The air in the basement was thick with the metallic scent of blood and the damp chill of stone walls. The only light came from a single bulb that flickered weakly, casting long, menacing shadows across the room. Ivano Salvatore stood at the center, his black suit pristine despite the carnage around him. His silver cufflinks glinted faintly, a stark contrast to the dark crimson pooling at his feet.

The man before him, bound to a heavy oak chair, was barely recognizable. Bruised, bloodied, and shaking, his face was a canvas of pain and regret. Yet Ivano's ocean blue eyes, glowing faintly in the dim light, betrayed sympathy. He leaned against a sleek wooden cane—not because he needed support, but because the weight of tradition demanded he carry it.

"Antonio" Ivano began, his voice smooth and deliberate, like honey laced with venom. He rolled the name over his tongue as if savoring it. "Do you understand what you've done?"

The man whimpered, trying to form words through cracked lips. "P-please, sir—"

"Silence." Ivano's voice dropped, sharp and cold as winter's edge. "You betrayed me. You betrayed us. For what? A handful of crumbs tossed to you by some petty rivals?" The calmness in his voice, a waiting strom.

Antonio flinched as Ivano took a deliberate step forward. The sound of his polished leather shoes echoed ominously, amplifying the suffocating silence.

"It was never about the money," Ivano continued, his tone still eerily calm. "Cos Nostra has weathered centuries of storms. We've faced kings, wars, and even hunters who sought to wipe us out. Five billion dollars?" He scoffed, his lips curling into a sinister smile. "It's a trifle. But my reputation?"

He crouched down, bringing his face level with Antonio's. The light caught his angular features, casting an almost ethereal glow on his alabaster skin. "Reputation is everything. Without it, a king is just a man. And you..." He traced a finger along the side of Antonio's trembling face, his touch as cold as death itself. "...you've made me bleed in the eyes of my enemies."

Ivano stood abruptly, his movements unnaturally fluid. With a flick of his wrist, he gestured to the corner where two of his enforcers stood silently. One handed him a dagger, its ornate hilt embedded with rubies.

"This blade," Ivano mused, inspecting it, "belonged to my ancestor, Vincenzo Salvatore. It drank the blood of traitors and enemies alike. Tonight, it will taste yours."

Antonio's screams filled the basement as Ivano struck, the dagger slicing through flesh with a brutal elegance. But Ivano wasn't in a hurry. Each cut was precise, calculated—a message written in blood.

"You'll live long enough to understand your mistake." Ivano murmured, his voice almost gentle as he stepped back, his suit still immaculate. "And when you finally succumb, know it; your name will be forgotten. But don't worry! The lesson you leave behind will echo for centuries."

He turned to his enforcers, wiping the dagger clean with a silk handkerchief. "Finish him when the time comes, and ensure his remains are left where our enemies can find them."

As the enforcers stepped forward, their movements purposeful yet silent, Ivano turned away, his cane clicking against the floor. He walked toward the far corner of the basement, where a small wooden table stood. On it rested a decanter of dark red wine and a single glass.

Pouring himself a measure, Ivano took a sip, the rich, velvety liquid rolling over his tongue. It was a sharp contrast to the metallic tang in the air, a reminder of refinement in the midst of brutality. He savored the taste, his mind drifting not to the chaos before him, but to the consequences beyond this room. This was not just about Antonio; it was about sending a ripple through the waters, a reminder of what happened when the name Salvatore was defied.

A faint shuffle behind him broke his reverie. One of the enforcers, Matteo, cleared his throat. Ivano turned his head slightly, the gesture both a question and a command.

"Sir." Matteo said, his voice hesitant, "We found this from him." He held up a crumpled piece of paper, stained with blood.

Ivano took another sip before setting his glass down. "Bring it here."

Matteo crossed the room and placed the note in Ivano’s hand. The paper was damp and smudged, but the message was still legible. It wasn’t long, just a handful of words scribbled in a hurried hand:

“They promised me sanctuary. They’re coming for you."

Ivano smirked.

“They,” he murmured, almost to himself, “always think they’re untouchable.”

He turned back to Antonio, who was slumped in the chair, his breath ragged but still alive. Blood dripped from his wounds, pooling in uneven patterns on the floor. Yet, despite the agony he was in, his eyes sparked with a flicker of defiance.

“They’ll come,” Antonio rasped, his voice barely audible but edged with conviction. “You think you’re untouchable, but they’ll burn you down.”

Ivano approached, his footsteps measured, the cane tapping in rhythm. He crouched once more, his face inches from Antonio’s.

“They’ll come?” Ivano repeated, his tone one of mock consideration. “Perhaps they will. And when they do...” He leaned closer, his breath cold against Antonio’s ear. “...I’ll ensure that the first thing they see is your body, a testament to their failure.”

He straightened, adjusting his cufflinks as though the exchange were nothing more than a trivial distraction. “Matteo, Pietro!” he ordered, summoning his enforcers. “Ensure this warning is delivered precisely as I’ve instructed.”

“Yes, sir!” they replied in union, their loyalty as unshakable as the stone walls enclosing them.

Ivano retrieved his glass, raising it slightly as if toasting the carnage before him. “To tradition,” he murmured, his voice low but resonant, “and to the folly of those who believe they can escape it.”

As he ascended the narrow staircase leading out of the basement, the sound of Antonio’s pained breathing faded, replaced by the low hum of anticipation. Above ground, the night was crisp and silent, the city lights glittering like a thousand unblinking eyes.

Ivano stepped into his waiting car, the interior bathed in soft, ambient light. His driver, an older man with a stoic expression, glanced at him in the rearview mirror.

“Where to, sir?” the driver asked.

Ivano leaned back, the leather seat cool against him. He swirled the last of the wine in his glass, watching the liquid catch the light.

“To the opera.” He said smoothly. “I hear they’re performing Macbeth tonight. A fitting end to the evening, don’t you think?”

The driver nodded, the engine purring to life as the car glided into the night. Behind them, the shadows of the Salvatore legacy grew longer, stretching toward an uncertain horizon.

◍⁠✧⁠*⁠。

Dear readers,

I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter of Desolated Hearts. Please don't forget to like this chapter and follow my accounts on both Instagram and stck.me, as I will keep updating you with the story.