Chapter 123
Frand's facial muscles twitched slightly.
"I've heard people mention that organization before. It started with a priest, I think, in that small town down south that's been under Mafia control for nearly thirty years."
"The priest's son was beaten to death by those guys. They accused him of stealing protection money, but the kid just wanted to use it to buy medicine for his sister."
Frand's tone lacked its usual mockery, carrying only a cold, detached sense of narration. "The priest cried in the church for three days, then started gathering people who had family members harmed by the Mafia. Prayers and meetings slowly turned into collecting evidence and making anonymous reports."
"The priest passed away from illness a few years ago. Before he died, he handed the organization over to his adopted son, a lawyer. Word is, the guy's much tougher and smarter than the old priest."
"It's a grassroots group, looks messy, like a bunch of random folks, but they're obedient. The core members are people who truly hate us. They don't want money; they want revenge."
He looked at Vitale, "If Marco is really that adopted son, if he's working for your father's enemies or was even directly involved back then, things get complicated. He's not after justice; he's after vengeance. That kind of enemy is the hardest to deal with."
Vitale didn't respond. His eyes were glued to the monitor screen.
Downstairs, the fight in the octagon cage was reaching its final stage.
The fighter Vitale had picked was unleashing all his skills and strength on his opponent.
Frand's choice was a typical brute, incredibly strong but lacking agility. At this point, he was backed against the cage, barely holding on with raw power.
On the screen, Vitale's fighter landed a precise uppercut to the opponent's jaw, followed by a brutal knee strike to the stomach. The brute collapsed like a boneless sack, hitting the ground hard. The referee rushed over to start the countdown.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight...
The brute struggled, his eyes unfocused, but ultimately couldn't get up.
The referee grabbed the wrist of the young Aquilonia fighter and raised it high. The crowd erupted in cheers.
He won.
Vitale's choice won.
The cold light from the monitor reflected on Frand's face.
He silently watched as his fighter was carried out of the cage, his expression blank.
A few seconds later, he took a deep breath, the corner of his mouth pulling into a grim, almost pitiful smile.
"Alright, you win, Vitale. The venue is yours, and your little bird is safe."
Frand walked over to the iron table and placed his left hand flat on the surface, covered in dust and old bloodstains.
His right hand gripped the serrated short knife that had been stuck in the table earlier.
The blade glinted coldly in the dim light.
Frand's gaze turned resolute, even carrying a hint of relief.
He knew the rules. The underground world had its own code of honor, especially for bets made in front of someone like Vitale.
"Am I a coward, Vitale?" he muttered to himself, then raised the knife sharply and brought it down hard toward the base of his left pinky.
"Stop!"
Vitale kicked Frand's wrist with a swift motion!
The knife flew out of his hand, clattering against a metal shelf in the distance with a piercing sound.
Frand stumbled from the kick, pain shooting through his wrist. He stared at Vitale in disbelief, instantly furious, roaring like a wounded beast, "Vitale, what the hell are you doing? I'm not a coward! I lost! I accept it! I said I'd leave a finger, and I will! Stopping me won't change anything! This is the rule!"
He bent down to pick up the knife, but Vitale had already positioned himself between Frand and the weapon.
"I didn't say you were," Vitale's voice was eerily calm, a stark contrast to Frand's agitation.
Just as he was about to explain, something else happened.
The flimsy wooden door of the warehouse was suddenly kicked open from the outside with force.
The door slammed against the wall and bounced back, making a loud noise.
A figure stormed in aggressively. It was Jackson.
"Frand, you bastard!" Jackson charged straight at Frand, spit flying as he yelled, almost hitting Frand's face, "You lost all my money! Every last cent! On that damn fighter you swore would win! And my wife! Who gave you the right to bet on my wife? I'm telling you, only I get to touch her! Not Vitale, not anyone! I'll fight anyone who tries!"
This absurd accusation instantly turned the tense atmosphere in the warehouse into something bizarre.
Frand froze for a moment, then burst into uncontrollable laughter. He doubled over, his shoulders shaking from the force of his laughter, even aggravating a wound in his abdomen, making him grimace in pain while still laughing.
"Jackson, you idiot!" Frand wiped tears of laughter from his eyes, "Relax, Vitale wouldn't have the slightest interest in your wife. He's got a serious cleanliness obsession, you know that. He only touches one woman—Isabella. To him, every other woman is no different from a table or a chair."
Jackson's anger shifted slightly at those words. He turned to Vitale, the flesh on his face trembling, "Yeah, I know. Last time, he almost went crazy over that woman, even threatening to kill me. Scared the hell out of me."
He didn't notice the storm brewing in Vitale's eyes at all, continuing to ramble on, "Speaking of dirty work, you had me tail those rats getting buried the other day. Man, that was bad luck. I almost got hauled in by the cops for a chat. They grilled me over and over—who I was, how I knew the deceased, why I was at the cemetery. Took forever to slip away and get back here. So, how about it? No welcome-back party? At least a bottle of good booze?"
Vitale finally lost his patience and roared, "Get out, Jackson! Before I really lose it, you'd better disappear from my sight right now! Otherwise, I'll show you what real anger looks like!"
Jackson froze at the outburst, a flash of confusion and frustration crossing his face. He spread his hands, his tone dripping with exaggerated innocence and complaint, "Vitale! Didn't we clear up that misunderstanding last time? I just accidentally took a cut from your border business. I paid you back double! Why are you still so hostile toward me? We're at least sort of..."
His words cut off abruptly.
Because Vitale moved.
He didn't even bother picking up the knife on the ground. Instead, his right hand clamped around Jackson's throat while his left pulled a shorter, sharper tactical dagger from his waist. The cold tip of the blade lightly pressed against Jackson's lips.
Vitale's voice was low, almost a whisper, but far more terrifying than his earlier shout, "Jackson, if you open that filthy mouth of yours and say one more word I don't want to hear—especially about my woman—I swear, I'll personally rip your tongue out of that mouth and cut it off inch by inch."
Jackson's face turned pale instantly. He could feel the slow, tightening grip of Vitale's fingers, the suffocating pressure building.
All his bravado and complaints vanished, replaced by raw, primal fear.
"I believe you, I believe you," he gasped.
Vitale released his grip.
Jackson stumbled back a couple of steps, clutching his neck and gasping for air.
"Get lost," Vitale said, just one word.
Jackson didn't dare say another thing. He didn't even glance at Frand, quickly turning and scrambling toward the door, half-tripping in his rush.
Just before pulling the door open to escape, he turned back and flipped Frand a short, stubby middle finger.
Frand burst into laughter and returned the gesture with an exaggerated, mock-kiss salute.
The warehouse fell quiet again, leaving just the two men.
"Alright, the clown show's over," Frand said, his tone turning serious as he looked at Vitale, "Now, you'd better explain why you stopped me from cutting off my finger. Don't tell me you suddenly got soft, or are you saying you want me to do something with this finger that's still attached to my hand?"
Vitale toyed with the knife in his hand.
"That organization—Marco's hiding in it. I need to know where he is, what he's planning, and how much he's tied to what happened back then. I need someone to go in, find him, and figure it out."
The casual look on Frand's face froze, slowly turning into disbelief.
"You want me to..." His eyes widened, his voice rising with the absurdity of it, "Disguise myself and infiltrate that anti-Mafia group? Find Marco? Vitale, are you out of your mind? You're sending me to my death!"
"My face is known in plenty of places down south. Among those who hate the Mafia, there's probably someone whose leg I've broken. The second I step in, I'll be recognized, and they'll deal with me quietly, dump my body in a lime pit!"
"You won't die," Vitale replied, his tone calm to the point of being ruthless, "Marco has seen almost all the capable guys around me—Henley, Costa, even an idiot like Jackson, he might recognize them. But you've never officially worked under me. You've always operated solo or on the fringes. And more importantly..."
He turned, looking straight into Frand's shocked eyes, "On the night of Liliana's funeral, someone saw Marco there. In the woods near the cemetery, dressed in black, standing for a long time."
"My guys didn't catch him because I never imagined it could be him. I suspected my father's death, suspected plenty of enemies, but it wasn't until these recent coincidences started adding up that I put him at the top of my list."
Frand listened, the resistance on his face slowly giving way to a heavy seriousness.
He knew the death of Vitale's family was a wound that would never heal, a deep driving force behind everything he did.
"So, you want me to go undercover? Into an organization that might be led by the person who killed your family?" Frand's voice lowered, carrying a hint of uncertain probing, "No room for discussion on this?"