Chapter 187

Chapter 187

"Elena!" Sophia suddenly thrashed violently against her chains, the metal rattling as her disfigured face contorted to its limit. Her voice was shrill, like nails scraping across glass. "You bitch! What gives you the right to stand there! Why do you keep destroying me!"

She shrieked hysterically, her eyes brimming with venom and madness. "I already drank that wine for you! I was tortured half to death by that psycho Michael! I've already suffered this much—why can't you just leave me alone!"

I stared at her coldly, not even bothering to respond.

There's no point arguing with a dead woman.

But while I didn't move, my mother did.

She released my arm and strode forward in her heels, step by measured step, until she stood directly in front of Sophia.

She was still wearing that elegant evening gown, her hair pinned in a flawless updo. But the killing intent radiating from her now was more terrifying than any mobster's.

Without a word, she raised her hand and delivered a vicious slap across Sophia's festering face.

The sharp crack echoed through the basement.

Sophia screamed, her head snapping to the side. The wound split open, spraying pus-streaked blood across the cold stone floor.

"What gives you the right to speak her name?" My mother's voice was ice-cold, laced with the absolute authority of someone born to rule. "When my daughter was suffering in the slums, you treated her like a dog. You locked her in a basement and tortured her. You forced her to drink that drugged wine in your place. I've looked into everything."

She took a white handkerchief from a nearby guard and wiped her hand with deliberate care, as though she'd just touched something filthy.

"You ask why I won't let you go?" She tossed the handkerchief onto Sophia's face, her tone dripping with cruelty. "Because you laid hands on the heir of the Colonna family. Over the next few days, I'll have someone flay you alive—one strip of skin at a time—and soak you in concentrated saline. I'll keep you alive with the best medical care, so you feel every inch of flesh being carved away. You'll live to eighty, begging for death every single day, but never receiving it."

As my mother's words sank in, the madness in Sophia's eyes was replaced by sheer, primal terror.

She began trembling uncontrollably, whimpering in despair, unable to form a single coherent word.

Nearby, Mario witnessed the entire exchange from his cross.

He was paralyzed with fear.

This man—once a king of New York's underworld—now looked like a beaten dog.

He turned to me, his clouded eyes blazing with desperation. He knew the Colonna family wouldn't spare him. I was his only chance.

"Elena!" Mario dragged his shattered leg toward me, his voice hoarse as he tried to play the sympathy card. "You can't do this to me! I pulled you out of that trash heap in the slums! If it wasn't for me, you'd have starved to death!"

He gasped for breath, trying to weaponize his past false kindness.

"I fed you. I taught you how to shoot. I even gave you my name! I raised you for years—even if there's no credit, there's effort! You can't be this ungrateful! Tell them to let me go!"

Hearing his shameless speech, I couldn't help but laugh coldly.

Vincent pulled over an iron interrogation chair, wiped the seat with his sleeve, and gestured for me to sit.

I leaned back, looking down at Mario from above.

"Gratitude?" I rolled the word around in my mouth, my gaze utterly indifferent. "Mario, are you getting senile? You didn't pick me up out of kindness—you saw a feral kid with a killer instinct and wanted to sharpen me into a blade."

I paused, my eyes boring into his. "Did you really think I stayed with the Rossi family, did your dirty work, cleaned up your messes, because I was grateful?"

Mario froze. The ominous dread in his gut deepened.

"I stayed by your side for one reason only." I leaned forward slightly, my voice devoid of emotion. "To investigate my foster father's death."

Mario's pupils contracted sharply.

"He died on your turf. At the docks controlled by the Rossi family." I stared him down. "Don't tell me you didn't know. You claimed publicly that he was killed by a stray bullet in a gang shootout. But I examined his body. That bullet was fired point-blank into the back of his skull. It was an execution."

I watched his face drain of color. "Who killed him? You'd better tell me now. Otherwise, I promise you'll suffer twice what my mother just described."

The terror of imminent death shattered Mario's last psychological defenses.

When faced with survival, a selfish man like him had no principles left.

He sold out his accomplice without hesitation.

"It wasn't me! I swear it wasn't me!" Mario shook his head violently, aggravating his wounds until he hissed in pain—but he didn't stop. "It was Lydia! Lydia pulled the trigger!"

Hearing that name, my brow furrowed sharply.

"Why?" I demanded coldly.

Mario swallowed a mouthful of bloody saliva, his face twisted as he spilled the ugly truth.

"Because he saw something he shouldn't have!" Mario panted heavily. "That night, he was patrolling the docks and stumbled onto me and Lydia… inside a shipping container…"

His voice trailed off, thick with humiliation.

I froze for a second, then understood.

"Lydia couldn't let that scandal get out." Mario threw all the blame onto her in his desperation to survive. "She shot him on the spot! I was forced into it, Elena—I couldn't stop her!"

My father stood nearby, his expression cold and merciless. He didn't ask a single question. He simply raised his hand.

A guard immediately turned and opened another iron door in the corner of the interrogation chamber.

Accompanied by the harsh scrape of chains, a bloodied woman was dragged out by two guards like a carcass and thrown onto the cold stone floor.

It was Lydia.

The Colonna intelligence network had already hunted down everyone involved in that night. Not a single one had escaped.

Lydia trembled all over. When she lifted her head and saw me, her eyes flooded with terror.

She opened her mouth to beg, but only a broken rasp escaped her throat.

I didn't waste a word.

I turned and smoothly drew the Browning from Vincent's waistband.

I chambered a round. Flicked off the safety.

In my heels, I walked step by step until I stood directly over Lydia.

I pressed the barrel between her eyes.

"Go to hell and beg his forgiveness." My voice was ice. Emotionless.

A single gunshot rang out through the cavernous basement.