The Slave of Pleasure
Chapter 95

Rachel

My heart pounded as I watched the scene before me, a mixture of horror and disbelief taking over me.

Vincenzo stood there, facing the shooter, his eyes fixed on his opponent as if he were about to face a demon. In an almost calculated movement, he began to fold the sleeves of his shirt with a precision that disconcerted me, as if each gesture were an essential part of some kind of dark ritual.

The shooter gave me a provocative smile and unbuttoned his own shirt, letting it fall carelessly to the floor, without caring about anything other than the silent challenge that seemed to hover between him and Vincenzo. Vincenzo, on the other hand, continued to fold the shirt with an almost insane calm, handing it to one of the maids who stood nearby, as if this were just another ordinary moment. And the maid's gaze? Serene. As if she had seen this scene before, as if everyone there knew exactly what was about to happen everyone except me. "Are you all crazy?" My voice echoed through the room, louder than I intended, but I couldn't help myself. "Isn't anyone going to do anything? Isn't anyone going to call the police?" I expected someone to answer me, for some security guard or employee to reassure me and tell me that everything was under control. But everyone remained silent, their faces impassive, as if the spectacle unfolding before us was some kind of ancestral tradition. Before I could react again, Vincenzo and the shooter were already moving toward the mansion's low-lying garden. I followed them with my eyes, gripped by a mixture of terror and fascination, as if something inside me wanted to understand what was happening, even though another part of me was screaming for me to run away. When they both stood in the middle of the garden, I felt an almost palpable tension in the air, something that seemed far beyond a simple physical confrontation. It was as if those exchanges of glances and gestures carried hidden meanings, something that I could never fully understand. Vincenzo took the first step, advancing with a powerful punch, but the shooter, being more agile and smaller in stature, dodged it easily, almost as if he were dancing around him. Vincenzo's strength was brutal, but each blow he threw missed the target by centimeters. The shooter smiled, a cynical smile that seemed to mock Vincenzo's every attempt. He was fast, precise, dodging with ease, while Vincenzo, larger and slower, was an easy target. My breath caught, and I felt my heart beating with an almost painful force in my chest. "Why doesn't anyone do anything?" I thought, my voice ringing in despair in my mind. But the truth is that no one seemed remotely surprised by what was happening; it was as if they had all witnessed this kind of scene before. And that terrified me. Each punch Vincenzo threw went just wide, and the shooter returned it with terrifying precision. He hit Vincenzo with quick punches, over and over. His blows were calculated, ferocious, and each one left increasingly visible marks on Vincenzo's face, who kept pushing forward with brute force, almost as if he didn't care about being hit. And maybe that was what really drove him-a kind of rage that bordered on self-destruction. The shooter, sensing the advantage, laughed. "Is that all you've got, Vincenzo? The great and feared Vincenzo Morette? I thought you were better than that." Vincenzo didn't respond, but his gaze narrowed. Something in him had changed, and I could tell he was about to try something different. Then, suddenly, he opened up a space, deliberately letting his guard down. It was only for a second, but it was enough for the shooter to step forward and land a punch straight at his face, a blow that made Vincenzo's body tilt to the side with the impact. But Vincenzo was prepared. Before the shooter could retreat, Vincenzo seized the opportunity and threw a powerful blow to the side of his torso. The sound was horrible, a dull, deep thud, and the effect was instantaneous. The shooter staggered back, his face contorted in pain, and within seconds he was on his knees, hands on his stomach, as a line of blood began to trickle from the corner of his mouth. I felt a wave of nausea wash over me as I saw the blood stain the floor. The silence that followed was even more terrifying. I wanted to scream, to beg for it to stop, but the words died in my throat. Vincenzo stood before the shooter, his gaze cold and calculating, as if this was nothing new to him, as if he had done this a hundred times before. Every person there seemed frozen, as if this were a meticulously rehearsed choreography, a bizarre spectacle of which I was the only terrified spectator. My body trembled, and all I could do was stare at Vincenzo, all trying to understand who this man was that I thought I knew. I didn't know what to think, what to feel, but one thing was certain: this Vincenzo I was seeing was a stranger. He took a step back, watching the shooter with an expression of contempt. "Who sent you?" Vincenzo's voice was low, but there was a deadly weight in it, a dark promise that he wouldn't hesitate to go all the way. The shooter, still panting and trying to compose himself, slowly raised his face, a defiant glint still present in his eyes. "You know who sent me,” he murmured, his voice full of provocation, as if he knew that even in that position, he still had some kind of control over the situation. "And you also know that this doesn't end here. None of this ends until we all end up six feet under." I wanted it to end, for someone to finally take action to put an end to this madness. But at the same time, I felt that if anyone tried to intervene, it would only make Vincenzo even more ruthless. The air around me seemed electrified, as if every person there was waiting for the exact moment when everything would fall apart. From where I was, I felt an almost physical pain as I looked at Vincenzo and saw what he was willing to do, what he had already done. I didn't know if I had the strength to stay there, watching what he became when he was pushed to his limits. This was a man who could do anything, but he was also a man marked by the past, by the shadows and secrets he carried, and I didn't know if I could deal with the implications of that. The next moment, Vincenzo took a step back, his gaze still fixed on the shooter, who remained kneeling, blood slowly running down his chin, mixing with the green grass and flowers of the garden around him.