Chapter 17: The Devil We Serve.
Not a single word was spoken after what had happened, as if nothing had actually happened, but the tension lingered in the air.
James sat calmly in the car, which soon arrived at the safe house. Without saying a word or sparing a glance at the others, he simply stepped inside.
The rest remained silent, not even speaking to each other. They parted ways without a word at least Bella and Hans did.
Ferucci and Hector, however, headed together to a bar owned by Hector. With a deep sigh, they sank into leather armchairs while soft jazz played in the background.
"What can I get you, boss?" One of the servers asked.
Hector seemed not to have heard the question, his eyes were fixed on a single point—his trembling hands.
"A double whiskey." Ferucci replied, struggling to light his cigarette. His fingers were frozen stiff from nerves.
"Bring the whole bottle..." Hector added, leaning back in his chair and raising his hands toward the light, turning them slowly, staring at them in silence.
Minutes passed until Ferucci finally broke the silence by opening the whiskey and slowly pouring it.
"Drink." He said, sliding a glass toward Hector before downing his own in one go and pouring another.
"First time experiencing something like this?" Ferucci looked into Hector's eyes.
"It was something... not of this world. It was like darkness swallowed everything. I was fucking terrified..." Hector grabbed his glass and drank it all at once. "I'm a killer. I've murdered dozens, tortured people... I've done things, and had things done to me that should've beaten the fear out of me. They tortured me. Waterboarded me in a fucking basement, tore out my fingernails, pulled my teeth—but I laughed in their faces. Not a shred of fear in me, Ferucci. Not one." He looked into his eyes, his hands still trembling. "But this... what I saw... it was something so monstrous that every fiber of my being shook. And all I could think about was... run. Run as fast as you can..."
"Hector—"
"I was afraid!" He shouted, slamming the table. The glass shattered. "I suppose to love that man with all my heart, and I was fucking scared, Ferucci! Do you understand that?"
"Fuck..." His hand trembled as he covered his face. "That man saved my life back then. He was the one who saved me... and yet, instead of loving him, instead of being grateful to stand by his side—I feared him. I wanted to run... to fucking run..."
"There's no problem with that, Hector..." Ferucci exhaled a cloud of smoke. "Everyone fears someone, isn't that right? And don't get me wrong—James has blessed us with an opportunity. A chance to make a name for ourselves, to hold power. But at what cost?" He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. "Our lives, Hector. Fear strengthens us. Fear is something you can trust—because it reminds you that you're still human."
Hector let out a bitter chuckle, rolling the empty glass between his fingers. "Still human, huh?" He shook his head. "I don't even know if that matters anymore. Not when you stand next to something... someone like him."
Ferucci took another slow drag from his cigarette, his gaze steady. "It does matter." He said.
"Because that's the only thing separating us from him." He leaned back in his chair, tapping the ash into a tray. "You felt fear, Hector? Good. That means you're still alive. It means you haven't lost yourself."
Then silence followed, but Ferucci had a question he wanted to ask long ago.
"Tell me, Hector... how did he find you? I've never heard the story."
He let out a breath, swirling the whiskey before taking a slow sip. "I wasn't always like this," he muttered. "I wasn't always a killer."
Ferucci smirked. "No one is, at the start."
Hector chuckled bitterly. "Yeah... but I wasn't even in the business of blood. I was a money man. Studied accounting, had a major in it, actually. Numbers were my thing. I moved money, cleaned it, and made it disappear when needed." He exhaled sharply. "And I was damn good at it."
Ferucci raised an eyebrow. "I somehow assumed it.."
"I handled millions—real money. Big players trusted me. But that trust?" He scoffed. "It doesn't mean shit when someone decides you're in the way."
Ferucci leaned forward. "What happened?"
"They accused me of stealing." Hector muttered, his jaw tightening. "I never stole a fucking cent. I was just dumb—too damn trusting." His fingers gripped the glass harder.
"And then they came for you."
"Dragged me into a warehouse. Beat the hell out of me. They wanted a confession, but I had nothing to confess. So they were going to kill me anyway." He let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Then James showed up."
Ferucci took another slow drag from his cigarette. "And?"
"He didn't even look at me at first. He was there for them." His eyes darkened. "I still remember their faces when they saw him. Hardened men, killers—terrified."
Ferucci tapped his fingers against the table. "And what did he do?"
"You know James' rules—don't kill or hurt childrens."
"Yeah."
"That organization I worked for ran a human trafficking line, children young ones."
"Fuck..."
"He just... stood there. Watching as they slowly shot themselves." He shook his head, his voice unsteady. "And I just sat there and watched it all happen. How? How the fuck did they all do it? Twenty fucking people—leaders of this organization—just killed themselves. One after another." His hands clenched into fists. "And he didn't even say a word."
Ferucci exhaled smoke, his expression unreadable. "And then?"
"He crouched in front of me, looked me in the eye, and said, 'Stand up. And I did. Without thinking. Without hesitation." He smirked bitterly. "From that moment on, I was his."
"So, you didn't choose him. He chose you."
Hector chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "Yeah... and that's why I'll never stand against him."
Ferucci nodded, raising his glass. "To loyalty."
Hector clinked his glass against Ferucci's, both men knowing that loyalty wasn't a choice when it came to James. It was a sentence.
"Now you, Ferucci. Tell me." His voice was quieter now, but firm. "How did he find you?"
Ferucci didn't answer right away. Instead, he took a long, slow drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke swirl in the light before finally exhaling.
"Unlike you, I wasn't some numbers guy who got set up. I was born in the gutter, raised in the dirt. My father was a drunk, my mother—" He exhaled sharply. "Let's just say she didn't stick around long."
Hector watched him, silent.
"I learned quick," Ferucci continued. "Learned how to fight, how to steal. I was running collections for some nasty fuckers. Break a few fingers, crack a few ribs—people start paying on time." He tapped the side of his glass. "But I wasn't just some street thug. I had a trade. A skill."
Hector tilted his head. "A skill?"
"I was a butcher."
"You worked in a butcher shop?"
"For a while, I learned how to cut, how to slice, how to make things... clean." His smirk darkened. "But see, there's not much difference between carving up a pig and carving up a man." He took another drag from his cigarette. "And I was damn good at both."
Hector's expression darkened, but he said nothing.
"I got close to someone powerful...Augustus Lucian."
Hector's eyes widened slightly. "El Diablo?"
Ferucci let out a dry laugh. "Yeah. El fucking Diablo" He rolled the whiskey in his glass. "I was his torture man."
Hector's fingers twitched. "No shit?"
"No shit..." Ferucci said, staring at the ice melting in his drink. "People feared him, but you know what? He wasn't the worst part." He exhaled slowly. "The worst part was that I liked it. I was good at it. My hands were steady, my cuts were precise, and I could make a man wish for death before I ever granted it to him.That's what got me noticed. That's what made people whisper my name in the dark."
Hector swallowed hard, gripping his glass tighter.
"But even Lucian had a boss..." Ferucci continued. "And when I met him... That's when I realized I had no fucking clue what I was dealing with."
Hector remained silent, waiting for him to explain.
Ferucci's jaw tensed as he swirled the whiskey in his glass, the memory still as raw as the day it happened.
"I saw it with my own eyes, Hector. Lucian was kneeling."
"The fuck are you saying?"
"I watched him kneel down and kiss James' fucking shoes...I was there, and I still don't understand what the fuck happened. That mass murderer, that monster with no morals, kissing the shoes of a young man like some goddamn disciple." He let out a bitter laugh, rubbing his head. "I thought I was having a fucking stroke. Flashbacks, hallucinations, something—because there was no fucking way Lucian would ever bow to anyone."
"And that day... I saw him for the first time, the Angel of Death. I don't mean in some metaphorical, poetic bullshit way, Hector. I mean I saw something not human. His aura was..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Terrifying. Like a real monster from the old fairy tales. Satan himself, standing there, looking at me, he was worse than what you experienced earlier.
Hector didn't move, he was shocked.
"I pissed myself." He laughed, but there was no humor in it, only disbelief, maybe even shame. "At that moment, what I felt... I can't even describe it. I thought I was tough, that I had seen the worst things a man could see, but that...that was something else."
He took another slow drag from his cigarette, then snuffed it out. His hands were steady now, but his voice wasn't.
"And you know what he said to me, Hector?"
Hector didn't answer.
Ferucci's lips barely moved as he repeated it.
"Will you be by my side?"
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
"I only nodded. Nothing more. Not a breath, not a single sound. Just a fucking nod." He downed the rest of his drink."And that was it. That was the moment. No contract, no oath, no threats." His voice dropped lower. "And just like that... I was his."
Hector sat frozen, his mind racing, his heartbeat loud in his ears.
Ferucci poured himself another drink.
"To James..." He muttered, lifting his glass. "The devil we serve."
Hector finally let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head as he rubbed his temple. "Yeah... we sure as hell ain't normal, are we?"
"Well, we did try to kill each other more times than I can count, but hey, look at us now bonding over trauma like a couple of fucking psychos."
Hector let out a low laugh, running a hand down his face. "Two fucking psychopaths finally opening up. What a goddamn miracle."
Ferucci chuckled, clinking his glass against Hector's. "Here's to not stabbing each other in the back."
Hector smirked. "For now."
They both drank, the silence between them heavier than words—because in the end, no matter what they said, they both knew the truth.
They were psychos.
And they were his.
But more importantly, they didn't know it was August Lucian's birthday the next day... and James was planning to see him.