Chapter 3: Marcel’s Wrath

“Oh, I’m a gummy bear, Yes, I’m a gummy bear. Oh, I’m a yummy, tummy, funny, lucky gummy bear,” A young man nonchalantly sang along to the music playing out from his cellphone. He threw a piece of gummy candy into the air and caught it inside his mouth while the anguished howl of a man rang out in the hall. However, he didn’t seem to mind; instead, the sound of his pain excited him; it made his blood throb. They were obviously in some sort of basement that was poorly illuminated while a man was tied to a chair, screaming out his lungs as his torturers burnt his skin with cigarettes. An excruciating scream left the man’s mouth; he felt like dying, yet they wouldn’t let him die. Why would they? He laughed inwardly. This was Marcel he was dealing with, the heartless, ruthless, psychopathic Mafia Lord of the Luciano clan. A family that conducts itself as businessmen but in reality is a bunch of killers walking around in expensive suits and dresses. “Three times you can bite me,” Marcel continued with his singing amid the inhumane shriek from the tortured soul – a scream even capable of waking the dead from their slumber. However, the man simply swiped at his blonde lock that had fallen across his face. Marcel was breathtakingly handsome – even a blind man could see that – the same innocuous look that has sent many to their grave. Unlike the rough but attractive features of most males, he was the opposite of that, Marcel could be described as effeminate. He looked as harmless as a dove, and it was those innocent features that had made many people underestimate him, only to end up with a bullet in their forehead. Lips as red as wine, thick sexy eyelashes, and a head full of tousled blonde locks with rare grey eyes that appeared green or sometimes blue under the sunlight; Marcel was gorgeous. Hjawbonenes' angles were shaped, nor did he grow a beard to rule out his delicate look. The man learned to embrace this delicate side himself and turned it into a weapon. He was a trained seducer who could get what he wanted from women and his male counterparts effortlessly. Tall yet proportionally lean, Marcel had the body of a professional model, that if it wasn’t for his unsmiling face and fierce, piercing gaze, plus his fear-inspiring bodyguards, he would have been sought out by talent scouts already. However, that cute face was not to be trifled with. Suddenly the song ended and no other played afterward. Silence would have reigned if not for the scream of affliction from their captive. “Are we done?” Marcel asked, taking off his gold-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a high-class, sophisticated suit, which was a huge contrast against this kind of setting. However, no one was complaining—he was the boss. “No, sir, he’s still not confessing,” one of his men answered while the man continued to wail. Marcel sighed, “I can’t believe I have to do everything by myself.” He rose to his feet and snatched the report from the man’s hands, simply glancing over it. His brow furrowed as he scanned the details, frustration building within him. “This is unacceptable. We don’t have time for games.” He turned his piercing gaze back to the man, whose cries had escalated into desperate sobs. “You will talk, one way or another. I suggest you make it easy on yourself.” The room fell silent, tension thickening as everyone awaited the inevitable. With a hand in his pocket, Marcel gracefully strode over to his prisoner. His men, upon noticing his arrival, stopped their torture and made space for him. “You look good, Peter.” Marcel gave him a casual look, his words dripping with sarcasm. The man was bloody from his head to the sole of his feet. “Marcel,” Peter spoke through gritted teeth, anguish in his heart. How he wished he could rip off the man’s face right now. “Let’s have a simple conversation, Peter, shall we? I’m kind of a magnanimous man,” Marcel said, and even without gesturing to his men, his chair was brought over. Marcel sat down, crossing his leg over the other without breaking his gaze with Pe, staring fiercely at him, resentment obvious in his gaze. Seated comfortably, Marcel began, “Where are my guns, Peter?” A whole arsenal of weapons had been stolen by one of his people, and he wasn’t happy about that. Peter shot him a look of disdain, “Like I would tell you,” “Of course, you wouldn’t,” Marcel concurred, “Which is why I’m currently sitting here because my men are unable to get the job done.” “You’re just wasting your time. You can torture me all you want, but you’re not getting a thing out of my mouth. That’s a promise,” He was resolute. For a moment, Marcel didn’t say a word and simply read out from the report, “Peter Ivanov, thirty-five years old. No father, mother, grandmother, nearest relatives, and most of all, no girlfriend or wife...” Marcel lifted his face, “Which means you have nothing to lose because you’re not afraid of death, nor do you have something that can be used against you.” Peter smirked, as if saying, “I told you so.” But Marcel was not distressed; instead, a smile curved his mouth when he announced, “All except one.” Peter’s face furrowed, confused by his comment. There was a playful yet dangerous glint in Marcel’s eyes as he snapped his fingers and a woman stepped into the basement, her heels click-clacking against the floor, and in her grasp was a rare snow-white Chihuahua pressed to her chest. The once confident look vanished from Peter’s face, replaced by a trace of panic. He shifted uneasily on his seat as a cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Marcel smirked. He was right. Everyone had a weakness. He reached out to his assistant, who handed the dog over to him and took her leave. “Aww, you cute little thing,” He cooed to the dog, who didn’t protest but rather leaned into his touch. However, Peter was not deceived by that harmless gesture. Marcel was already making a statement by having his dog over here, it was pure blackmail. “They said a dog is man’s best friend, but to some, it’s family.” Marcel held his gaze, seeing through Peter’s brave front. “No, don’t touch him!” He hollered with abject terror when Marcel’s hands tightened around the dog’s neck. He struggled against the restraint, but it was bound tightly. There was no escaping this or Marcel’s wrath. Marcel loosened his grip on the dog, but his tone was taunt and his gaze dark, “Where are my guns?”