Chapter 2 First Encounter

Roxanne was no longer just crying. She was mewling now, a pitiful sound that echoed through the room as her body writhed in desperation, futile struggle. Her heart pounded in her chest, her only thought was to escape, to flee from the nightmare closing in around her. She caught sight of a nervous-looking young man over the shoulder of the man who was wrestling her to the ground—the same one who had ripped off her shirt with brutal haste. "Please," she begged, her voice strained, cracking as she fought to find the words. She tried to meet her assailant's eyes, trying to reach some flicker of humanity in him, anything that would make him stop. "I… I… don’t hurt me… please." "Wait, Ralph, I need to tell Van Dyke…" The young man, blonde hair slicked back in an attempt at control, only took a step forward, his voice carrying a hint of hesitation. "Shut the f*ck up, Dante!" sneered Ralph, his large hand now locking down on her slender wrists with terrifying force. His grip was like a vice. "We’ve got a cherry to pop," he howled with laughter, maniacal, as though the twisted moment was a game. Dante’s eyes flickered toward Roxanne, her body trembling beneath Ralph’s hold, but then the words spilled from him, soaked in reluctance. "Let her go, man... I just wanted to—" Before he could finish, the air shifted, thick with dread. The door to the room exploded inward, slamming against the walls with such force that Roxanne’s breath caught in her throat. Van Dyke. The man who filled the doorway with his enormous, imposing frame stood like an avatar of vengeance. The dim light barely touched his features, but Roxanne could feel the sheer weight of his presence. His silhouette was a shadow, menacing and untouchable. For a moment, Van Dyke’s eyes swept across the room, confusion in his gaze. The lights in the room were dim and belatedly he recalled how Dante had been after him for months, to get a particular set of lights installed here; sensor lights that dimmed when you gave a command. He blinked as he made out the terrified face of his nephew by law, Dante Bellini, who appeared to be shrinking, trying to blend into the ornate wooden furniture. "Please, Uncle," Dante begged, his hands trembling as he tried to shield himself. "I didn’t—" Dante wailed, throwing up his hands, trying to defend himself but it was useless. Van Dyke was beyond livid. Van Dyke’s anger surged like a tidal wave. With a growl of pure fury, he lunged, grabbing the nearest young man, throwing him aside with a force that could only be described as predatory. As the other men tried to rally, the sound of their bones breaking under Van Dyke’s wrath was drowned out by the sickening snap of glass, the groans of pain, the shouts of agony. His men were already cleaning up the mess, their training swift and brutal. With each blow, Van Dyke’s rage seemed to grow. The strength of his hands was unrelenting, his fury consuming him. Dante, bloodied and broken, tried to speak but only managed a gurgled whimper. "I wanted...," he tried, but his words were cut off as Van Dyke’s fist collided with his mouth, sending him crashing to the floor, unconscious. Van Dyke stood over him, muscles rippling under his shirt, his chest heaving with each breath. Sweat clung to his skin, the shirt torn open, exposing the chiseled torso beneath. He didn’t care about his appearance. His eyes, however, remained locked on Ralph. “You’ll pay for this,” Van Dyke growled, stalking toward him with a predator’s grace. His voice was low and dangerous, vibrating with anger. Ralph tried to back away, his eyes wide with fear, but Van Dyke was on him in a heartbeat. His fist collided with Ralph’s face, breaking his nose with a sickening crunch. Van Dyke didn’t hesitate. Another punch sent the man sprawling, crashing into the side of the room, next to the girl who had managed to cover herself with the tattered remnants of her shirt. Roxanne shrank back, her wide eyes filled with terror, instinctively trying to pull herself further away from the violence. She squealed in fear, her body shaking uncontrollably. But something in the way Van Dyke looked at her made him pause. Her face. The angle of her cheekbones. Something in her wide, doe-shaped eyes that struck a chord deep within him. His gaze flickered over her, pausing briefly on her chest, the patch of fabric she had hastily draped over herself, barely covering her modesty. No. It couldn’t be. But the heart-shaped face reminded him of…Martina? Martina Piccolo, who had led him on, and had then, betrayed him in the worst possible way? No, the hair was different, Martina had golden hair. And as for her eyes; Martina's eyes had sparkled green, full of mischief; and later, as he found out hollowly, her eyes were brimming with evil. This filthy slut had brown eyes, doe shaped and full of terror as she looked at him, wide-eyed. This girl looked a lot like her... who the f*ck was she? "Who the f*ck is this wh*re?" Van Dyke growled, his voice dark with suspicion. His heart thundered in his chest as he gripped Ralph’s hair, lifting him off the floor, ignoring the man’s pitiful pleas. Ralph’s eyes were wide with panic as he tried to explain. “You don’t know her? Isn’t she Marti...?” Before he could finish, Van Dyke slapped him hard across the face, leaving a bright red mark on his cheek. “Idiot. Shut the f*ck up!” And then, Roxanne found her voice. It came out soft, almost a whisper, trembling with the weight of her fear. “I’m not a wh*re…” Van Dyke turned sharply, his sharp glare cutting through the silence like a blade. His breath caught in his throat as her words pierced through the chaos. She cowered beneath him, her body shaking, as she spoke again, her voice small, but steady. "I’m the bastard daughter of… Don Piccolo."