Speak Of The Devil by Daniella Nobei

Secret Triplets: The Billionaire's Second Chance

Roderic Penn

I stood at my mother's open grave in the freezing rain, my heels sinking into the mud. The space beside me was empty. My husband, Hilliard Holloway, had promised to cherish me in bad times, but apparently, burying my mother didn't fit into his busy schedule. While the priest's voice droned on, a news alert lit up my phone. It was a livestream of the Metropolitan Charity Gala. There was Hilliard, looking impeccable in a custom tuxedo, with his ex-girlfriend Charla English draped over his arm. The headline read: "Holloway & English: A Power Couple Reunited?" When he finally returned to our penthouse at 2 AM, he didn't come alone-he brought Charla with him. He claimed she'd had a "medical emergency" at the gala and couldn't be left alone. I found a Tiffany diamond necklace on our coffee table meant for her birthday, and a smudge of her signature red lipstick on his collar. When I confronted him, he simply told me to stop being "hysterical" and "acting like a child." He had no idea I was seven months pregnant with his child. He thought so little of my grief that he didn't even bother to craft a convincing lie, laughing with his mistress in our home while I sat in the dark with a shattered heart and a secret life growing inside me. "He doesn't deserve us," I whispered to the darkness. I didn't scream or beg. I simply left a folder on his desk containing signed divorce papers and a forged medical report for a terminated pregnancy. I disappeared into the night, letting him believe he had successfully killed his own legacy through his neglect. Five years later, Hilliard walked into "The Vault," the city's most exclusive underground auction, looking for a broker to manage his estate. He didn't recognize me behind my Venetian mask, but he couldn't ignore the neon pink graffiti on his armored Maybach that read "DEADBEAT." He had no clue that the three brilliant triplets currently hacking his security system were the very children he thought had been erased years ago. This time, I wasn't just a wife in the way; I was the one holding all the cards.

Modern Crime Revenge

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[25 YEARS AGO]

“Spare us, please! We didn’t do anything. Quel ragazzo mente! Mente tra i denti. We didn’t do anything. Let us go, please, sir, andiamo a casa!”

[That boy lies! He lies through his teeth. Let us go!]

The woman sobbed while the bunch of men standing across the room with her lover bleeding profusely on their feet stared blankly at her. Patiently waiting to hear what they all were gathered there for, and not just another string of lies that she couldn’t stop spouting.

A little boy of about 10 years old was forced to see the poignant moment unfolding in front of him, trembling in his little worn-out sneakers and swallowing hard every time his little eyes were drawn to the bleeding man waiting to be helped. Unfortunately, no one in the room appeared to be in a hurry.

Sofia, you're wasting our time!" The man on the couch grumbled. He was the only one in the room with the authority to spit commands around. His legs were crossed, and the tip of his exorbitant shoe thrummed in the air. Patient, yet on the brink of giving up. “Sai cosa vogliamo. E più tempo impieghi, più difficile sarebbe salvare il tuo uomo. ”

[You know what we want. And the longer you take, the harder it will be to save your man.]

“But…but…how can I? I didn’t…I—”

"Cut off his limbs!" The man on the couch yelled angrily at his men. One of them stood up and pulled a machete from his back, the cruel grin curled on his villainous face only made Sofia swallow harder.

The little boy's eyes widened for the hundredth time that day. He knew the man on the couch wasn't bluffing based on what he'd witnessed since this vile interrogation began.

“NO!” Sofia shouted, shaking her head violently. Attempting to get back on her feet, but her injured leg refused to comply. "Please, please, please. I beg you. You can't do it. The boy is lying. How can you believe him? He's only a kid!" She kept weeping, but the man on the couch became increasingly annoyed and bored.

“Now!” The man on the couch barked out.

The machete flew into the air on his one word. Two of the other men grabbed the barely conscious man on the floor, his arm extended and his wrist pushed to the floor.

When the sharp blade ripped through the man's fingers and blood sprayed out, Sofia screamed horribly.

The little boy winced, tempted to shut his ears and eyes both. But the man on the couch glared, and the boy compelled himself to watch and hear every second of the ongoing torment.

The unconscious man muttered agonizingly, his body writhing in futility.

Sofia buried her face with her hands, sobbing uncontrollably as she trembled and hitched.

The man on the couch rose to his feet.

With a lazy stride, he carried himself to where Sofia lay.

With the tip of the same shoe, he had been drumming through the air not so long ago, the man lifted the chin of the woman and forced her to look up.

She couldn't do it. Instead, she kept her eyes closed, tears flowing down her cheeks.

"Do you know why your man only lost his fingers, darling Sofia?" the man questioned, his voice dangerously low.

The little boy felt the impulse to step forward, a sense of protectiveness easing through his veins. But he was only a little boy. What chance did he have against all those brawny men? Ashamed, his gaze sank to the floor, his fingers curling into fists.

Sofia sobbed softly, her entire body convulsing pitifully.

“Say something, dear Sofia. Or do you want him to lose four fingers more? Is that—”

“NO!” she choked, yanking her eyes open and slinging her arms around the man’s legs, howling for mercy. “Let him live. I..I did it. I did it. I killed Enrico and Rosa. I asked Bert to help me get rid of them. I…was blinded by rage. I got stupid and had no idea what I was doing. I plead guilty, Padrino! I plead guilty. Please. Forgive us, Padrino. Forgive him. We’ll forever be in your debt. Forever. You have my word on it."

[Godfather]

"Your word has no worth, Sofia," the guy said calmly, gazing down at her with enough intensity to make Sofia scramble backwards. "Not anymore."

The man turned around, and walked past the bleeding man on the floor. Barely sparing him a glance. Barely flinching at the gut-wrenching stench of blood and the gory sight. His footsteps echoed throughout the old and hollow room.

The man slowed down as he approached the little boy. Instead of reminding him that only guilty men refused to look the man in the eyes, he placed his hand on his head.

The boy flinched. Trembled from head to toe. Spine turned into ice.

Despite the boy's worst fears, the hand gently stroked his hair before sliding down to the back of his head and settling on his nape. Huge, frigid fingers wrapped themselves around the column of his neck.

The boy closed his eyes tightly, his arms drooping by his sides, his entire body motionless as a rock.

"Are you happy now?" The man questioned slowly and carefully, his hard gaze narrowing as he lifted the boy's face.

A little hiss escaped his firmly clinched teeth as the boy struggled to breathe.

“Your sister confessed her sins. Are you satisfied now?”

The little boy nodded quietly.

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