Chapter 1 Roxanne Piccolo

• "Please... no..." Roxanne Piccolo pleaded from the floor, her voice trembling with desperation. Her long brown hair spilled around her face like a dark curtain, shimmering with an indigo hue under the harsh lights, as she gazed up at the men circling her. Her delicate features were distorted with fear, her eyes wide with terror, pleading for mercy.
• The men who had abducted her, had mistaken her for her stepsister—the one who had shattered their mafia don’s heart years ago—and, in their mindless vengeance, they had snatched her.
• Poor Roxanne never imagined she would be forced to pay for someone else’s sins, to suffer the consequences of a family grudge she had no part in. Could she possibly escape this den of monsters?
• Struggling vainly, she cried, "You've got the wrong person!" she cried out, her voice cracking with panic. "The one you want is my stepsister, not me!" The man standing over her sneered, his lips curling in a cruel, mocking smile.
• "Shut the f*ck up, bitch! Don't think you're fooling anyone!" His voice was a guttural growl, filled with venom. He would have been handsome, perhaps, if not for the twisted ugliness of his demeanor—his face contorted with entitlement and malice. It had made her sick the first time she laid eyes on him, and now, as he loomed over her, the revulsion surged again.
• Without warning, he grabbed a fistful of her hair, yanking her roughly to her feet. Pain shot through her scalp, and she screamed, her body trembling with fear and anger. The man turned to his companions—young, eager eyes gleaming in the dimly lit room, their sick excitement palpable. He laughed, his voice dripping with mockery.
• "Come on, boys! Dante, your uncle will love this! Let's have a piece of pussy from Don Enzo Piccolo's daughter!"
• "No... you're wrong! Please, I’m not—" Roxanne’s pleas were frantic, a desperate sob catching in her throat. But before she could finish, he tore at her clothes, and another scream tore from her lips.
• But she knew, deep down, that no one would hear her. No one would come. The mansion was a cold, empty shell, just as the man who had kidnapped her had boasted. He had bragged that no one would save her, and Roxanne had no reason to doubt him now.
• She cursed herself mentally, her mind spiralling.
• Had she really been so foolish? She had followed the thug who had claimed her stepbrother, Nicolas, was summoning her. Nicolas—the devil in disguise—her greatest fear.
• She had obeyed, as always, knowing that disobeying him meant punishment—brutal, painful punishment. She had known this since she was a child, ever since she had arrived at the house as a helpless five-year-old. Her stepbrother, cruel and sadistic, had taken special pleasure in tormenting her. His smirk, his cold, calculating eyes—they haunted her nightmares.
• Now, as she thrashed beneath the men, she felt her body betray her, fear flooding her every vein. She clawed at them, her nails raking their skin, her legs kicking out in frantic desperation. A sharp slap across her face silenced her for a moment, the sting radiating through her cheek. "Grab her hands!" the man snarled, his voice laced with malice. "Tie her up, the little bitch!" He was shirtless now, his movements aggressive, and Roxanne sobbed out, begging for him to stop, pleading through the tears. But her cries fell on deaf ears.
• What Roxanne didn't know was that it was at that very moment, the heavy gate of this silent house swung open. A tall and imposing figure strode into the grand house, his anger practically radiating from him.
• It had been a bad day for Alexander Van Dyke, the Mafia warlord and undisputed criminal warlord of Thomastown.
• Earlier that evening, the Mafia Don had killed one of his trusted men, a man who had been stealing information and selling it to his hated rival Nicolas Piccolo. It had been a frustrating, exhausting kill for the mafia warlord, and now his temper was on edge.
• As he entered the silent, cavernous mansion, he swore, pulling off his soaked overcoat and tossing it to the ground. One of his silent men, standing watch, picked it up without a word. At 6 feet 11, he tended to tower over most people. That, along with his burly, muscular figure and his handsome face with piercing grey eyes, thin lips, and white golden hair made him a figure no one would forget in a hurry.
• The long, sinister-looking scar that ran along his face, on the right side, only made him more inviting to women. As he entered the grand hall, the luxurious surroundings caught his eye—an opulent house, with a sweeping staircase leading upstairs.
• This had been part of his dowry, a gesture from his father-in-law, Don Bellini, as he had arranged the marriage of his daughter, Isabella, to Van Dyke. When the old Don had made his offer, Van Dyke had been surprised, then elated. He had been blissfully ignorant.
• It was only later that he learned the truth about how he ahd been used.
• Rage contorted his face as he thought of his wife but resolutely, he pushed the thought away. He had a reputation for being a killer who was skilful with the knife; it was his favourite weapon of slaughter. Tonight, he had not stabbed the man who had cheated him over the months.
• Instead, he had made his lowest foot soldier kill the traitor, making him know how worthless the traitor was; adding insult to the last moments of the traitor’s death.
• But the betrayal weighed heavily on him.
• Van Dyke rubbed his face, the weight of his frustrations pressing on him. Rolling his neck to relieve the tension, he was about to head upstairs when he heard the scream of terror.
• "Ahhhhhh!!! No!!!" It echoed through the mansion, and Van Dyke’s gut clenched with immediate recognition. The scream was raw, filled with terror and anguish. Without hesitation, he turned on his heel, fury rising within him. Who was that?
• Desperate to escape, Roxanne had kicked out with all her might in a last ditch attempt, sending a large ornamental vase crashing to the ground with a deafening clang. Her captors froze for a moment, the sudden sound unsettling them, and in that brief second of hesitation, she saw her chance.
• She lashed out, her foot kicking another man in the chest, but she was quickly pinned down again. The young man on top of her twisted her nipple, causing her to scream in pain. He smirked, the sadistic pleasure in his eyes as he sneered at her.
• "You stupid bitch!" he spat, his voice full of disgust and rage. Roxanne sobbed uncontrollably, her body shaking with terror. She had never felt more helpless in her life. These men were going to rape her, and then who knew what would happen? Perhaps they would kill her, leaving her body to be forgotten. The fear consumed her, but somewhere deep inside, she found an ember of strength, a determination she hadn’t known she had.
• No! She would not submit. Not this time. Her struggles grew more frantic, more desperate. She bit down hard on the man’s hand when he tried to force her mouth open, feeling her teeth sink into his flesh. His angry growl was interrupted by the deafening crash of another object falling from the shelves.
• Van Dyke stormed toward the noise. His men, silent shadows in the hallway, looked to him for orders. He roared, “Who’s in the house?”
• Two of his men stepped forward, exchanging uncertain glances. The housekeeper, the elderly Zina, stood in the doorway, trembling. Her face was pale, her expression strained with fear.
• "Sir… only Master Dante… and his friends…" she whispered, her voice barely audible, but Van Dyke immediately sensed the lie. She had been here for years but there was something evasive about her today and he immediately caught on, could smell her deceit.
• His eyes narrowed, fury consuming him. From the time he had got married, he had refrained from bringing women to this mausoleum.
• And now, "My nephew by law brought a whore into MY house?" he boomed, his voice a thunderclap.
• The housekeeper flinched, her face blanching. Van Dyke’s towering form seemed to grow even larger with his anger. He was a force of nature, and nothing would stand in his way now.
• Roaring rage, he began striding upstairs, a red fury blinding him.