Chapter 43 – Gianni And Mula

Chapter 43 – Gianni And Mula

Zorak POV
“Please, Don Padrelli… I didn’t mean to.” was the first thing she said when I stepped into the room.
The air smelled like soap, wood polish, and fear. The small lamp on her nightstand flickered. Her hands twisted the hem of her apron so tight I thought it might tear.
I didn’t speak at first. I just stood there, calm, quiet, letting the silence stretch until she began to shake harder.
Then I said softly, “Close the door.”
She hesitated. Then obeyed.
The latch clicked.
I didn’t answer at first. Just looked around — small room, two beds, old fan, toys on the floor. The kind of life that didn’t belong in my world.
“What didn’t you mean to do?”
Her voice broke. “Madame… she insisted. She said it was just something for her nerves. I didn’t know it was… drugs. I swear.”
“Madame,” I repeated, calm. “You mean Nolie.”
Her throat bobbed. “Yes, sir.”
“You didn’t want to, but you did,” I finished for her. “Because Nolie asked, and you were too scared to say no.”
She nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”
I stepped closer, keeping my tone even. “Relax. I’m not here to hurt you.”
She looked up, trembling. “You’re not?”
“No. I’m here to fix things.”
I dragged the old wooden chair from the corner and sat down. “Now tell me again — what did you give her?”
Her fingers picked at the apron. “Just a small packet. The same kind the workers take sometimes when they have pain. She said she wanted it for her head. That’s all.”
I nodded slowly. “I know. I saw her take it.”
Her eyes widened. “You—you did?”
“Yes.” I smiled faintly. “I like to see what my wife does when she thinks I’m not watching.”
The woman swallowed hard.
“She thinks she’s clever,” I went on quietly. “I like her that way.”
Her gaze dropped. “I didn’t mean to get her in trouble.”
“You won’t,” I said simply. “Because no one will ever know.”
I looked around the small room — two narrow beds, a crucifix, a few toys on the floor. It smelled lived-in, human. The kind of place that made me almost forget what I was.
Almost.
“Listen,” I said, my tone even, “Nolie’s not in trouble. I’m not here to punish you. But right now, the police are sniffing around. And if you open your mouth about this—”
She gasped. “I won’t, sir! I won’t say a word.”
“I know you won’t,” I said quietly. “Because you’re going to help me fix this.”
Her eyes blinked fast. “H-how?”
“You’re going to forget Nolie was ever here. Forget the drugs. Forget everything.”
“I—I can try—”
“Not try.” I leaned forward. “Do.”
She swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”
I smiled faintly. “Good girl. Now let’s practice.”
I gestured toward her. “Repeat after me: Nolie Hartley never came here.”
Her lips trembled. “Nolie Hartley never came here.”
“She never asked you for anything.”
“She never asked me for anything.”
“She came home early today because she wasn’t feeling well.”
The woman hesitated. I raised an eyebrow.
She swallowed. “She came home early today… because she wasn’t feeling well.”
“Perfect.” I nodded. “And she hasn’t stepped outside since.”
“She hasn’t stepped outside since.”
I sat back again, satisfied. “See? Not hard.”
Then a sudden crash broke the air — a toy car, slamming into my shin.
The woman gasped and spun around. “Gianni! Mula! Dio mio, I told you—!”
Her voice broke into sharp Italian scolding. The two boys froze near the doorway, wide-eyed, one of them clutching a remote controller.
I looked down at the little motor car by my foot. Its red paint was chipped.
The woman rushed forward. “I’m sorry, sir, they didn’t mean—”
“Don’t shout at them,” I interrupted.
She froze mid-step.
I bent down, picked up the little red toy car, brushed the dust off, and turned it over in my hand. The wheel was loose. “Come here,” I said.
The older boy crept forward, eyes wide.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Mula,” he whispered.
“And yours?” I asked the smaller one hiding behind his mother’s leg.
“Gianni.”
“Gianni,” I repeated. “You drive this thing?”
He nodded, shy.
I crouched down and dusted the toy again before handing it back to them. “Here. Next time, make sure you aim away from my leg.”
The older one managed a nervous smile. “Sorry, sir.”
“It’s fine.” I smirked. “You two look like trouble anyway.”
Their mother tried to speak, but I waved her off. “They’re  strong boys.”
For a moment, the tension cracked — and something unexpected slipped through.
I remembered Cristian.
He and I used to fight over toys like that when we were small. I could still hear his laugh — loud, wild, never afraid of anything. We used to race those metal cars through the Padrelli garden until Father broke one over my hand for losing focus.
My jaw tightened. That was a long time ago.
I looked at the two boys again — the way the younger one leaned into his brother’s shoulder, hiding his grin.
It almost made me laugh.
Almost.
I straightened and handed them the toy. “Go play outside,” I said softly. “But stay away from the gates.”
“Yes, sir,”Mula said quickly, grabbing his brother’s hand before darting off down the hall wheels buzzing on the tile.. Their laughter echoed faintly.
Their mother watched them go, shoulders sagging. “They don’t understand how dangerous—”
“They’re children,” I said simply. “Keep it that way.”
The woman exhaled in relief. “They didn’t mean—”
“Don’t apologize,” I interrupted. “They reminded me of something.”
She blinked. “Of what, sir?”
“Family,” I said quietly. “What it used to feel like.”
Her brows pulled together, unsure how to respond.
But my head was already somewhere else.
For a second, I saw Nolie again — the way the water ran down her skin in the shower, her lashes wet, her breath trembling when I touched her cheek. That same mix of fear and defiance. Like she was daring the world to break her but hoping someone would catch her first.
Maybe she needed that. Maybe I did too.
Maybe I should take her to the poppy fields.
The thought came out of nowhere — those wide, open acres at the old farm, where my boys gathered words from the poppy farmers, the Three Musketeers, still watched over the land. It was quiet there. Safe. Maybe she’d like it. Maybe she’d remember what peace looked like.
I shook the thought off, pushing it back where it belonged.
Back to business.
I leaned forward again, elbows on my knees. My tone softened slightly. “What’s your name?”
“Elena,” she whispered.
“Elena,” I repeated. “Listen carefully, Elena. From now on, no one mentions Nolie. Not your husband. Not the other workers. If someone asks, she left the fight early. She came home sick. She hasn’t been out since. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
I stood, towering over her. “Good. And if anyone—anyone—asks questions, you come to me first.”
She nodded again, hands clutching her apron. “I will, sir.”
I took a small wad of cash from my jacket pocket and set it on the table. “Buy the boys new toys. Something better than that junk.”
Her eyes widened. “I can’t take this—Sir, I—”
“It’s not charity,” I said. “Consider it thanks for your silence.”
She bowed her head. “Thank you, Don Padrelli.”
I moved toward the door, then stopped halfway. “Tell your husband I want him at the main house by morning. I need someone watching the east grounds.”
“Yes, sir.”
I turned the handle, paused again, and glanced back at her. “And Elena—don’t ever raise your voice at those boys again. Not when they make mistakes. They’re just kids.”
She looked at me like she didn’t understand why I cared. Maybe I didn’t either.
When I stepped outside, the cold air hit hard. The air still smelled faintly of smoke. Somewhere far off, sirens wailed again — fading now, heading back to town.
I looked toward the mansion. The light was still on in her room.
For a moment, I saw Nolpe— standing near the window, wrapped in a towel, her damp hair sticking to her neck. The image hit me hard.
The way the water had run down her back. The way her breath had hitched when I touched her. The way she’d looked at me — not afraid, not angry, just alive.
She looked so small, like she didn’t belong in a place built from guns and blood. And yet — she was here. Mine.
That fire was still in my chest. It wasn’t lust. Not exactly. It was something worse. Something heavier. She wasn’t just a woman I’d claimed  and anyone who touched her again was signing their own death certificate.
A car door slammed behind me.
“Zorak!”
I turned. Verlin. Vanya. Dua. Finally back.
They looked tense — probably saw the cop cars leave.
Vanya spoke first. “What the hell happened? Why were there police here?”
“False alarm,” I said easily. “Someone made a stupid call about the fire at the fight. They thought Nolie was still there.”
Verlin frowned. “And she wasn’t?”
I stared at him. “She’s home, Verlin. In bed. You got a problem with that?”
He raised his hands. “No, man. Just asking.”
Dua, arms crossed, smirked. “Seems like wherever your wife goes, trouble follows.”
I turned slowly toward her. “Say that again.”
Her smirk faltered. “Relax. I didn’t mean—”
“Next time you open your mouth about my wife,” I said softly, “make sure it’s to compliment her.”
The air went silent.
Vanya cut in, changing the subject. “We heard the boy died.”
“He did,” I said flatly.
“And Nolie?”
“She’s fine.”
Verlin looked at me carefully. “You sure that’s the story we’re going with?”
I smiled coldly. “It’s not a story, Verlin. It’s the truth.”