Salvatore Dalla

"Did I ask you something, Amapola?" I glare in her direction, making sure my eyes throw daggers at her.
"No, sir," she replies, and while her words are respectful, her tone clearly shows her irritation.
"Good, only answer what I ask you," I warn. "I think we're done with breakfast. I’m going to change, and in fifteen minutes, we’ll head to the warehouse." I toss the napkin on the table and storm off toward my room.
I change into one of my black suits, needing to release my anger and frustration on someone. With the Russians as prisoners, I'm thankful I don't have to hunt for someone to take it out on.
As I leave my room, I find Amapola standing right outside my door.
"I need to redo your bandages," she says in a softer voice than I expected. She didn’t shout or question like she usually does. Is she upset?
"Later, Amapola. I don't have time for that now," I inform her, but she grabs my arm. I have to admit, her boldness surprises me.
"Please, Salvatore. I promised I’d do whatever it takes to make sure you recover quickly." Begrudgingly, I agree, heading back into my room. I realize it’s probably better to have the bandages redone since I’ll definitely be exerting myself, and it could prevent further bleeding.
I don’t wait for her to undo my shirt; I remove it myself. Amapola moves to the spot where she had stored the first aid kit. I sit in the armchair and wait.
We remain in silence as she cleans each of my wounds, carefully applying the items prescribed by the doctor.
"Careful," I say as she tends to the stitches on my abdomen.
"If you could manage to stay still, I might not hurt you as much," she retorts, meeting my gaze.
"Do you like Amadeu?" I ask, unable to contain the curiosity and anger I’ve been holding onto since I went upstairs.
"Yes." I can't hide my surprise at her straightforward answer. "I mean, he’s been good to me. He’s a good man. He protected me when we arrived at the casino. I didn’t expect that from him," she tries to explain.
"Don’t be fooled, girl. None of us are good," I reply, irritated.
"You are too, Salvatore. At least with me, you are. You helped me, saved me, protected me when you could," she says, looking directly into my eyes. I swallow hard, standing up as she finishes with the bandages.
"Be ready. When I get back, we’re leaving," I inform her as I reach the door.
"Where to?"
"It doesn’t matter, Amapola. Don’t question me or ask anything."
"Alright, sir. I don’t have a choice, do I?" I hear the frustration in her low tone. "I’ll be ready, after all, I have nothing to bring except my body and my resilience since I no longer have control over myself."
"I’ll be back by early afternoon," I say, slamming the door as I leave.
Before heading out, I instruct Ángela to ensure a store brings everything Amapola might need—clothes, shoes, boots, coats. As I list items, she adds more: nightgowns and lingerie. I notice her smug smile when I nod in agreement, but I don’t engage with her and leave immediately, finding everyone already waiting for me.
I sit in the back seat of the car, and Amadeu takes the wheel. My brothers, upon seeing me, get into their own vehicles. We rarely travel together in the same car. It’s a strategy in case we’re attacked, making it easier for us to fight back or escape.
"Amadeu?" I call his attention as we park in front of the warehouse.
"Sir?"
"Prepare the jet. Once we return, I’m heading to Palermo. I’ll be back on Tuesday."
"Consider it done, sir." I step out of the car, buttoning my suit as I head toward the warehouse where the Russians are being held, fully aware that by the time I leave here, I’ll feel more at ease after unleashing all the anger I’ve been carrying.
"Well, well, what do we have here?" I say as I walk in and see the two Russians tied to chairs. Their eyes widen when they see me, realizing that the devil himself has come to pay them a visit. Not a word or sound escapes their lips, but I can see the fear in their eyes, knowing what’s coming for them—and it’ll be far worse than they could ever imagine.
I see Amadeu, Rico, and Fabrizio approaching like hungry lions about to feast. "You’ve had enough fun over the weekend. These two are mine," I warn, and they step back, giving me space to deal with the men tied up. I take off my jacket and button-up shirt. I notice the two scrutinizing my wounds, but Amapola’s bandages have covered them up.

"What will you need, sir?" Matteu asks, pointing to a table full of torture instruments. I smile, watching the men begin to thrash against their chains even before I approach.
"Let the games begin," I say in Russian so they can understand, smiling as I move toward them.
I start by striking them with a metal bar, a good way to make them acclimate to the pain that’s about to come. A few bones break in the process, but it’s impossible to control my fury when I’m this enraged. Unlike other tortures, I’m not looking for any answers. I know why they came here, so the only sounds I want to hear from their mouths are screams of despair and pain—and that’s exactly what I get from each of them.
"Raise the chains a bit," I order as I drop the metal bar from my hands. Now, in addition to the pain, they’ll have to endure the weight of their bodies on their arms. As my men comply, the cries of pain and agony echo through the room. Little do they know, they’ll suffer much more before I grant them the mercy of death.
Amidst pliers, bone breakers, hammers, and sharp knives, one of them dies quickly. I grunt in frustration, realizing he has taken his last breath; I wanted more time with him. The other one lasts a bit longer. When I grow tired, I notice that in addition to the blood from the man, my own wounds begin to bleed from the physical exertion. With a shot to his temple, I finish my moment with them.
Before leaving, I order them to cut off their heads and send them to Russia. Just like my brothers disposed of the other bodies, these two will serve as a gift—and a warning, of course. Anyone who steps on my territory without my permission will never leave alive to tell the tale.