Don Vittorio Ferro was not a man to be trifled with. Even when the old mafia bosses were around, his name was one spoken with care. He wasn't well known, as the boss had wanted him to be hidden, a weapon unsheathed only when someone got too big-headed. When that happened, the boss would send him, the Bloody Palm, to resolve the matter.
It wasn't loyalty that drove him, not by choice, anyway. Long ago, as a rising soldier in the mafia, young and new to Nen, he had made the mistake of trusting the wrong person, a charismatic senior enforcer named Alfonse, whose seemingly simple promise of a share in a lucrative new business venture was, in fact, a cruel trap.
Vittorio's own Nen ability, still unrefined, had been hijacked and used against him. He was ensnared in a binding contract that chained him to the Crimson Hand Syndicate. He could not touch the boss, could not disobey his orders, could not even dream of betrayal. The chains were invisible, a weight around his soul, but they were absolutely unbreakable.
One of the few regrets he had in his life. That was the Lesson that taught him to never trust anybody ever again.
With no choice, he simply accepted his fate and dove in, fully embracing his life as the boss's most effective weapon. He didn't just perform his tasks, he perfected them, becoming an artist of violence and intimidation.
It wasn't long before he was seen as the boss's right-hand man in the Syndicate, a ghost in the shadows who got things done. Most had either forgotten or were new and didn't know he had been nothing but a slave.
But he wouldn't lie and say it was all bad. As long as he ignored that small fact of being bound to the boss, he could do whatever he wanted. Soon enough, he had started eyeing the head of the family, but he was still bound.
The constraint was a physical agony whenever he considered defiance, a searing headache that threatened to split his skull. He couldn't disobey. He couldn't kill the old man.
He couldn't even make a plan to kill the man. He had simply kept his fantasies of being in charge as just that, a fantasy, a distant, impossible dream that fueled his silent rage.
But it seemed the gods had not abandoned him at all, as the boss had gotten killed during the Phantom Troupe's massacre.
Vittorio had been in one of the Syndicate's bases when he had felt the chain around him disappear from the depths of his being. It had felt like cold water being poured on his head, a shock of absolute freedom so profound it nearly brought him to his knees.
He immediately recognized what it meant. The boss was dead. He was free. He hadn't wasted a second. He immediately declared himself the new head. Of course, not everyone was excited about that, but they came around eventually, when he had killed nearly all of them.
He had stalked the halls of the stronghold, his newfound liberation a tangible power in his movements, and systematically eliminated every single man who questioned his claim.
Years of being bound had given him skills he had to pick up when the boss wanted something done, the cunning of a spymaster, the patience of a sniper, the brutality of a butcher. He had established himself as the head quickly, and while the other families were fighting over who would become the new head of their own families, a messy, disorganized free-for-all, he had started grabbing power in Yorknew, pushing some families out of their own territories.
He moved with a speed and decisiveness born of decades of pent-up ambition. It was at that moment that the other families realized what was happening and made their choices about their leaders and decided to join in trying to grab whatever was left of Yorknew.
But it quickly became apparent that it wouldn't be possible with how things were. The Crimson Hand Syndicate had all but dominated the city, and they weren't going to stand for it. It was war.
But... war costs resources, and that was something that most families were sorely lacking in, even the Crimson Hand Syndicate. Those Phantom Thieves had stolen everything, leaving the city's criminal underworld in a state of economic collapse.
Their vaults were empty, their black market networks were in shambles, and their most valuable assets, the ones that had allowed them to operate with such impunity, were gone. Now, everyone was scrambling to gather what they could get, a pack of rabid dogs fighting over a single bone, to prepare for the eventual war that would dictate the ruler of Yorknew.
"Please, please, I'm begging you!"
The desperate pleas echoed through the opulent suite of a luxury hotel. Blood spread in a widening pool across the white carpet, a sickening crimson blossom, dripping from the trembling man on his knees. Two large bodyguards held him down, their grips like iron clamps, forcing his head low in pitiful submission. Hot, fat tears streamed down his face, carving tracks through the grime and fear.
"Mister Malcolm, please watch where you drip," Vittorio said, his voice a cool, silken counterpoint to the man's frantic sobs. He ignored the man's pleas completely as he twirled his glass of red wine, the deep color of the liquid mirroring the growing stain on the floor. His dark eyes, fixed on Malcolm, were utterly devoid of pity.
Malcolm had been one of those who had opposed his ascension to head of the family. After his defeat, Vittorio had bound him with a contract, his Nen ability, Scarlet Judgment. It was a power that made controlling people easy, but it had a significant cost and crucial loopholes. The core of his ability, a form of manipulation, was a Blood Contract. To activate it, he needed to use the blood of his target, which he would then bind to a specific task.
If the bound person successfully completed the task, the contract was nullified, and they were free, and he could only try a total of 3 times per person.
However, if they failed, for any reason, he gained control over their bodies, a control so deep it could bend their will to his own. The contract could also be broken if the target proved to be more powerful than him in Nen, a crucial and terrifying drawback.
He knew this vulnerability, and it was why he only ever used it on those he was certain were beneath his own power level. This was what had allowed this bastard to go behind his back, making deals with a rival family. He had been trying to find a way to complete a task given to him by a rival family.
Of course, he already knew that the moment Malcolm had first reached out to the other family. You see, he had long had experience with Scarlet Judgment. After all, he had been the one to design the Nen ability, so he knew his power well.
He felt the threads of his control stretch and tighten, a faint buzz in his mind, whenever a bound person acted in defiance. While he couldn't dominate someone completely with the initial contract, he could, in essence, track them and keep tabs on those bound to him. The betrayal wasn't a surprise, it was a foregone conclusion. And now… now, it was time for the rat to pay.
He waved his right hand with a slow, deliberate motion, and Malcolm's arms and legs twisted unnaturally, bones audibly cracking like brittle twigs. A wet, tearing sound filled the air.
The two men holding him let him go, stepping back to watch, their faces pale, as Malcolm collapsed into a heap, twisting in agony as the man cried out, screaming, begging.
He waved his hand again, and the man folded. His spine bent grotesquely, a series of sickening snaps. His head arched backward until it literally touched the back of his heels, a broken, impossible crescent of flesh. The howls of pain grew hoarse, breaking into wet, gurgling sobs.
Vittorio placed the wine on the table, the delicate sound of glass on wood a jarring note in the room. He brought his two hands together, forming a triangle before his face, and peered through the shape at Malcolm's contorted form. Then, with a sudden, sharp clap, his palms slammed shut.
The body collapsed, flattening in an instant. Bones, flesh, and organs compressed into a thin sheet no thicker than parchment. The paper-thin form landed with a sickening, wet slap on the blood-soaked carpet, Malcolm's contorted face still visible in horrific relief, his vacant eyes staring at the ceiling. The air was thick with the scent of copper and something else, something metallic and burnt, a smell no one in the room would ever forget.
Vittorio retrieved his wineglass, sipping calmly as if nothing had happened. "Take this trash out," he ordered, already turning toward his chambers. He paused at the door, his gaze flicking to the ruined carpet. "And get rid of that filth. I can't stand the sight of blood on my carpets." With that, he left, leaving the bodyguards alone.
"God…" one of them whispered, his voice a strained croak. He had seen countless deaths, but this... this was something else. This was a violation of the very rules of the universe.
"That was horrifying," the other said, his hands trembling. They had seen this before, a few times now, but it never got easier. If they didn't know that that could be them, that they were bound to the Don by a far looser but still deadly contract, they would have quit and left long ago. But they didn't doubt Don Vittorio would kill them before they even made it out the door.
"Let's... let's just take care of this," the first one said, moving with leaden steps to look at the paper-like Malcolm. He had to force himself to keep his lunch down as he bent down and picked up the paper man. It was like holding paper, but he could feel the cold, clammy texture of skin, the slickness of dried blood. The horrifying, twisted face was off-putting. The other guard started to roll up the carpet, his movements stiff and mechanical.
"Let's just hope we don't ever end up like this." And with that, they didn't speak again, just continued the job in silence, the lingering stench of blood and the memory of horror clinging to them like a second skin.
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