Blood Roses and Broken Chains - Chapter 20

Inside a half-finished construction building on the eastern side of the city—now long abandoned due to legal and financial disputes—the wind whistled through broken windows and exposed beams. Rusted scaffolding creaked with age, while dust settled thick on the concrete floor.

A man stood tall by one of the cracked windows, his broad back cloaked in shadow. The city lights below flickered like dying stars as he held a phone to his ear, voice low and clipped—gruff and businesslike, yet laced with reverence.

“Yes. It’s been confirmed.”

A pause. The wind howled through the skeletal structure.

“No later than one week.”

Another pause, longer this time.

“Yes. We’ll take him directly to you.”

Beep. The call ended with finality.

From the side wall, another man pushed off from where he’d been leaning against a concrete pillar. He exhaled a slow drag of smoke, then flicked what remained of his cigarette to the dusty floor. With a crunch of his military boot, he extinguished it.

“What’s next?” he asked, voice husky and casual.

The first man tucked his phone away, never turning from the window. “It should be done soon. The pieces are already moving.”

“And if there are complications?”

“There won’t be.” His tone carried the weight of absolute certainty. “Some cages are easier to open from the inside.”

Without waiting for more, the first man turned away from the window and walked deeper into the building, his footsteps echoing in the hollow space as he vanished into the shadows where the streetlamp’s reach could no longer follow.

The second man hesitated, taking one last look at the city sprawled below, then followed him in silence.

****

Elsewhere.

A floor below ground level, in a private room carved out beneath a lavish estate, soft classical music played in the background, barely audible over the hum of a ventilation system. The air was thick with the scent of expensive tobacco and something metallic underneath.

A ruffian-looking man in a wrinkled black suit stood in front of a large mahogany desk, shifting his weight nervously. His hands were clasped behind his back, but his tone lacked the stiffness of respect.

“Boss, what do we do with those mongrels?” he asked, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air.

Behind the desk sat Orlando von Hugh Ferarro, an older man with a commanding presence and sharp features aged like old steel—unbending and lethal. He leaned back in a leather swivel chair, slowly puffing on an expensive Cuban cigar as he flipped through a thick dossier with methodical precision.

Photos, records, and surveillance snapshots—profiles of those suspected of embezzling goods from the Nest. Cocaine crates marked under false inventory. Arms shipments reported lost. Fabricated signatures. Discrepancies in offshore transaction logs.

“They’re in the dungeon below,” the suited man continued when the silence stretched too long. “Andres keeps denying the accusation. Won’t break.”

Ferarro didn’t reply at first. He took a long drag from his cigar, studying one particular photograph—Andres at some family gathering, smiling with genuine warmth. Then he pressed the glowing tip onto the image, right on the face.

The photo sizzled. Burned. A hole widened until the face was gone, leaving only charred edges and the smell of destruction.

He exhaled slowly, smoke curling toward the ceiling.

“What do you think?” he said at last—not to the man in front of him, but to someone standing silently behind.

The man addressed didn’t flinch, didn’t even shift his weight. He’d stood there since the meeting began—rigid as marble, prim in a crisply ironed black suit that never seemed to wrinkle.

Clement Polin. His aide. Twenty years of service. No gossip, no failures, no slips.

“I found some discrepancies in Andres’ handling of trade logistics,” Clement answered evenly, his voice cultured and precise. “But nothing matching the scale or timing of what’s been reported. The pattern suggests someone with access to multiple systems and the ability to forge documentation across departments.”

He paused, pale eyes reflecting the desk lamp’s glow.

“If I had to conclude—someone falsified records, planted evidence, and used Andres as a shield. He lacks both the technical skill and organizational capacity for this level of coordination.”

Ferarro gave a low, mirthless chuckle that seemed to echo in the underground chamber.

“Isn’t this interesting, Clement… Someone actually has enough guts to start a fire in my Nest.”

His eyes flicked toward the trembling ruffian before him.

“Suarez definitely wouldn’t have done this. He’s such a coward he only pokes his head out of the shell after being wronged first.”

Ferarro leaned forward, both elbows resting on the desk, hands folded loosely. The gesture was casual, but his eyes held the promise of violence.

“In all my years running this empire, this is the first time I’ve seen real strife from the inside.“

He smiled.

It wasn’t a pleasant smile.

It was the kind of smile a predator wore when it caught the scent of prey it couldn’t afford to let escape.

“I want to know who this person is. I want them found.”

The ruffian man shivered—not from cold, but from the intensity radiating off his boss like heat from a furnace.

Ferarro’s eyes—intense reddish-brown, cold as polished garnet—seemed to gleam with malice. A terrifying light lived behind them, one that had seen blood and demanded more.

“And when we find them?”

“When we find them,” Ferarro said softly, his voice carrying the weight of decades spent perfecting the art of making enemies disappear, “we’ll have a very educational conversation about the consequences of theft.”

****

Deep in the dungeon beneath the Nest, four levels below where classical music could reach, a single cell held a solitary figure suspended in torment. His arms were cuffed with chains nailed to the concrete walls, blood dripping from countless whip marks, shirt torn to shreds and hanging in bloody tatters. His head hung low, dark hair matted with sweat and gore. The only sound was the rough rasp of his breathing, each inhale ragged and shallow.

The corridor smelled of metal and something darker that clung to the back of the throat.

Footsteps echoed through the stone passage, growing louder with every step—two sets of feet moving in perfect synchronization. The man twitched and slowly lifted his head, forcing himself to meet whatever came next.

“Thought you’d be dead by now?”

Two figures emerged from the shadows, stopping just in front of the cell bars. Both wore sharp, dark suits that seemed to absorb light. One was bulky, his presence imposing; the other was lanky, his posture cold and precise. Raven hair framed their faces, and piercing green eyes glinted in the dim fluorescent light.

Undoubtedly—the Twin Fangs of Ferarro. Elite operatives under Stevens, part of the Jaguar group, trusted only with the most dangerous missions that promised the highest reward. The most trusted and closest group to Ferarro.

“Heh,” the dangling man sneered, blood streaked across his face like war paint. “Torture? Barely a cat’s scratch.”

If Mark were there, he would have recognized the man as one of the people who had kidnapped him days ago.

“Such ego,” the bulky one—Tross—growled, stretching the X-shaped scar on his right cheek into something sinister. His grip tightened on the bars until the metal groaned. “Should I just cut off your head now? Save us all some time?”

“Let’s not, brother,” said the younger, lankier one—Ivan—his voice cold and detached as surgical steel. “Investigation is still ongoing. Boss wants answers, not corpses.”

The man in the cell—Zed—scoffed, the sound echoing off the concrete walls.

“Tsk. Did they find the other rats yet?”

“No,” Ivan replied, studying their prisoner with clinical interest. “They escaped too quickly.” His lips curled into something that might have been amusement. “Also… seems this one baited himself willingly. Interesting strategy.”

Zed’s eyes flicked toward them, challenge burning in their depths despite the pain etched across his features.

“What, you care for your comrades that much?” Tross taunted, stepping closer and gripping the bars with white knuckles. “Don’t you know the ones who stay behind die for sure? That’s how this game works.”

A manic expression twisted across Tross’s face, veins bulging along his hands and forearms as he leaned forward. The scar on his cheek seemed to pulse with his heartbeat.

“I’m just waiting to get my hands on you properly. Let’s see if you can withstand my kind of torture. I’ve got some new techniques I’ve been dying to try.”

Zed let out two rough, cough-like laughs, mocking them both. Even chained and bleeding, challenge radiated from his every movement.

“Didn’t know Ferarro raised such a perverted lapdog,” Zed countered, his voice bloodied but defiant. “What’s wrong? Can’t get your kicks unless they’re chained up first?”

Tross’s grip tightened on the bars until his knuckles went white, metal whining under the pressure. His smirk widened unnaturally, eyes gleaming like a predator savoring the hunt.

“Oh, you’ve got mouth on you. I like that. Makes breaking you so much more satisfying.”

“Brother,” Ivan warned softly, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

Tross released the bars with a frustrated hiss, but the promise of violence still radiated from him like heat.

“Just excited,” he said, stepping back but never taking his eyes off their prisoner. “Maybe we’ve extended our vacation too long. I’ve missed the feeling of having fresh blood on my hands. The anticipation.”

Ivan’s cold eyes never wavered from Zed, but his presence was a silent anchor, holding Tross’s mania just enough to avoid disaster—at least for now.

“Tell me something,” Ivan said conversationally, as if they were discussing the weather. “Who’s pulling the strings? Someone wanted Andres framed badly enough to orchestrate this entire operation. Someone with inside knowledge.”

Zed’s laugh was bitter.

“You think I’d tell you even if I knew? Brothers, you give me too much credit.”

“Everyone talks eventually,” Tross said, cracking his knuckles with deliberate slowness. “The only question is how many pieces you’ll be missing when you do.”

The cell was thick with tension. Blood and shadow mixed with the metallic scent of iron and sweat. Outside, the dungeon remained silent, but in that small cage, the air itself seemed to hum with the promise of violence yet to come.

Zed raised his head higher, meeting their gazes with defiant fire.

“Then I guess we’ll find out just how creative you can get.”

The fluorescent light flickered overhead, casting dancing shadows across the concrete walls, and in that moment, the underground prison felt like the edge of hell itself—where the living prayed for dawn and the damned waited for whatever came next.