Meet Giselle Rose Moretti, an assassin known as "the Killer" and an undefeated underworld street fighter in the name of "the Devil's Angel."
She was kidnapped at the age of five, tortured, and trained to be a bloodthirsty killing machine.
She is als...
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~𝑨𝒓𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐 𝑴𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒊~ (Third pov)
Armando Moretti stood in the shadowed corner of the room, his piercing gaze fixed on the man before him the Russian bastard who had made the unforgivable mistake of crossing him. He watched in grim satisfaction as his eldest son, Alejandro, continued to exact the painful revenge he so deserved. The sound of the man's tortured groans filled the air, each ragged breath a reminder of the wrong he had committed. His body had been reduced to a swollen, bloodied mess, his once proud features barely recognizable.
The Russian's eyes, nearly swollen shut from the blows, flickered in terror as he stumbled around the room, his steps more erratic with each passing second. His lips cracked, the last remnants of his strength fading as each scream echoed through the small chamber, a grotesque symphony of agony. He tried to speak, but only garbled noises escaped his lips his voice a strangled rasp, as if even his body had given up on him.
Armando's heart beat steadily as he watched, calculating. He wasn't done yet. Not by a long shot.
The man had taken his daughter. He had stolen her away from him, and for that, he would pay with every ounce of his miserable life. He was no better than an animal, and Armando would make sure he felt every second of his impending death.
"Fucker," Armando muttered under his breath, his anger simmering beneath the surface as he slowly approached the chair where the Russian had been bound. His gaze flicked to Alejandro, who was still working on the man with ruthless precision.
Alejandro paused at his father's gesture, stepping back with a slight nod. Armando's eyes locked onto the Russian's, who tried to focus despite the obvious pain tearing through his body. The fear was palpable good. Fear was the first step to breaking a man, and Armando knew exactly how to make that fear real.
He walked toward the table of tools, the cold steel gleaming in the low light. His hand closed around the machete, its heavy weight satisfying in his grip. As he approached, he could feel the Russian's gaze flickering nervously to the blade. A small smile tugged at the corner of Armando's lips.
With deliberate slowness, Armando dragged a chair forward and sat, locking eyes with his prey. He let the silence stretch between them, savoring the moment before speaking. "Tell me," he began, his voice a low, controlled growl, "Why did you kill her?"
The Russian's chest rose and fell with labored breaths, his eyes wide with fear, but he remained silent, unwilling to speak. Armando's smile vanished, replaced by a glint of cold fury in his eyes.
He motioned for his men to untie the Russian's hands, and without waiting, he seized the man's right hand. The blade flashed in the dim light, slicing through the air as Armando severed the first finger from the man's hand.
The scream that erupted from the Russian was high-pitched and desperate. But it wasn't enough.
Armando continued, one finger after another. The man's screams grew more frantic, his body convulsing in pain, but he still held on to silence. "Still nothing?" Armando asked, his tone mocking as he swiped the blade with brutal efficiency.
The Russian's head fell forward, exhaustion weighing on him, but his lips still didn't part.
Armando's patience thinned, and his voice dropped to a menacing growl. "WHERE IS VICTOR HIDING?"
There was a brief moment of silence, and then Armando's blade sliced through the man's ears, severing them with a quick, practiced motion. The Russian screamed louder, his agony piercing the air as he struggled against the restraints. But still, no answer.
Armando's jaw clenched as he paced behind the man, each step a calculated measure of his anger and his growing desire for the truth. The more he tormented this bastard, the more he felt the pressure building in his chest the rage of a father who had been robbed of his daughter. His thoughts spiraled as he circled the man, his mind consumed with thoughts of vengeance.
Two hours passed in this torment two hours of relentless pain and fear. The Russian had lost more than just fingers; he had lost everything. His body was slumped, his breaths shallow and uneven, but still, he said nothing of worth.
Finally, through his broken sobs, the Russian gave in. His voice was barely a whisper, but it was enough. "нeт-нет... I'll tell you... I-I have no idea where Victor is..." His breath hitched, blood bubbling from his mouth as he struggled to speak. "He managed to flee... and... and one more thing... s-she's still alive. Please... don't kill me..."
Armando froze, his heart stuttering in his chest. Alive? His mind scrambled to process the words. His daughter—his little girl—was alive?
His pulse quickened, the surge of hope almost choking him. This was what he needed to hear, but the truth sounded too impossible. After all this time? It couldn't be. It was too much. The thought that his baby girl might still be out there, after all these years of torment, made his hands tremble.
He moved toward the Russian, gripping the man's chin with brutal force, forcing him to meet his gaze. "What are you saying?" he hissed, his fury rising. "What the hell are you talking about, fuglio di puttana?" He couldn't control his rage anymore; it surged to the surface, threatening to explode.
The Russian, weakened and on the edge of death, whimpered. "I swear... I swear to God, I'm telling the truth..." His voice cracked, and he gasped for air. "She escaped two years ago... and we still haven't found her... not even Victor."
Armando's world tilted. His hands were shaking now, but he didn't stop. He needed more answers. He demanded more.
"Where is she?" he spat. "Where is my daughter?"
But the Russian had nothing more to give. He had spoken all he knew, and now he could only beg for his miserable life.
In a final, violent motion, Armando pulled his gun from its holster. Without hesitation, he put a bullet between the Russian's eyes, ending his life.
But even as the body crumpled to the floor, Armando didn't feel the satisfaction he expected. No. The only thing on his mind was his daughter. Alive.
He stood frozen for a long moment, his heart racing. There was no time to waste. The hunt was on. His daughter was out there, and he would stop at nothing to find her.
His gaze hardened with renewed purpose. She was alive. And he would make sure she came back home—no matter the cost.
