Page 74 of The Ruin I Chose

She asked again. “Do you think it’s him?”

I turned. Gave Marco a look.

Marcello.

Il fìgghiu di buttana.

Always playing the good boy. Always hiding behind honour like it’s a fucking shield. I should’ve buried him years ago. But he’s finally learning. Violence speaks louder than grief.

“Bella,” I said. “You’re going to Bulgaria. There’s a mole.”

She nods. “I’ll leave first thing tomorrow.”

“Good. Now let’s finish what we started.”

She downed her drink, lay herself on the table, spreading her legs like an offering. I fucked her like she owed me something. She moaned, screamed—I didn’t hear a fucking thing. Her voice was just noise beneath my plans. I was thinking about Bulgaria.

Isabella arrived in Sofia before dawn. The warehouse was the usual—reeking of dust and piss. I sent my men to dig through surveillance logs.

One name kept surfacing—Giorgio. He tracked the shipment. Then vanished. His last known contact? A man tied to Marcello. The bastard flipped—he’d sleep with the fishes soon.

Marcello didn’t retaliate often. But when he did, it was always surgical. I’d seen what he did to the man who touched his sister. I knew what he was capable of when someone crossed the line.

And Roxanne—Roxanne was the line.

Isabella had told me about her from the auction night in Rome.

Quiet. Observant. She didn’t speak much, but she saw everything. It all made sense now. This wasn’t random. It was personal.

Every hit on my empire was Marcello’s way of saying:

Back the fuck off.

But I won’t. Even if it meant burning everything. I couldn’t let him win.

Isabella was the perfect tool—seductive and vicious. But Marcello had caught on to her soon. She was nothing more than a liability—something to use, and when she broke, I’d simply let her go.

I never cared about her. Never will. I’ve had better. Smarter. Meaner. She was just convenient. Like a lighter—use it and toss it when it runs out. She’s just another body to warm my bed, and if she becomes the sword hanging over my head, I’ll throw her to the fucking wolves.

I’d already seen the storm coming. I built the shelter before the clouds even formed. Marcello wouldn’t harm me physically.

È ‘na minchia senza palle—tuttu core e niente cazzimma.

(He’s a dick without balls—all heart, no guts.)

He walks like a man, talks like a man—but deep down, he’s just a soft little cunt playing gangster. I’ve seen tougher meat in my kitchen. I knew he’d hurt what I built—on blood and bodies.

The days that followed were chaos. Interpol raided the warehouse in Sofia. They came with dogs, flashlights, and warrants.

The girls testified. The ones who were kidnapped, traded and held like cattle.

Photos were leaked. Names surfaced. But I’d made sure that my name was never heard of. Never in ink. My name remained masked. Unheard of.

A few low-level idiots were arrested. None of them mattered. Not to me. Small price to pay for my empire.

I watched it unfold from my villa in Calabria. Stone walls. No neighbours. No noise. Just sea, wind, and silence. And a view that stretched into forever.

I sat in my armchair, cigar in hand, whiskey untouched. My pulse didn’t shift. My face stayed calm. Like a man who’s already buried the bodies and was waiting for the next shovel.