A woman in her twenties sat back in the chair, legs crossed, a glass of amber liquid swirling lazily in her hand. She took slow, unhurried sips, the sharp scent of alcohol mixing with the coppery tang of blood in the air.

On the ground before her, a man writhed in agony. His shirt was drenched in red, his breath ragged. He coughed and begged, voice breaking, “Please… let me go… I’ll never—”

Her eyes never lifted from the drink. His words were nothing but noise.

The door burst open with a jolt, and one of her men entered quickly. “Ma’am, we’ve found the clue.”

Her lips curved into a cold, dangerous smirk. She placed the glass down with deliberate care, as though savoring the last drop mattered more than his life. Rising to her feet, she picked up a long, polished knife from the table.

Her steps were slow, measured, heels clicking like the countdown of a clock. She crouched beside the bleeding man, tilting her head.

She smirks, “If anyone wishes to face the Valentinas do it from the front. Not the shadows. You took the coward’s path… I found your boss and next he will face my warth. But for now you’ll become my canvas.”

Without warning, she drove the knife into his thigh, twisting it slowly. His scream ripped through the room. She leaned in closer, whispering in his ear as he shook violently, “Louder. Let the walls hear how pathetic you are.”

Then, one by one, she slashed across his wrists—not deep enough to kill him fast, but to let the blood spill painfully slow. She watched with fascination, as if admiring a painting.

Her eyes glimmered with cruel delight as she dragged the blade along his face, finally plunging it close to his eye. “You like to spy, don’t you? Let’s make sure you never see again.” With a calculated thrust, she gouged out his eyeball, holding it up like a prize before tossing it carelessly to the ground.

The man screamed, his body convulsing, but Isha remained unfazed. She continued carving little marks into his flesh, her tone calm, like an artist critiquing her own work. When he finally collapsed into sobbing exhaustion, she stood, satisfied, wiping the blood from her blade.

The heavy door creaked open again. Kabir Valentina stepped in, his voice casual, as though this wasn’t the first time he had walked into such a scene.
“Princess, Mom is calling—” He stopped as his phone rang. Mom name flashed on the screen.

Kabir sighed and lifted it. “See? Eighth time. Eppudu manam vellakapothe, she’ll kill us.”
[If we don't go now, she'll kill us]

She gave a small nod, her face unreadable. She turned to the silent guards, who hadn’t dared to move through the entire spectacle. Her voice, sharp and deadly, cut through the room:

“If anyone dares to touch my family… you’ll see the most cruel form of Death Devil.”

And without a backward glance, she walked out with Kabir, leaving the broken man’s shrieks echoing in the suffocating silence.
Yes, that woman is none other than Isha Valentina.

************

The rain lashed against the empty road, the night heavy with silence. A lone girl walked aimlessly through the storm until her legs gave up and she sank beneath an old tree. Her clothes clung to her body, her hair plastered to her face, her eyes staring blankly into the darkness—void of life, void of hope.

Moments later, a sleek black car rolled down the road. Suddenly, it coughed and halted.

The driver got out, checked under the hood, and called the man seated inside, “Sir, the car’s troubling too much. It may take some time.”

The owner, calm and unbothered, said, “It’s alright. Take your time.” He opened his laptop, working quietly as the rain began to ease into a drizzle.

After a while, restless, he stepped out. Stretching under the damp air, his eyes scanned the surroundings—until he noticed her.

A girl, sitting beneath the tree not far away. Soaked, still, her face pale and expressionless, staring straight ahead like a lifeless statue.

Curiosity and concern pulled him closer. He lifted his umbrella and bent toward her. “Who are you? Why are you here, all alone, in the middle of the night?”

No response. Not even a blink.

Confused, he touched her shoulder gently. Still nothing. He opened his mouth to ask again, but before the words could escape, her body slumped forward into his arms.

“Hey!” he shouted in panic.

Just then, the driver called out, “Sir! The car is fixed!”

Without hesitation, he lifted her and rushed back. “Hospital. Now!” he ordered, placing her carefully in the backseat.

The car raced through the wet streets until they reached the nearest hospital. Doctors hurried her inside while he paced outside, his mind restless. Minutes later, a doctor stepped out, his expression grave.

“Sir,” the doctor said slowly, “her body is extremely weak. She has suffered not only physically… but something worse. She has been abused—terribly. From the signs, it looks like not just one man… but many.”

The words struck him like lightning. For a long moment, he couldn’t breathe. Through the window, he saw her lying unconscious, fragile, and broken.

“What… what will happen to her?” he asked hoarsely.

The doctor sighed. “She will survive. But her soul… that will take time. And she shouldn’t be left alone. She needs someone to stand by her.”

The man lowered his gaze, then straightened with resolve. “Then I’ll take responsibility. From now on, she’s not alone.”

And as he signed the papers and stepped into her room, watching her fragile figure against the white sheets, he realized something deep in his chest—this night was not a chance. It was fate.

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

The conference room buzzed with the hum of voices and the glow of a massive screen. Numbers, graphs, and strategies filled the air as the presentation unfolded.

Isha sat poised, her gaze locked on the slides, every detail filtering into her sharp mind. Her presence radiated focus and control, the kind that made people instinctively straighten in their seats.

Marco, however, wasn’t looking at the screen. His eyes had found their own subject—the woman across the table. He told himself he was only observing his potential partner in this empire-building venture, but the truth seeped in with every passing second.

This wasn’t a mere attraction. It wasn’t curiosity.
It was darker. He knew it.
The way she leaned forward, the slight crease in her brow, the calm authority in her voice when she asked a question—every detail drew him in like a thread pulling tighter and tighter around him.

He could conquer empires, crush competitors, and command boardrooms without breaking a sweat. Yet here he was, unable to wrest his eyes away from her. It wasn’t admiration. It wasn’t love.

It was obsession. A dangerous one.
And Marco Romano knew better than anyone—obsession always came with a price.

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