Twisted Obsession

29 - Unforgiven

Athena Luciana Bianchi

Five Years Ago

I was meticulously going over the final documents detailing some sensitive smuggling operations when a sudden knock shattered the silence. "Come in," I called, my voice steady despite the rising tension. Marcus pushed open the door, his hands smeared with blood, his face a portrait of raw terror.

"I'm sorry, boss. I'm so sorry I didn't come to you sooner, but he's fucking crazy. He's fucking mad," Marcus stammered, his voice trembling and barely audible.

Alarm surged through me as I stood up, my expression a mask of deep concern. "Marcus, what happened?" I demanded, my tone edged with worry.

"Lorenzo," he blurted out, his eyes wide with panic. "That bastard is out of his mind! He manipulated me, and I fell for it, boss. He killed my family to cover his tracks. You can't let him get away with this." With desperate urgency, he shoved an envelope into my hands. "Please, you have to expose him before he hurts you. Please." Before I could react, his hand reached into his jacket, and with a sudden, horrifying finality, he pulled out a gun and shot himself in the head. The deafening blast filled the room, and I gasped as warm blood splattered across my face.

I sank to my knees beside his lifeless body, tears streaming uncontrollably down my cheeks. "Oh, god, Marcus," I whispered through my sobs, grief and shock overwhelming me.

With trembling hands, I made my way to my desk and tore open the envelope. Inside, I found a trove of incriminating evidence-documents, photographs of Lorenzo, and a USB drive. My hands shook as I plugged the drive into my laptop, my dread mounting with every passing second. The video that emerged made my blood run cold.

I watched the screen flicker to life, and the sound of the narrator's voice cut through the tension like a knife. "Boss, Luciana's father, Eliseo Bianchi," the voice intoned, and my heart sank as the video began to play.

The image that materialized was almost too horrific to bear. There, on the screen, was my father, Eliseo Bianchi, bound and beaten. His face, once a stern and imposing figure, was now a grotesque mask of pain and helplessness. His eyes, once fierce and unyielding, were now hollow and pleading. The sight was so visceral it almost felt like a physical assault.

Bitterness surged through me like a torrent. I had always harbored a deep-seated resentment towards my father. His cruelty was a dark shadow that loomed over my entire childhood. His disdain for me was palpable from the moment I was born-a girl, a disappointment in his eyes. He had always made it clear that girls were too weak to handle the business world. This belief wasn't just spoken; it was ingrained in me through relentless training and punishment. From a young age, I had been subjected to grueling sessions that pushed me to my limits, all in an effort to mold me into something I was never meant to be.

When I failed to meet his expectations, his punishments were severe. I had been confined in padded rooms, strapped into a straightjacket, and isolated as though I were a burden to be contained rather than a child to be nurtured. The psychological scars from those days were deep, but seeing my father now, so utterly diminished, was both a vindication and a fresh wound. It was supposed to be Lorenzo's way of striking the final blow to my father's legacy, and it cut deeper than anything I had endured before.

The voice on the recording shifted, its tone dripping with cold detachment. Lorenzo's command echoed through the room with chilling clarity. "Kill him, Octavio. Make his death painful. After all, he treated your sister like shit." Lorenzo's voice was devoid of any trace of emotion, his words sharp and calculated.

I recoiled from the screen, my heart pounding in my chest. The realization of Lorenzo's betrayal was almost too much to bear. The man who I thought was the love of my life had used my step-brother as a tool to exact his revenge, exploiting my father's death for his own gain. Lorenzo's manipulation went beyond professional rivalry; it was a deeply personal vendetta, twisting the knife of my past wounds and driving it deeper.