading papers across mahogany that probably cost more than most men's lives. Her father thinks that hacking challenge revealed all his secrets. He doesn't understand that real power isn't about what you know - it's about knowing exactly where to strike to make it hurt.

The blueprints whisper promises of revenge, each detail another nail in Moretti's coffin. But Isabella's texts about Naomi burn in my pocket, her honeysuckle scent still clinging to my skin like a curse.

Some debts demand more than blood.

I reach for the whiskey bottle perched on my desk's edge - good stuff, aged longer than most of my enemies have been breathing. The movement pulls wrong, tears something deep where Henrik's blade kissed flesh. "Fuck," I snarl as pain rips through my side, hot and hungry as flame. The bottle slips, amber liquid catching moonlight before shattering. The room spins like that night everything burned, paintings blurring into smoke. But I force myself steady, jaw clenched against weakness. Pain's just another weapon, and I've survived worse.

The corridor greets me with salt air from the Mediterranean, carrying memories of other nights, other victories. My fortress stands proud against the waves, each stone as scarred as I am. Every crack tells a story of survival, of power bought with blood and pain.

Cerberus announces himself with that joyful bark that still surprises me - how anything that survived Casale's fighting pits could sound so pure. The beagle/lab mix who refused to die rockets toward me, all wagging tail and unconditional love. His weight hits my wound like Henrik's blade finding home again, and fuck if the world doesn't go white at the edges. My palm finds the wall, rough stone grounding me while my stitches scream. "Easy, ragazzo," I manage, the Italian slipping out like it does when pain strips away control. "Sit."

He doesn't know he's killing me, his tail painting happy arcs through air that suddenly feels too thin to breathe. "Stay," I command, each step away from him a negotiation with gravity.

Voices carry down the hall - my people celebrating victory, planning the next move. The wedding. My revenge served on a silver platter with a side of 'til death do us part.

Henrik's still breathing somewhere, probably cursing my name through broken teeth. Amateur. Should've gone for the kill when he had the chance. Should've known better than to think a blade could stop the Beast.

The ring. The wedding. Isabella.

That kiss.

Her taste lingers on my tongue like expensive whiskey - dangerous, intoxicating, promising oblivion. The way she yielded under my mouth, soft and willing until I remembered she's toxicity wrapped in honeysuckle and lies. The memory hits harder than any knife, and isn't that just fucking perfect?

Pain yanks me back to reality, its fingers burning through my side like that night flames ate my flesh. Good. Better thanremembering how she tasted, how she felt yielding against me. Better than analyzing that look in her eyes - the one that almost made me believe she still gave a shit.

She's Moretti's daughter through and through. Maybe she doesn't see it yet, but that entitled core, that "the world exists for my taking" attitude? It runs in their veins like venom. The way they smile while they destroy everything in their path, like it's their birthright to break things. To break people. I was family once, but never blood. Never enough.

A bitter laugh tears from my throat as I enter the grand sala, its ancient stones watching over the Mediterranean like they have for centuries.

"What's funny?" Franco's frown carries years of loyalty, checking me for signs of drugs or delirium. Like he doesn't know better. Like he hasn't seen me refuse painkillers since that sunrise found me choking on my own vomit.

"Nothing," I grunt, shoulder lifting despite the protest of torn flesh. My gaze sweeps over the men and women gathered here - my chosen family. The ones who'd die for me because they know I'd kill for them.

This castle might be decrepit as sin, but it's mine. Every crumbling stone, every shadow-filled corner tells stories of survival. The waves crash against the cliffs below like nature's own warning system, their rhythm steady as a heartbeat. Local legends whisper about Il Vampiro - some noble bastard who drained his victims dry before feeding them to the sea. They say love's loss drove him mad. More likely he learned what I did: in this world, you either tear throats or get your own ripped out.

Another laugh bubbles up, sharp as Henrik's blade, and my side screams in protest. But pain? Pain's more honest than love ever was.

Soon this fortress will be Isabella's cage. Poetic justice - the ballerina who once danced in marble halls, now trapped in stone and shadow. Let her father choke on that irony.

Warmth spreads across my shirt - not whiskey this time. Blood. Fucking Cerberus and his loyalty, probably tore my stitches with that greeting. My palm comes away red, too red, like Mother's blood on marble floors. Can't deal with this now. Not when everything's finally falling into place.

My phone vibrates against my chest like a second heartbeat. Isabella. Has to be. Her honeysuckle ghost still haunts my skin, making me want things I buried with my old face. Making me—

The room tilts sideways, reality peeling away like burnt flesh. Shadows writhe across stone walls, and suddenly I'm him - Il Vampiro with my scarred face, my hunger, my rage. Isabella's neck arches beneath my teeth, her moan cutting through centuries of darkness. Pure need wrapped in pain, like our kiss in the ring. Am I protecting her or hunting her? The line blurs like my vision, and fuck if I know anymore.

Clarity hits like a sobering punch - here I am, the Beast of Naples, getting spooked by fairy tales. Pain might be turning my brain to soup, but I won't let it steal my edge. This fire in my side? Nothing compared to the inferno that forged me. Nothing compared to what I'll do to make them pay.

Franco's voice reaches through the fog, worry roughening his Italian. But showing weakness now? That's not an option. Not when I'm so close to—

The floor rushes up to meet me, hard as truth and twice as cold. Maybe Doc did slip me something. Maybe blood loss is finally winning. Maybe...

Maybe I am the monster they whisper about. The Beast who haunts these halls, who'll make Isabella dance to a different tune. They gave me this name, carved it into my flesh with flame and betrayal.

Time she learned why.

The darkness swallows me whole, tasting like her kiss - sweet as revenge, bitter as justice.

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