Mafia Prosecutor De Luca Blood Oath

Chapter 2: Reborn from Ashes

Darkness wasn’t an empty void. For Matteo De Luca, darkness was an ocean of hot asphalt slowly drowning him.

He couldn’t feel his fingers. He couldn’t feel his own breath. The only thing confirming he was still alive was the pain. A searing pain, spreading throughout his entire body, making him feel as if his soul was being flayed by a thousand tiny, burning knives.

“We’ve got one! Over here! Quick, get the stretcher!”

The voice sounded as if it were coming from the bottom of a deep well. Faintly, amidst the lingering ringing in his ears, Matteo felt a rough tug on his shoulder. His body was pulled from the smouldering pile of concrete rubble and wood. Every touch from gauze or an attendant's hand on his blistered skin triggered a fresh wave of agony that made him want to scream, but his throat could only manage a dry hiss.

“Bloody hell... look at his face,” whispered a paramedic as the flashlight beam swept over Matteo’s body. “How did he survive inside a furnace like this?”

“Less talking, morphine injection now! His blood pressure is plummeting!”

Matteo felt a cold jab in his arm, followed by a wave of numbness attempting to quell the fire in his nerves. In his blurry vision, the city’s night sky, usually beautiful, was now covered in thick black smoke. He saw flashes of blue and red lights from the fire brigade reflected in puddles of water.

The world around him felt surreal. As he was loaded into the ambulance, the doors slammed shut, severing him from the remnants of his old life, now nothing but ash.

St. Judas General Hospital smelled of death disguised by bleach and antiseptic.

The neon lights on the corridor ceiling blurred past Matteo's eyes like endless white streaks. He was rushed to the emergency operating room. There, time seemed to stop. The pulsing of the heart monitor was the only music accompanying the dance of the surgeons, trying to stitch back together what Elias Volkov had destroyed.

“Third-degree burns on his left arm, chest, and one side of his face,” a surgeon’s voice sounded heavy behind the mask. “There’s internal bleeding from blunt force trauma to the ribs. He’s lost too much blood.”

“Doctor, his heartbeat is weakening! He’s experiencing fibrillation!”

Just let go, whispered a voice in the dark corners of Matteo’s mind. Give up. It’s cold and quiet there. No fire. No Volkov. No failure.

But just as he prepared to step into that hollow peace, the image of Elias Volkov’s face appeared. A clean, arrogant, triumphant face. Elias was smiling, tossing that golden lighter once more.

No.

Matteo gripped the edge of his consciousness with bloody, imaginary fingernails. He couldn't die as a casualty. He couldn't die as "The Honest Prosecutor" who failed. If he died now, Elias won. And in this world, nothing was more bitter than allowing a monster like Elias to write the epilogue on your grave.

Wake up, Matteo. Wake up and become a bigger monster than him.

Suddenly, an electric jolt hit his chest. Once. Twice.

BEEP—BEEP—BEEP—

The monitor’s rhythm stabilised. The doctors breathed a sigh of relief, but the struggle had only just begun. For the next twelve hours, Matteo endured the torturous debridement procedure—the removal of dead tissue to prevent infection. Every second was a fresh hell.

Three days later.

Matteo awoke in a silent isolation room. His entire body was wrapped in stiff white bandages, making him look like a mummy excavated from ancient ruins. Only his eyes were open, staring blankly at a small television hanging in the corner, its volume muted.

On the television screen, he saw the ruins of his apartment. Yellow police tape wound around the scene like a mocking snake. The caption below read: "APARTMENT TRAGEDY: YOUNG PROSECUTOR MATTEO DE LUCA CRITICAL, VOLKOV CLAN DENIES INVOLVEMENT."

The camera then switched to a crowd gathered behind the police line, carrying flowers and candles. Among them, the camera caught a young woman with neatly tied dark brown hair and eyes that held profound sadness.

Isabella Rossi.

Isabella was his colleague at the prosecutor's office, the only person left who still believed in the integrity of law in this decaying city. Matteo watched Isabella wipe away tears with the back of her hand before speaking into a reporter's microphone. Though her voice was inaudible, Matteo knew what she was saying. She was demanding justice. She was demanding that the law be upheld.

Matteo closed his eyes, feeling a different kind of ache—one that didn't stem from his burns.

Poor Isabella, he thought bitterly. You still believe in the blindfolded goddess of justice. But me... I've seen what's behind that cloth. There's only a void and the laughter of the victors.

The door hissed open. An elderly doctor entered with a nurse, carrying medical charts. They didn't realise Matteo was conscious.

“What’s his condition?” asked the nurse in a low voice.

The doctor sighed, looking at the rigid body on the bed with a condescending pity. “The prognosis is poor. Even if he survives, the nerve damage in his left arm is permanent. His face... well, plastic surgery can help, but he'll never look the same again. He’ll carry these scars for life. His career as a prosecutor is over. Who will listen to legal arguments from a man who can't even hold a pen properly?”

“That's a shame. He seemed like a good man,” the nurse replied.

“Good men don't last long in this city,” the doctor mumbled, turning to leave. “Call me if he shows signs of severe depression. It’s common in burn patients like this.”

After they left, silence enveloped the room again. Matteo stared at the clean white ceiling. The doctor’s words didn't sadden him. Instead, they gave him a cold clarity.

Your career is over. You’ll never look the same again.

Matteo tried to move his right hand, which hadn't been as severely burned. With great difficulty, he touched the bandages covering his face. He felt the coarse texture of the cloth, hiding the destroyed flesh underneath.

He remembered Elias's final words before throwing the lighter: “The world doesn’t need dead honest men, Matteo. It needs powerful winners.”

Matteo had once viewed those words as an insult to everything he believed in. But now, amidst the smell of medication and the lingering burn, he realised Elias was right. Honesty was a luxury for those who already had power. For a man with nothing, honesty was just a self-made noose.

The law had failed to protect him. The law had failed to imprison Elias. If he returned as Matteo De Luca, the crippled prosecutor, he would only be an easier target to finish off. Volkov would send another killer to complete what the fire failed to do.

Matteo stared at his reflection in the dark television screen. He no longer saw a law enforcer. He saw a blank canvas, scorched clean so it could be painted anew.

The honest Matteo De Luca died in that apartment, he thought. His eyes now glinted with a terrifying intensity, a black fire far hotter than yesterday’s explosion.

If you want me to be a monster, Elias...