Chapter 93.

 The dungeon reeked of fear as it clung to the air like a thick fog, suffocating, inescapable. The walls, cold and damp, bore the silent screams of those who had begged for mercy and received none. The only sounds now were the slow, deliberate footsteps of Ignazio Vincenzo Thompson.  He moved like a ghost, his presence commanding, his aura lethal. A cigarette dangled from his lips, the ember glowing like the fire raging in his soul. Smoke curled in the air as he exhaled, his stormy eyes locked onto the two figures bound to chairs in the center of the room.  Anita.  Denica.  Two women who had played their part in destroying what little good was left in him.  Anita—his ex-wife, the woman who once held his name, who once swore she loved him—not like he ever cared. The same woman who had, with a single message, shattered his world and Isabella’s heart. The picture of their already-ended marriage. She had made sure Isabella saw it, twisted the knife, let her bleed.  And Denica—the tra