Mafia Prosecutor De Luca Blood Oath

Chapter 4: A Promise Under Bandages

Pain was the only reality. The rest—the sound of the clock ticking, the sharp tang of carbolic, and the flickering neon light—were merely background distractions.

Matteo De Luca stared at the plastic tray before him. Bland white porridge, a piece of wilted papaya, and a glass of mineral water. For anyone else, this was miserable hospital fare. For Matteo, it was ammunition. Every mouthful that passed down his throat, which had inhaled the hot blast, felt like swallowing shards of glass. Yet, he didn't stop. He chewed mechanically, forcing his stiff jaw muscles to comply.

"You're eating heartily today, Mr. De Luca. That's great progress," the soft voice of a nurse named Mia broke the silence.

Mia was a young nurse on the morning shift. She always tried to smile, even though Matteo knew that beneath the medical mask, she often held her breath when she had to clean the burns on his chest and left arm.

Matteo didn't answer with words. He only gave a slight nod, a small movement that still sparked pain in his neck. He reached for the water glass with his trembling right hand.

"Nurse," Matteo called, his voice hoarse, like the friction of two rough stones. "What about... the investigation at my apartment? Did the police come asking questions again?"

Mia fell silent for a moment, her hands busy tidying antiseptic bottles on the bedside table. She avoided Matteo’s gaze. "Detective Russo came yesterday while you were still heavily sedated. He… he said the report was nearly finished."

"Nearly finished?" Matteo narrowed his eyes. "What does that mean?"

Mia sighed, looking hesitant before finally whispering softly, as if the walls of the room had ears. "I accidentally overheard him talking to the doctor in the corridor. He said the evidence pointed to a technical accident. He claimed there was a leak in the old gas installation in the building. The investigation will most likely be closed next week."

Matteo felt a surge of pure rage rise from his gut, hotter than the fire that had consumed him. A technical accident. Russo, the detective he had helped promote, was now openly selling his integrity to the Volkov Clan.

"Thank you, Mia," Matteo muttered coldly.

"You're welcome, sir. Oh yes, your physical therapy schedule starts in thirty minutes. Do you need help getting into the wheelchair?"

"No," Matteo answered firmly, his gaze hardening. "I'll walk myself."

The physical therapy session was a form of legal torture. Every time Matteo tried to stretch his left arm, the newly formed scar tissue felt like it was being pulled and torn apart. Cold sweat poured heavily, soaking the bandages wrapped around his body.

"Keep going, Mr. De Luca. Don't give in to the pain," commanded the physical therapist, a muscular man named Bruno who knew no mercy.

Matteo growled. He wasn't just fighting his physical limitations; he was training his will. Every inch of movement was a step towards revenge. In his mind, he reconstructed that night over and over again. He replayed the memory of the snake-wrapped dagger tattoo on the back of the killer’s hand. He remembered every arrogant tone in Elias Volkov's voice. He used that hatred as fuel to force his muscles to obey.

Later that afternoon, after the exhausting therapy session, Matteo stood in front of the large mirror in his isolation room bathroom. With his trembling right hand, he slowly unwrapped the bandages covering the left side of his face. The doctor forbade him from doing this alone, but Matteo needed to know. He needed to see what kind of monster had been born.

When the gauze came off, Matteo froze.

The reflection in the mirror was no longer the handsome face of Matteo De Luca, the young prosecutor who often graced the covers of legal magazines. The left side of his face was a map of destruction—thickened, reddish skin with an uneven texture resembling melted wax from his temple to his lower jaw. His left ear was also disfigured.

Matteo touched the dead skin. It felt numb, alien, and hideous.

Are you satisfied, Elias? he thought. You think you’ve erased my existence by ruining my face?

A small bitter laugh escaped his chapped lips. He didn't cry. His tears had evaporated in the explosion. Instead, he saw an opportunity. This face was the perfect disguise. No one would recognise "Prosecutor Matteo" in this frightening figure.

Midnight arrived. Saint Jude's Hospital was immersed in a chilling silence, interrupted only by the hum of life support machines and the footsteps of distant guards.

Matteo got out of bed with silent movements he had learned over weeks of fear. Wearing a loose hospital gown, he slipped out of the room. He moved like a shadow, using every dark corner of the corridor to avoid the CCTV cameras he knew had blind spots in certain areas.

His destination was the nurse station in the west wing, which was usually quieter. He was lucky; the nurse on duty was in the break room, leaving one computer terminal active.

Matteo sat in front of the screen, the light reflecting in his sharp right eye. His fingers danced over the keyboard with unnatural speed for someone recovering from severe trauma. For years, he hadn't just been a prosecutor; he was an expert in dissecting information systems to find digital evidence.

He entered the emergency access code he had stolen from the Attorney General’s database a year ago. His heart pounded as the loading bar moved slowly.

Come on… just a little more.

CLICK.

The system opened. Matteo immediately navigated to the "Closed Case Archive - De Luca Clan" section. He knew that after his father, Lorenzo De Luca, was killed, their assets were seized, but many details were missing from the official report. He searched for one name his father had whispered in confidence before his death.

Moretti.

He typed the name: Vincenzo Moretti.

Data started appearing. Moretti wasn't just an accountant; he was the keeper of The Ghost Ledger—a shadow ledger containing all the favours owed and dirty secrets of the city's rulers who had been bribed by his father. In police records, Moretti was listed as "Missing, presumed dead" after the raid on the De Luca headquarters ten years ago.

However, Matteo noticed something odd in the tax activity log recently uploaded to the civil database. There was a small catering business in Venice named "La Serenissima" paying taxes using a registration number very similar to the encryption code Moretti used to use.

Matteo narrowed his eyes. He dug deeper, hacking into internal bank communication lines in the northern region. He found routine transactions—purchases of flour, oil, and kitchen equipment—signed by a man named "Enzo Mo."

"I found you, old rat," Matteo whispered.

He didn't stop there. He started looking for connections between Elias Volkov's shell companies and his father's old assets, which were now "forcibly taken over." He saw a pattern; Volkov hadn't destroyed the De Luca empire, he had merely parasitised it.

Suddenly, footsteps were heard approaching. Matteo quickly closed all browser windows, cleared the history, and performed a forced log out. He stood up and hid behind the medicine storage cabinet just as a nurse entered the station.

Matteo held his breath, his back pressed against the cold wall. After the nurse left to check an IV in another room, Matteo returned to his room with quick steps.

Back in his bed, Matteo stared at the ceiling.

His head throbbed, and his wounds began to ache painfully again, but he felt a small victory.

He now had a purpose. He had a name. He had a location.

Vincenzo Moretti held the keys to hell. And Matteo would be the one to turn them.

"Tomorrow," Matteo murmured into the darkness. "I'll start planning my way out of this white prison."

He closed his eyes, and for the first time since the explosion, he didn't dream of fire. He dreamed of a small boat gliding quietly along the canals of Venice, carrying a death that Elias Volkov would never see coming.

On the dark hospital computer terminal screen, a small warning flashed, unnoticed by Matteo: "Remote Access Detected - Notify Security Administrator?". Elsewhere, in a dark room filled with monitor screens, a man with a snake tattoo on his left hand watched the notification appear.

A cruel sneer formed on his face. "So, The Prosecutor still wants to play?"