The Mafia Prince And His Reincarnated Nemesis-Chapter 186: The Fortunate Death!

Just like Marcello promised his father, he stood there, watching him till he took his last breath. 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝘦𝘸𝑒𝒷𝓃ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝒸ℴ𝘮

The old man tried to scream, but his voice was swallowed by the thick gag in his mouth. Not that he would be heard of he screamed. They were hidden deep in the Morano estate that had been abandoned.

Tears pricked the corners of the old man’s eyes as the needle drove deeper into his flesh. Pain throbbed through his veins like wildfire.

Marcello took his time. Every movement was deliberately and controlled. He wasn’t trying to rush. He wanted the old man to feel every wave of agony, to drown in it. That’s the reason for his torture after all.

Philip groaned faintly, his eyes glassy from whatever drug they had used to sedate him. He watched, helpless, strapped to the spinning leather chair nearby. His face twisted in horror as Marcello began his work... cutting, injecting, slicing, whispering.

The building echoed with muffled cries. No one came.

Marcello didn’t flinch.

His face remained unreadable. Cold. Merciless.

"This is the price of betrayal," he whispered, dragging the blade lightly down his father’s arm, letting blood bloom in thin lines. "For every night you made me cry myself to sleep, for every scream you ignored... for Mother, for Carlo, for everything."

The old man’s eyes rolled as another wave of convulsion shook his body. His jaw clenched painfully around the gag, veins bulging in his neck. Foam gathered at the corners of his lips. His heart pounded wildly.

Thump! Thump!

It was too fast.

Marcello leaned closer and grabbed his father’s face.

"Look at me," he said. "Don’t think of dying on me now, father. We’re not even done yet,"

The old man’s pupils were shrinking. His breaths came... slow, shallow like panicked gasps. His body trembled in agony. A wet gurgle escaped his throat.

"Please Father... don’t die yet," Marcello repeated, brushing the old man’s sweat-slicked hair back mockingly. "Not until you’ve felt what you made us feel,"

But the old man was already fading.

Marcello stepped back and watched silently as his father slumped forward in the chair. His chest rose one last time... then went still.

No trembling

No muffled scream.

Just a slow, drawn-out silence as the last flicker of life left his body. Marcello didn’t look surprised. He thought his father was going to hold on till the torture was complete, but he died even before he started anything. He had only ripped his tendons, made him bleed repeatedly, and tore his hand with surgical tools like he was performing surgery without giving his father anaesthetic.

He just looked disappointed as he dropped the bloodstained blade back into the tray.

He sighed deeply.

"I don’t remember giving him permission to die," he said, clicking his tongue.

Philip saw everything. His head shook in disbelief, a whimper stuck in his throat. Tears streamed down his face. He didn’t know why he was crying but he felt the need to. He had just watched the master whom he had served for so many years tortured in front of him.

It used to be him torturing criminals with the man by his side, but now, it was like karma had caught up to him. It was his turn.

Marcello turned to him.

Philip almost forgot how to breathe as he shook his head, yelling into the piece of cloth in his mouth. He was pleading for his life, but Marcello didn’t know what he was doing.

It’s not like he wishes to know.

He walked over and placed a hand on the back of Philip’s leather chair. The butler’s muffled pleas echoed in the empty space, but Marcello’s eyes were calm. They lacked pity.

He was sure this old butler, his father, had suggested things to his father concerning his mother’s death and even Carlo. Whenever his father tortured him in the name of training, he was always there, not giving a fuck about him.

It was Marcello’s turn to not care about him.

Without a word, he pushed.

The chair rolled, wheels screeching briefly against the cracked floor. It sped toward the open edge of the third floor... and vanished.

A second later, a sickening crash echoed below.

Marcello stood there for a moment, staring into the darkness below.

"No witnesses allowed,"

Then he turned away and lit a match.

The flame flickered, casting a golden glow across his face.

With quiet steps, he moved around the building, tossing lit cloth and flammable liquid in each corner. The scent of gasoline filled the air.

It didn’t take long for the fire to catch.

Soon, the abandoned structure roared with flames, orange and red flames rising to the dark sky.

Marcello stood in the doorway, watching it burn. He remembered the familiar scene when he watched Carlo burn to ashes in that same mansion and fire.

He pressed his palms together.

"I’m sorry, Carlo. I hope this time, you’ll forgive me," he said like he was praying then just walked away.

.

.

.

By morning, the news spread like wildfire across Italy.

The Diabolo estate was in chaos.

Panic rippled through every corner of the region... through the underworld, the political elite, and the press.

"Diabolo Patriarch Found Dead in Abandoned Building!"

"Body of Longtime Butler Discovered Among Ashes!"

"Family in Mourning—Son Marcello Diabolo Devastated!"

The front gates of the estate were flooded with reporters, flashing cameras, and murmuring officials. No one knew exactly what had happened.

Only a fire was noticed by a few residents in the other estates, and the remains found inside belonged to the infamous former Don Diabolo and his butler, Philip.

Marcello stood at the front of the estate, surrounded by lawyers and relatives he wished he didn’t have to meet. He wore black. His eyes were rimmed with red, as though he hadn’t slept all night.

He answered no questions.

He gave no statements.

Only a quiet nod as the cameras zoomed in on his face, capturing every fake flicker of grief.

A tear slid down his cheek.

But it wasn’t real.

He was just tired of answering these people.

Marcello embraced the role of the grieving son with a chilling elegance. He attended the mass. He offered condolences to guests he didn’t care about. He shook hands with those who had once feared his father.

Not once did he crack.

Those guests visiting acted like they were also grieving but secretly, they were happy about his death. The devilish Diabolo is no more. They had just visited to see if the son of that same monster was going to continue in his father’s image.

But to them, he looked weak.

Marcello’s name used to be mentioned frequently in the underworld, but that was before he met Carlo and then Eduardo. His killing, torturing and bad reputation faded away with the bad image he had.

He also doesn’t have the energy to continue being like his s father. He was reckless then because he had no one to protect. But now, he has Eduardo, his wife and the families he planned to have in the future.

No one.. not the press, not the cops, not the world... could ever prove that the person standing before them was the same man who had walked away from a burning building hours ago.

Marcello didn’t need them to know.

He had already won.

Because justice, for him, wasn’t served in courtrooms or in headlines.

.

.

Hours after the Diabolos gate was slammed shut and reporters, relatives, cops and guests who had arrived with their fake sympathy had been sent away, Marcello took off the black clothes he was wearing and fetched himself a glass of wine. He downed himself with it and Nikolai, Viktor and Maria watched him in the room.

"What do we do? Everything is now over," Viktor asked in a cracked voice.

"He seems unhappy even as everything is over," Maria spoke with sadness in her voice.

"He killed his own father after discovering the old fart killed his mother. Well, you won’t be able to relate," Nikolai shook his hand.

"That’s his third bottle, aren’t we going to stop him?" Maria asked, getting worried.

Nikolai then faced her with a smile. Remembering how he was forced to talk to Marcello, he wanted a payback. He pushed Maria into the room and slammed the door close.

Maria stood there stunned. She didn’t move from the spot. She felt betrayed and Marcello turned back to look at her.

She waved his hand in defeat as she took a few steps back. Her body leaned against the door and she couldn’t move again.

"Ha! I’m sorry, I’ll take my leave..."

"You’re here..." Marcello appeared in front of her, pinning her to the door. His voice sounded so cool and low.

"Marcello..." She whispered his name but his head fell on her shoulder. She flinched as he touched her body and bit down on her lower lip.

He looked tired and sad... Of course, it wasn’t because of his father’s death. It was because he was mourning his mother’s death. Carlo’s maybe.

"Hey, listen to me, Marcello," she tried to push him away from her body, but he didn’t move.

Instead, his grip around her became even tighter.

"It’s a good thing you’re here, Eddy!" He mumbled, snuggling into her shoulder. She froze but wasn’t surprised.

She felt something wet dripping on her shoulder and accepted his hug.

"It doesn’t matter if you see me as anyone, Marcy. It’s my fault for falling stupidly in love with you and I can’t stand and watch you cry," she said and patted his back.

It was silent for some minutes after she agreed to act like Eduardo... But, she wasn’t ready to fully be Eduardo for the night.

Marcello’s fingers slipped under her shirt and found their way straight to her nipples as if they avoided her bra.

"Ngn..." She moaned and slapped her hand over her mouth.

’No wait! I shouldn’t be moaning. Fuck!’

He pinched her, squeezing hard and she couldn’t hold it anymore.

"Fuck! Not there..."

"Is it me or... You’re quite swollen here, Eddy!" His voice whispered into her ear. His warm breath made her even harder and her legs started to tremble.

"Of course, Eddy’s chests are not swollen," she almost yelled at him and then paused. "Or are they?"