Mafia Prosecutor De Luca Blood Oath

Chapter 3: Symphony of Despair

If you want me to be a monster, Elias...then I will give you a monster that you've never imagined in your worst nightmares.

He doesn't need a court to punish the Volkov Clan. He doesn't need search warrants or terrified witnesses. He needs power. Power that can bring kings to their knees. Power that knows no mercy.

He will take everything Elias possesses. His money, his influence, his throne, and eventually, his life. But he won't do it from behind a clean legal table. He will do it from the shadows, from a place where the law dares not tread.

Matteo took a deep breath, ignoring the pain in his lungs.

"Goodbye, Prosecutor De Luca," he whispered to himself, his voice now sounding like a sharp metal rasp.

A new chapter had begun. The man lying in this bed might have a broken body, but his soul had been re-forged in hellfire. He would no longer pursue justice. He would pursue dominance.

Matteo stared at his bandaged hands. Slowly, he clenched his fingers, ignoring the stinging pain as the stitches in his skin tightened.

Don De Luca had just been born.

Outside the hospital window, lightning struck, splitting the night sky, followed by a roar of thunder that seemed to welcome the birth of a new ruler who would crawl out of the darkness.

Several weeks passed in deliberate silence. Matteo intentionally shut himself off from the outside world. He refused all visits, including Isabella’s. He allowed the media to view him as a broken soul and a trauma victim who would never recover.

However, behind closed doors, he was doing more than just recovering physically. Through secret contacts he had accumulated as a prosecutor—people on the dark side who owed him favours—he began moving assets, gathering intelligence, and building a new foundation.

One evening, a man dressed casually but with a distinct military aura entered his room. His name was Marco, a former informant Matteo had once saved from a death sentence.

"Did you call for me, Prosecutor?" Marco asked, looking concerned at Matteo's face, which was still partially covered in bandages.

Matteo turned slowly. The corner of his unburned lip curled slightly, creating an unnatural sneer. "Don't call me Prosecutor anymore, Marco. That name is dead."

Marco swallowed, sensing the cold aura emanating from the man he once knew as an idealist. "Then... what should I call you?"

Matteo stared directly into Marco's eyes. His gaze was so sharp that Marco had to restrain himself from stepping back.

"Call me... Sir," Matteo said quietly. "And I have a first task for you. I want you to find out who the insider was in the prosecutor's office that gave Volkov my apartment code."

"But that's dangerous, Sir. If Volkov finds out you're still planning something—"

"They won't know," Matteo interrupted. "Because to them, I'm just a cripple waiting to die. And that is their greatest mistake."

Matteo reached for a glass of water on his bedside table, but his trembling hand made it fall and shatter into pieces on the floor. He stared at the broken glass for a moment, then without hesitation, he stepped his bare foot onto the shards.

The pain was real. Blood began to flow. But Matteo didn't flinch. This physical pain was just a reminder that he was still alive for one purpose: Vengeance.

"Tell the world," Matteo whispered, his voice trembling with controlled rage. "That hell has sent back what they tried to burn."

At the same time in a luxurious mansion, Elias Volkov was toasting with the city's power players, celebrating the "death" of his biggest enemy's career. He didn't realise that in a quiet hospital room, a much more venomous snake was shedding its old skin, preparing to slither into the heart of his power.

*

The darkness inside St. Jude's Hospital isolation ward was never truly black. It was a dense grey, pulsating in time with Matteo's unstable heartbeat, and smelling like a nauseating mix of burnt flesh and floor cleaner.

Days had passed, or perhaps weeks; Matteo was no longer sure. Time for him was merely the interval between agonising morphine doses. When the drug took hold, he floated; when it wore off, he felt as if every nerve in his body was being pulled out with hot pliers.

"You look pathetic, Matteo."

The voice was heavy, hoarse, and carried the very familiar aroma of a Toscano cigar. Matteo opened his stinging eyes. In the dimly lit corner of the room sat a man in a classic black suit with a glinting gold watch.

"Father?" Matteo whispered. His voice was barely audible behind the oxygen mask.

Lorenzo De Luca, a man whose name once shook the city streets before he finally died in a shootout ten years ago, stared at his son with a gaze that was difficult to decipher, somewhere between disappointment and pity.

"I told you, Son," Lorenzo stood, his footsteps making no sound on the linoleum floor. "The law is a fairytale written by the victors to placate the vanquished. You chose to serve that fairytale, and look where you ended up. On a hospital bed, wrapped in a premature white shroud."

"I... I wanted to do the right thing," Matteo argued in his delirium. Hot tears streamed from the corners of his eyes, stinging the burns on his cheeks.

"Right according to whom? According to your law books that are now ashes?" Lorenzo leaned closer, his hard face only inches from Matteo's. "Justice isn't found in an air-conditioned courtroom, Matteo. Justice is found on the end of a bullet and in the darkness you fear. You're a nobody in the real world, Son. You're just a shadow trying to be the sun."

The image of his father faded, replaced by Elias Volkov's shrill laugh echoing off the ceiling. Whoosh! The red flames licked at his vision once more. Matteo flinched, trying to scream, but his rigid body refused.

The room door opened. Bright light from the corridor stabbed at his eyes. A doctor entered with a nurse, speaking in low tones while checking the charts at the end of the bed.

"What's the investigation report from the police?" the nurse asked, her voice carrying a flat curiosity.

The doctor sighed, his voice sounding tired. "It was officially closed this morning. They ruled it a fatal accident caused by a gas leak that ignited the heating tank explosion. A brief investigation, no suspects. A suspicious gas incident, as they called it in the news."

"But everyone knows he was handling the Volkov case," the nurse whispered.

"Knowing and proving are two different things in this city. Now, Prosecutor De Luca is just another accident victim statistic. Such a shame. He had a bright future ahead of him."

Matteo heard everything. Every word felt like a nail being hammered into his coffin. A gas accident? They hadn't even bothered to hide the lie cleanly. Volkov had bought everyone—the police, the detectives, perhaps even the justice system he had defended with his life.

After they left, Matteo refused the food tray the nurse brought in. He allowed himself to starve, letting himself sink into a black vortex of depression. If the law was dead, why should he live? If honesty was a disease, why should he recover?

He stared at the pristine white ceiling, feeling his world had completely collapsed. The despair was so heavy he felt his bones would crush. Yet, at the lowest point of his mental destruction, his father's words echoed back to him.

'You're a nobody in the real world, Son.'

Matteo closed his eyes. A new thought emerged, cold and sharp as a scalpel. If I'm a nobody... if Matteo De Luca the prosecutor is considered dead and gone... it means I'm no longer bound by anyone's rules.

Being a nobody means anonymity. Being a nobody means freedom to attack from unexpected directions.

If I'm a nobody, then I can be anything. I can be the storm that destroys your house, Elias. I can be the poison in your wine.

A small spark appeared in his previously dim eyes. No longer idealism, but pure, unadulterated intent for vengeance. He would crawl out of this bed. Not to return to the prosecutor's office, but to build his own hell.

The doctor observing him from behind the glass window noted: Patient displays signs of catatonia or reality denial. Consider psychological counselling immediately.

The doctor was wrong. Matteo wasn't denying reality. He was creating a new one.