The Mafia Prince And His Reincarnated Nemesis-Chapter 185: Dark Night!

IN ITALY...

The night was quiet and dark.

The Diabolo estate stood tall in the darkness, surrounded by mist and heavy silence as usual. Guards patrolled lazily outside, unaware of the intruders slipping through the security like ghosts.

Inside, the old man Diabolo had already retired to his bedroom. He fetched a glass of water from the nightstand, gulping it all down in one go. He sighed deeply, bones aching, eyes heavy from exhaustion.

What he didn’t know was that the water had been drugged.

Minutes passed.

He sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing his temple, but his body slowly caved in. His vision blurred. Muscles slackened.

Instinct kicked in immediately... he knew he had been drugged. He tried to stand and his hand ached more.

"Philip!" He yelled. He tried to call the name again and... without a sound, he slumped back onto the mattress, unconscious.

At that exact moment, the side door of the mansion creaked open.

A familiar figure stepped inside.

Marcello.

He wore black, his coat fluttering slightly as he moved through the hallway. Two more figures followed closely behind. One was Viktor, limping but steady. The other was Nikolai.

"Ground floor’s clear," Nikolai whispered, eyes scanning the corridor.

Marcello nodded once.

"Everyone’s in position. Remember, no mistakes tonight," he murmured.

The air inside the manor felt different. Still, heavy with a sense of finality.

They moved quickly, avoiding creaky tiles. The guards were few that night.

Their preparation really paid off.

There were guards around the mansion but as usual. Most of them had private things to take care of, making them take a short leave.

Just as Marcello had planned.

Marcello didn’t even look toward the family portraits as he passed by. It’s not like he saw it as a portrait. The picture lacked his mother... So, he hated to even look at it.

Viktor led them up the grand stairs, his hand clutching the railing tightly. His breathing was laboured, but he didn’t stop.

"Second door on the right," he muttered.

Marcello’s eyes narrowed. He remembered that door too well. He shook his head, trying to get rid of his childhood thoughts. He wasn’t ready to remember more things.

He stepped forward, pausing right before the handle.

"I don’t want blood here," Marcello said quietly. "Not yet. We take him somewhere else. This house deserves peace... even if it never gave me any."

Viktor gave a slight nod.

Nikolai reached into his coat and pulled out a small tranquillizer gun.

"We’ll be in and out in two minutes, wait here for us,"

Marcello’s fingers curled into a fist. For a second, he just stared at the door. His chest rose and fell slowly, rage and restraint fighting in his veins.

Then.. he opened it.

The room was dark, only dimly lit by the moonlight that filtered through sheer curtains.

The old man was sprawled on the bed, eyes closed, snoring faintly. His breathing was deep and even—completely unaware of his furious son standing at his doorstep.

They stepped inside.

Nikolai went first, checking the corners.

Clear.

Viktor limped toward the edge of the bed, gaze softening just slightly—just for a second—as he looked down at the man who had once held the power to destroy everything.

Marcello stepped closer, standing at the foot of the bed.

He stared at his father.

The famous, powerful monster lay powerless on the bed. Frail. Human.

Marcello clenched his jaw.

"He doesn’t even deserve this sleep," He whispered.

Still, he turned away, signalling to Nikolai.

"Wrap him up. Let’s hurry and get this over with."

"Yes, cousin!"

Within seconds, they worked swiftly... tying his hands and muzzling him just in case he woke up mid-transport. They moved carefully, wrapping him in dark linen to avoid leaving trails or noise.

They made it back down the hallway without a hitch. The guards were still in place, unconscious.

At the back entrance, a van was already waiting with the engine running. It was parked beneath the cover of trees.

They loaded the old man into the vehicle.

But, he wasn’t alone there.

Once the doors shut, Marcello climbed into the passenger seat. He didn’t look back at the house.

He didn’t regret what he was doing.

Because what Marcello had in mind for his father wasn’t a quick death.

.

.

The cold slapped him awake.

The old man blinked, trying to focus. His neck ached. His arms were sore. His legs... he couldn’t move them.

He was tied.

Thick ropes bit into his skin. His hands were behind him, and his ankles were strapped to the legs of a steel chair that creaked every time he shifted. The floor beneath him was concrete, dust-ridden and cracked. The air smelled of rust, sweat, and decay.

It was then he realised.

It wasn’t his bedroom. It wasn’t his house.

He was in some kind of half-built structure... an abandoned warehouse maybe, or a high-rise construction site left to rot.

He licked his cracked lips. His tongue felt thick.

"How... did I get here? Is this a dream?"

The last thing he remembered was drinking water... then lying down in bed. He tried to remember if anything else happened after that but nothing was coming to his head.

His eyes flickered around the vast room. He wasn’t alone.

He heard footsteps.

And the low rumble of something heavy scraping against the concrete floor.

Then... he saw him.

Marcello.

Walking slowly, like he had all the time in the world.

His coat was open, black as pitch, and his shirt sleeves rolled up. His hair looked tousled by the wind. And in his gloved hands, he pushed something ahead of him.

A leather spinning chair.

The butler was in it... Philip was in a daze as he kept groaning, bound with silver cords. His mouth had been gagged. Blood dripped from a cut on his temple, and his eyes were swollen with fear.

The old man’s face twitched.

"Marcello...?"

His voice cracked from disuse. Still groggy. Still unsure.

He let out a breath of visible relief.

"You’re here..." the old man said, his voice rasping. "Did something happen? Where are we? Untie me, son. I..."

But Marcello didn’t say a word.

He just gave the chair a brutal kick.

Philip’s body whipped forward, the chair spinning wildly before it slammed hard against the old man’s own. The crash echoed through the building. The jolt sent both chairs rolling backwards toward the edge of the third floor.

There was no railing, just empty air waiting below.

The old man jerked in panic. His chair tilted, the back leg hanging off the ledge. A sharp gasp tore out of him. He could feel his heart beating loudly and repeatedly. He almost died. His memory flashed before his eyes.

"Marcello!" he barked, voice cracking with rage now. "Are you out of your goddamn mind?!"

Marcello finally stepped closer.

His face was unreadable.

Calm.

Cold.

He crouched in front of his father.

"Out of my goddamn mind?" he repeated quietly. "Maybe I am,"

His eyes flicked upward, meeting the old man’s with something unreadable in them.

"I’ve always been out of my mind, old man."

The old man frowned.

"Marcello..."

"Don’t speak. You don’t get to speak until I say so." His tone cut through the air like a blade. "You remember this place?"

He gestured around. The old man looked around, but he didn’t remember anything.

"This was the very place I killed the closest person close to me,"

The old man’s expression darkened.

"What do you want?" He didn’t even care about what Marcello said.

Marcello stood, slowly circling him.

"I want to show you something," he said. "I want to show you what you did to me. What you did to her. And what you did to Carlo."

The old man’s breath caught in his throat.

Marcello stopped behind him.

"You remember now, don’t you?" His voice was softer now. Almost gentle.

"Of course I remember him," the old man said bitterly. "The boy who was your boy toy."

"No," Marcello said, stepping around to face him again. "The boy who loved me. The second person who ever tried to protect me from you."

His voice dipped lower.

"And you made me kill him,"

The old man’s eyes narrowed.

"Why are you talking about that now? It’s already in the past,"

"Past? Yes. Forgotten? No." Marcello snapped. "I tried to forget it but it always comes to haunt me. If I get justice for him, maybe... just maybe, Carlo will forgive me once I go to hell,"

The silence that followed was thick.

Marcello walked to a nearby table. A silver tray sat on top of it, gleaming in the moonlight. He pulled the cover away with a soft clatter. 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝘦𝘸𝑒𝒷𝓃ℴ𝑣𝘦𝑙.𝒸ℴ𝘮

Glass vials. Surgical tools. A thin needle. A black velvet box.

The old man stiffened.

"What the hell is this?"

Marcello lifted the box and opened it. Inside, a small ring sat nestled in foam.

He held it up between two fingers.

"This belonged to Mother. I found it in her grave. She was wearing it when you buried her body in a hurry,"

The old man looked away.

"She wore it every day," Marcello continued. "Until you poisoned her."

"She was weak. I didn’t kill her," the old man spat. "She also didn’t know her place."

Marcello didn’t flinch. He expected to hear those awful words from his father about his mother.

"You killed her," he said simply.

He turned back to the tray, picking up the needle.

The old man struggled against his bonds now, the first hints of real fear crawling into his voice.

"Marcello. Don’t do this."

But Marcello’s hand was steady.

He walked back over and knelt, placing the needle against a vein in his father’s hand.

"You’ll feel everything," he said. "But you won’t move. I made sure of that."

The needle sank in.

The old man grits his teeth.

"You’re no better than me."

Marcello leaned in close, his breath warm against his father’s ear.

"No," he whispered. "I’m much worse."

He stood up straight and watched as the drug took effect.

His father’s breathing slowed. His muscles slackened slightly... but not completely.

"You’ll stay awake for all of it," Marcello said, walking back to the tray. "Just like Mother did. I watched her vomit blood for hours. She tried to crawl to my room before she died."

He turned, holding up a glass vial.

"She never made it."

The old man said nothing now.

He just stared, wide-eyed.

Marcello smiled.

"I’m not sure you’ll make it either... Father. This is where you end."

He knelt once more and whispered like a lullaby...

"I’m going to watch you bleed, cry and vomit blood. And I’m going to enjoy every second of it."