Chapter 40

*Elio’s POV*

I paced the room, the tension radiating off me in waves. Moretti was tied to a chair, blood dripping from his split lip, bruises already forming across his face from Matteo's punches. But the bastard wouldn’t stop talking, wouldn’t stop taunting me about Grace. My hands itched to end him, to wrap around his throat and squeeze until the life left his body, but I held myself back.

Not yet.

I needed answers first. There was too much at stake, and as much as I wanted to make him pay for what he did to Grace, I couldn’t afford to kill him before he told me everything I needed to know. Moretti was a rat, and rats always had information.

Matteo leaned against the wall, wiping his knuckles with a cloth, waiting for my signal. He was good at this—he knew how to break men, how to make them spill their deepest secrets. But Moretti was proving difficult. The man had been through enough torture in his life to resist the usual methods.

"You think you're tough, Moretti?" Matteo asked, tossing the bloodied cloth aside. "You haven’t seen tough yet."

Moretti chuckled, spitting more blood onto the floor. "You’re wasting your time. You’ll never break me."

I stepped closer, my voice low and controlled, though every word dripped with menace. "Oh, we’ll break you, Moretti. That much is guaranteed. The question is how long it’s going to take before you start talking."

Moretti’s eyes gleamed with defiance, but there was something else there too—fear. He was trying to hide it, but I could see it in the way his hands twitched against the ropes, in the way his breathing quickened when Matteo stepped forward again.

He knew what was coming. And he knew it was going to be bad.

Matteo cracked his knuckles. "Let’s see how long you last this time."

But before Matteo could land another blow, Moretti smirked, his swollen face twisted into a sick grin. "You don’t need to do this, Elio. I know what you're thinking. You want revenge for what I did to Grace. But the truth is, she’s stronger than you think. She didn’t break. No matter what we did to her, she didn’t say a word about you."

Hearing him say her name, hearing him talk about how she was tortured, made my stomach churn. But what hit me hardest was the fact that Grace had kept her faith in me, even after everything. After the way I treated her, she still believed I would come for her. She still trusted me.

Moretti saw the flicker of emotion in my eyes and latched onto it, his grin widening despite the pain he was in. "The whole time she was locked up, she kept telling me you'd come for her. I was betting on it." He laughed, a dark, hollow sound. "And here you are. Right on schedule."

I clenched my fists, barely restraining myself from lunging at him. I glanced at Matteo and gave him a quick nod. Matteo stepped forward without hesitation and slammed his fist into Moretti’s face, cutting off his laughter. Moretti groaned, his head lolling to the side, blood dripping from his mouth.

"I told you not to mention her," I growled, my voice low and dangerous. "Grace is none of your concern anymore."

Moretti coughed, spitting out more blood, but he didn’t seem to care about the pain. He looked up at me through swollen eyes, that smug smile still plastered on his face. "Is that why you're so desperate to save her, Elio? Because you care about her? Or is it because you know she’s the only good thing left in your miserable life?"

The words cut deeper than I expected, but I didn’t let it show. I couldn’t afford to let Moretti get inside my head. This was what he wanted—to mess with me, to distract me from the task at hand. But I wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

"You’re going to tell me everything you know," I said, my voice cold as ice. "And if you don’t, Matteo will make sure you regret it."

Moretti sneered, his lips curling into a bloody grimace. "Go ahead, Elio. You think you can scare me? You think you can break me?"

Matteo didn’t wait for my signal this time. He stepped forward and landed a series of brutal punches, each one aimed to hurt. Moretti groaned, his body slumping in the chair, but he still refused to talk.

I crossed my arms, watching him carefully, trying to gauge when he would crack. There was a breaking point for everyone, even for someone like Moretti. And when he reached his, I’d be ready.

"You should’ve kept your hands off her," I said quietly, my eyes never leaving his bloodied face. "That was your biggest mistake."

Moretti chuckled through the pain, his chest heaving with each ragged breath. "Maybe. But it got your attention, didn’t it?"

Matteo stepped back, wiping his hands again, and I approached Moretti, crouching down so we were eye level. I could see the strain in his eyes now, the pain he was trying so hard to hide. He was close to breaking, but he was still holding on by sheer force of will.

"You’ve already lost, Moretti," I said, my voice low but lethal. "You just don’t know it yet."

He glared at me, his breaths shallow and uneven. "I’ll never talk."

I leaned in closer, my face inches from his. "You will. Because if you don’t, I’ll make sure your death is slow and painful. And I’ll make sure everyone you care about suffers because of your stubbornness."

Moretti’s eyes widened, and for the first time, I saw real fear in them. He knew I wasn’t bluffing. He knew I had the power to carry out every threat I made.

"Go to hell," he spat, his voice weak and trembling.

I stood up, towering over him. "I’m already there."

I motioned for Matteo to continue, and he did—this time with more force, more precision. Each punch was designed to break Moretti down, to wear away at his defenses.

And it worked.

After several minutes, Moretti’s resolve began to crumble. His breathing became more labored, his groans of pain louder. He was close. So close.

"Enough," I said, holding up a hand to stop Matteo. I crouched down in front of Moretti again, looking him dead in the eyes. "Last chance, Moretti. Tell me what I need to know, and I’ll make your death quick. Refuse, and you’ll wish for death long before it comes."

Moretti’s bloodshot eyes flicked between me and Matteo, weighing his options. His body was broken, his spirit shattered. He had nothing left.

"Alright," he rasped, his voice barely a whisper. "I’ll talk."

I leaned back, satisfied. "Good. Start talking."

And with that, Moretti began to spill everything.