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1. English is not my first language so kindly tell me if there's any mistake or something wrong is written also you all know the great 'autocorrect'. 2. This book will contain mentions of violence, self harm and some triggering scenes which will have warning so it's upto you to read or skip. 3. You can speak whatever you want to or feel about to the characters but not to me, I won't tolerate that. 4. You can message me on instagram if there's a suggestion or tip regarding the story. 5. I won't write mature scenes, not here not in any of my book so don't increase your expectation about it. 6. As I previously said this book, characters, name, scenes, plot everything's fictional no resemblance to real life. 7. This book, the plot, characters, aesthetics and everything has been created by me solely so no copying is allowed. 8. You may not like the plots or few of the characters in the book as I am not that much of a good writer you can say...hehe. But just leave it if this happens I won't tolerate hate towards me. 9. The next chapters will be posted only after the target of current ones is complete. Hoping for love from you all ❤️ Enjoy the story....

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☆13 Aug, 2024☆



The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor was a constant, a stark counterpoint to the turmoil raging within me as I sat beside Ria softly caressing her hair softly as she lay unconscious, each beep of the heart monitor a stark reminder of how close I'd come to losing her. Ria, my shorty, my supporter in all chaos, lay still, her face pale against the crisp white sheets, an IV drip snaking its way her arm. I'd lost count of how long I'd been there, time blurring into a haze of fear and guilt.

I'd failed her. I'd failed my sister yet again just this time it was the other one. That single, devastating thought echoed in my mind, a relentless drumbeat of self-blame. It was my job to keep her safe. And I'd failed. If only I didn't went to that arcade, if I would've stayed with her, as she shopped, I would've saved her from them. But I got carried away and let them get to her. The image of her laying unconscious in her own pool of blood was a sight I had seen for the third time, indicating how much I failed my sister. My fingers tightened around hers, his knuckles white. I remembered us brothers fighting off the men, as we were trying to search for Ria, the sheer terror that had gripped me when I saw her lying in Gio’s arms unconscious. Gio had found her first and his mind was frozen as if replaying the past in his head, he was too drowned off in his thoughts as i had taken control kneeling beside her my hands were trembling as i took her in my arms. I'd called out to her but she didn't replied, she always did, all the way to hospital my heart was ripping apart with fear, the gnawing anxiety had clung to me like a shroud.

I looked at her now, her face peaceful in sleep, but I knew the fragility beneath the surface. A wave of anger surged through me, hot and blinding. I clenched my jaw, my eyes narrowing. I would make them pay. We would make them pay for what they’d done to her. We would hunt them down, every single one of them, and make them regret the day they’d dared to touch her.

My mind went back to these three agonizing days since the horrifying moment a bullet pierced Ria's body, lodging itself in a vital area. The tension in the air was thick and heavy, a suffocating blanket of worry draped over everyone present. A constant vigil has been maintained at Ria's bedside, with us being by her side constantly, our hearts racing with fear and mind raging with anger. We've stayed through the long hours, fueled by adrenaline and a desperate need to be near her, until Rico, himself looking worn down and weary, finally stepped in. He saw the toll the ordeal was taking, the dark circles under everyone’s eyes, the slumped shoulders, the sheer exhaustion radiating from them. With a heavy heart, understanding the gravity of the situation, he insisted they go home, if only for a few hours, to rest and try to recover some strength. He explained that they would be of no help to Ria if they themselves collapsed from exhaustion. Reluctantly, everyone had obeyed, knowing he was right, but their hearts remained tethered to the hospital room, their thoughts constantly drifting back to Ria.

One person, however, was noticeably absent from this vigil. Gio, the one who initially discovered Ria in the mall after the initial attack, has not been seen since her return from the hospital the day before. He made a brief appearance then, coming downstairs with a quiet, almost somber grace that belied the turmoil he was surely experiencing inside. He approached Ria's bedside, his eyes filled with a complex mix of relief at seeing her alive and a lingering fear for her well-being. He gently, almost reverently, pressed a kiss to her forehead. It was a silent promise, a vow to protect her, and to revenge her attackers. Since that fleeting moment, he has remained secluded in the gym, the physical exertion, his usual way to channel his worry, anger...and perhaps self-guilt like all of us.

The perpetrators of this terrible act have been captured. The news, brought by Gio himself, was a chilling confirmation of their worst fears. The mastermind behind the attack, disturbingly, is a young girl. The captured men have confirmed this information, describing a cold and calculating individual, someone capable of orchestrating such a violent act. It has also been revealed that she, too, was injured in the ensuing confrontation; a bullet found its mark. While the immediate focus has rightly remained on Ria's fragile condition, no one has yet made the move to descend to the holding cells where the captured assailants are being kept. An unspoken tension hangs in the air, a palpable sense of impending retribution. Everyone knows that the moment they finally go to confront the woman who dared to harm their princess, she will face a reckoning she could never have imagined. The bottled-up fear, the raw, simmering anger, the overwhelming instinct to protect Ria – all of it will be unleashed. The consequences will be swift, decisive, and undoubtedly merciless.

I leaned my forehead against her hand, my breath catching in my throat. “I’m so sorry, Ria,” I whispered, my voice thick with emotion. “I’m so sorry I failed you.”

I knew she couldn’t hear me, but I needed to say it. I needed to confess my guilt, my fear, my overwhelming sense of responsibility.

“I’ll never let it happen again,” I vowed, my voice barely audible. “I promise you, I’ll never let them hurt you again. I’ll protect you, Ria. I’ll protect you with my life.”

I stayed there, by her side, my vigil unwavering. I watched her sleep, my eyes searching her face for any sign of pain, any flicker of fear. I was her shield, her guardian, her brother. And I would not fail her again. I would not let anyone hurt her. Not while I still drew breath. The weight of my vow settled upon me, heavy but not unwelcome. It was a burden I would gladly carry, a promise I would keep, no matter the cost. Ria was my world, my everything. And I would protect her, always.



They say life is a surprise, a twisty road. But I know better. It's not a surprise; it's a cheat. A cruel, lopsided game where some are handed shining stars, filled with warmth and joy, while others are left to freeze under a lonely, cold moon. I lived in the shadows, a world of danger, and I'd made my peace with it. I was good at what I did, the best, they said.

Then came Sandro, my firstborn. Holding him, so tiny and perfect, I felt a fear I'd never known. How could I let him walk the same dark path I had? But he was born into it, his fate sealed before he even took his first breath. More boys followed, bringing laughter and light, and for a while, we were a family, a real one, all nine of us.

Then, two little girls, twins, came into our lives. My heart overflowed. I was fierce with my boys, but with my girls, I was a lioness. I wanted to build a wall around them, keep them safe from the darkness that swirled around us. I knew I couldn't stop my sons from the life they were born into, but my daughters, I would move heaven and earth to protect them. But life, as it always does, laughed in my face.

At four years old, they saw the ugly truth of our world. And in a blink, one of my precious girls was gone, snatched away, leaving a hole in our hearts that would never heal. We blamed ourselves, each of us trapped in a circle of guilt and pain.

My children, they were my reason for everything. My smiles, my laughter, they were all for them, especially Ria. After losing her twin, she sank into a sadness so deep, it was like she was fading away. She was just six, a little girl, and she carried a weight no child should ever bear. We wrapped her in love, trying to shield her from any more pain. We were always watching, always worried.

We tried to pretend everything was okay, to build a happy little bubble. But fate, it seemed, wasn't done with us. It was like it couldn't stand to see us happy, even a little. The fear was always there, a heavy, cold feeling in my chest. We were living on borrowed time, waiting for the next blow, knowing that in this world, even the smallest bit of happiness was a fragile thing, easily broken.

I know, I know. In this world, the one I lived in, being emotional is a weakness. It's foolish. Assassins aren't supposed to feel. We're supposed to be cold, sharp, like the steel we wield. But I can't help it. Underneath the hardened shell, I'm just a mother. And, that's all I wanted to be, but they made it seem like a crime for choosing my children over my profession.

I look at Ria's picture in my hand, so fragile, wearing a smile so fake. I failed her, I failed all of my children, be it those who are with me or her, who isn't. I tried so hard to protect them, to give them a normal life, but the darkness keeps creeping in, stealing pieces of them, piece by piece.

I stepped away from the underworld, I left the shadows, hoping to give my family time. I thought I could build a safe haven, a world where they could just be kids, where they could laugh and play without fear. But some bastards misunderstood. They saw it as weakness, as a chance to strike.

And now, they've crossed a line. They've dared to hurt my family, again. A fire ignites within me, a cold, burning rage that I thought I had buried. The mother in me weeps, but the assassin, Veleno, stirs.

I can't pretend anymore. I can't hide in the shadows of a life that was never meant for me. The world I left behind is calling, demanding its due. They think I'm weak, that I've lost my edge. They think I'll cower and run.

They're wrong.

The assassin in me is waking up, a predator rising from its slumber. I'm not just a mother anymore. I'm Veleno, and I'm coming for them. They've made a terrible mistake. They've awakened the beast, and now, they will pay. They will learn what it means to cross a mother, what it means to threaten her children. I will avenge my family, and I will make them understand that even a mother's love can turn into a deadly weapon. The shadows will once again be my home, and they will fear what lurks within.

I blinked, pulling myself back from my thoughts. I gently kissed Ria's picture, a small, soft touch. Then, very carefully, I placed it back into the photo album, closing the cover. I felt a heavy sigh escape me as I stood up.

I started walking towards the basement. It was a cold, dark place, and I didn't like going down there. But I knew I had to. Down there, we were keeping the man who had shot Ria. The man who had attempted to take her life.

!TRIGGER WARNING!

The basement was dimly lit, with some rooms having captives, I reached his room entering inside, there was just a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. It cast long, spooky shadows across the concrete floor. In one corner, There he was, tied with chains to the wall. He looked small and weak, the monster in him long hidden behind his actual coward self.

I stopped, a sudden, deadly stillness. The air thrummed with the weight of my intent. His eyes, wide and terrified, darted across my face, searching for a nonexistent escape. I sought a glimmer of understanding, a hint of regret, but found only the raw, primal fear of a creature facing its end. He tried to project a facade of calm, but the betraying tremble in his hands, the ragged, shallow breaths, screamed his terror. The sharp, metallic scent of his blood, likely a consequence of my daughter’s fight, filled my senses. The raw terror in his eyes, a dark and potent drug, fueled the cold, predatory satisfaction that settled deep within me.

My voice, a silken whisper that belied the steel beneath, began, "Tell me, darling," I purred, the sweetness of my tone a stark contrast to the glacial chill in my eyes, "do you truly comprehend the circumstances of your… confinement? Do you grasp the precise reason you find yourself here, caged like some… specimen? An animal, you might say? But, no," I paused, a delicate frown creasing my brow, as if correcting a child, "that would be an insult to the animals. Those poor, innocent creatures, driven by instinct, by the simple need to survive. They possess a purity, a fundamental innocence, that you, my dear, could never hope to emulate. You, on the other hand," I continued, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous murmur, "have actively, deliberately, chosen the path that led you to this… predicament. You have sown the seeds of your own destruction, nurtured them with your arrogance and your… transgressions. And now, you find yourself reaping the bitter harvest. Tell me," I repeated, the sweetness returning, laced with a venomous undertone, "do you understand now?"

He could only manage a pathetic, jerky nod, his throat locked tight with terror. The sheer, paralyzing fear radiating from him was a tangible thing, a heavy, suffocating blanket that wrapped around us both. His inability to even form a simple word, the way his eyes darted around the room as if seeking an escape from the inevitable, brought a slow, sickeningly sweet smile to my lips. It was a smile that promised pain, a smile that whispered of the power I held, a smile that mirrored the cold, dark satisfaction blooming within me.

The sight of his abject terror, his complete and utter surrender to the dread I had cultivated, was a heady wine, intoxicating and delicious. I reveled in the power it gave me, the absolute control I wielded over his very existence. With a soft, almost whimsical hum, a tune that danced on the edge of madness, I rose. The sound, so light and airy, was a stark contrast to the thick tension that filled the room, a tension that crackled like static, promising violence.

My gaze drifted to the table, a dark altar laden with the tools of my trade. Each weapon, honed and polished to perfection, gleamed in the dim light, reflecting the cold, calculating glint in my eyes. They were extensions of myself, instruments of death that sang to me in silent whispers, each promising a different kind of agony. The choice, the absolute power to decide his fate, was a delicious weight in my hands. The soft tune continued, a macabre lullaby, as I reached for the first weapon, the anticipation of what was to come, a sharp, exhilarating thrill.

Each click of my heels echoed in the stillness, a drumbeat of dread for him. I relished the way his body trembled, a small, pathetic dance of fear. I moved behind him, the cool steel of the knife a whisper against his skin. He stiffened, frozen solid.

"Now," I murmured, my voice a low, dangerous caress, "tell me about all the times, you attempted to hurt my daughter." I stepped back, just enough to give him room to speak, but not enough to escape.

"Don't even think about lying," I snarled, the sweet tone gone, replaced by something sharp and cold. With a swift, brutal motion, the knife sliced through the air, embedding itself in the wall infront of him, a gruesome souvenir of his defiance: a piece of his ear. His ragged, choked gasps filled the room, a testament to his pain.

He knew then, without a doubt. He understood. The blood, the pain, it was a language he understood perfectly. He wouldn't risk to lie.

His breath hitched and shuddered, each gasp a ragged, desperate fight for air. His voice, a broken croak, barely escaped his throat. "I… I first… tried poison," he stammered, the words thick with fear, "then… then I tried… an allergy… to make her sick." He paused, his body trembling violently, before continuing, "After… after that, I… I tried to make… an accident." Another ragged breath, and then, "Finally… I… I shot her."

Each word was a confession, a painful admission of his vile actions. He spoke in fragmented sentences, his voice barely a whisper, the sheer terror of my presence choking him. The litany of his attempts, each more despicable than the last, hung in the air, a testament to his depravity. The sheer audacity of his actions, the cold, calculated cruelty he displayed, fueled a dark, simmering rage within me.

I selected the tongs next, the cold metal a stark contrast to the heat that would soon emanate from them. With deliberate slowness, I heated the instrument, the glow growing brighter, a malevolent ember in the dim light of the basement. The anticipation, the knowledge of the pain I was about to inflict, sent a shiver of dark pleasure through me.

I pressed the heated tongs to his scalp. The sizzle of burning flesh filled the air, acrid and sharp, mingling with the metallic tang of blood. His screams erupted, a raw, primal sound of agony that echoed through the concrete chamber. He thrashed against the chains that bound him, his body contorting in a desperate, futile attempt to escape the searing pain. He tried to speak, to beg, perhaps, but the intensity of the agony rendered him incapable of coherent thought. Only screams, ragged gasps, and the guttural sounds of pure, unadulterated suffering escaped his lips.

I watched, my expression impassive, as the tongs seared his flesh. The sight of his torment, the knowledge that I was the architect of his pain, filled me with a cold, exquisite satisfaction. With a slow, deliberate movement, I tore the burnt scalp away, the sound of tearing flesh a sickening counterpoint to his screams. He writhed in the chains, his body a broken, twitching thing, his pain a symphony I conducted with ruthless precision. The scent of burnt hair and flesh filled the air, a pungent reminder of his transgression. He was withering, broken, and utterly at my mercy.

The cleaver, heavy and gleaming, felt right in my grasp. I moved with a slow, almost artistic precision. His hand, the one that had dared to inflict harm on my daughter, lay before me, a chained, trembling, bloodied thing. I raised the cleaver, the blade glinting in the dim light, and began.

The first finger came away clean, a wet, sickening chop. He shuddered, a small, involuntary twitch. The screams that had once filled the basement were gone, replaced by weak, broken cries. He was beyond screaming, beyond even coherent thought. His eyes, glazed and distant, held only the dull ache of unending pain. I paused, my gaze fixed on the hand that had held the weapon that had wounded my child. The hand that had dared. With a renewed sense of purpose, I continued, the cleaver falling with increased force, each strike a direct blow against the memory of his transgression. The hand that had held the gun was now a mangled ruin, a testament to his audacity. The sound of bone and flesh parting filled the small space, a gruesome rhythm to my work.

Each severed finger was a small victory, a physical manifestation of his broken spirit. The sight of his ruined hand, the raw, exposed bone, filled me with a cold, almost clinical satisfaction. His whimpers, barely audible, were a testament to my power, a dark and twisted lullaby. He was unraveling, piece by piece, and I was the one holding the thread.

He was a broken thing now, barely clinging to consciousness, his body a canvas of my artistry in pain. I couldn't afford him the luxury of death, nor the oblivion of a vegetative state. He needed to suffer, to remember. So, I decided to grant him a temporary reprieve, a pause in his torment, with one final, exquisite act.

I selected the dagger, its sleek, sharpened edge promising a different kind of agony. Once more, I heated the blade, the metal glowing with a malevolent warmth. As I approached him, I knelt, placing myself at his level, forcing him to meet my gaze. With a swift, precise motion, I tore open his shirt, exposing his chest.

The heated dagger pierced his skin, just above his heart, a deliberate, agonizing incision. I ensured the blade didn't go too deep, prolonging the pain, keeping him teetering on the edge of oblivion. His screams, though weak, still echoed through the basement, a testament to the enduring agony I inflicted.

"Careful," I whispered, my voice a soothing counterpoint to his agony. "Move, and you'll bleed out. And that would be… disappointing." A flicker of false sadness crossed my face. "You don't deserve such an easy end."

With meticulous care, I began to carve, the dagger tracing words across his bloodied chest. 'Ilaria Lucia Romano's Culprit', it read, a permanent brand of his transgression. I smiled, a sweet, almost maternal expression that quickly morphed into a mask of mock sadness. "Such a shame," I sighed, "you've dirtied my precious dagger. It was so...pristine. You'll have to be pay for it later."

I rose, leaving him to the tender mercies of my men. His suffering was a work in progress, a masterpiece of pain that would continue long after I left the basement. The image of the carved words, the lingering scent of blood, and the echo of his broken cries were a the testament of my power.

!TRIGGER WARNING ENDS!



The guard's pathetic attempt at humor, a stale joke he'd recycled countless times, elicited nothing but a weary roll of my eyes. He seemed to genuinely believe himself a comedian, a master of wit. The irony, the truly laughable aspect of the situation, would be his desperate pleas for clemency when the tables inevitably turned.

"Hey, prisoner," he chuckled, leaning against the bars, "What do you call a cell phone in jail?" He paused, a self-satisfied grin spreading across his face. "A cell block!" He roared with laughter, slapping his knee. I just stared at him, the silence a heavy, disapproving blanket.

Three days. That's what he said. Three days I'd been locked in this grimy hole, a Romanos cell, he called it. And me? I'm not some kind of saint. I don't go around saving the world. But when I saw her, I knew her. Instantly. She was a mirror image of my mother, but younger, untouched by the world's ugliness. Cia. My fairy. And then, my stupid heart got in the way. I saw those idiots going after her, and I just reacted. I jumped in, tried to protect her. She took a bullet, and my so-called family? They caught me. They think I did it. They think I attacked the Romanos princess.

The stench of this place was nauseating, the stone walls radiating an icy chill that seeped into my bones. Rage, a burning, all-consuming fire, simmered within me. They had dared to imprison me, me! They actually thought I was capable of hurting Cia? They didn't know who hid beneath the mask. If only they knew...

That guard's irritating laughter reverberated through the corridor, a sound that grated on my already frayed nerves. He was blissfully ignorant, convinced of his safety, his authority. He was profoundly mistaken. His cries for help would soon echo through these same halls, a symphony of his own undoing.

The monotony of confinement was becoming unbearable. I yearned for release, for action. But no one from the Romanos had yet arrived to interrogate, or more likely, to torture me. If I attempted an escape and they found out, they would surely come and remove my mask, the only thing the guard had done right. And how was I supposed to escape?

The continuous loop of the guard’s joke, his poorful attempt at humor, a pitiful exercise in filling the suffocating silence, was abruptly shattered. One of his mate, a figure etched with the grim lines of duty, burst into the cell. Their hushed whispers, intended to be clandestine, were utterly futile. Years of brutal training, a cruel gift from a cruel world, had honed my senses to a razor's edge. I caught every syllable, every nuance.

"The Scottish mafia capo is here, with the underboss," the guard relayed, his voice a strained, urgent rasp.

Finally!

A slow, predatory smirk curled at the corner of my lips.

A cold feeling came over me. This wasn't just a rescue, it was payback. These ropes wouldn't hold me for long. This guard, just a guy caught in the middle, would soon be free. Maybe he didn't deserve it, but it would happen.

Inside, I was burning with anger, ready to leave without getting revealed. Yet a dark amusement flickered within me. They thought they had me trapped. They were wrong.

The air in the cell felt thick with tension. Something big was about to happen. My heart beat fast, not from fear, but from excitement. The game was about to start, and I was ready.



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So, The Seventh Chapter of Echoes of The Forgotten Sister is here...

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Happy Ramadan My Florquils 🫂🌸 Now, Who do you think is the antagonist or we can say the villain in the book? Does anyone has any theory about her past? I was itching to write the Queen Alessia since Day 1 so here she was...Did you liked her character? Anyways a lottt more is about to come. Also Did you saw the similarity in Alessia's and Alessandra's assassin name? If Yes do tell me... Make sure of the years mentioned otherwise you will be confused later. The QNA part is still open so you can comment your questions.

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