NOVEL NEXT Chapter 830 Success
Whoever had picked up didn't speak, perhaps wondering who was calling from an unfamiliar number.
Ross didn't let the pause last long.
His voice was calm, deliberate, yet edged with enough steel to make even the bystanders shift uncomfortably.
"Don Carlo, this is Ross Oakley," he began, every syllable rolling off his tongue like the opening move of a chess master.
"I have your son here, blocking my way and making trouble. I want a final fix to this problem. If I'm not satisfied with the ending, then I'll have to visit your house in person. I know we haven't had the pleasure of meeting, so I'm looking forward to your failure."
The street seemed to shrink around them as the words hung in the cold night air.
Even Kenny's cocky grin faltered just a little, though he tried to cover it up with a scoff.
The men standing behind him exchanged nervous glances, as if suddenly aware they were standing in the wrong place at the wrong time.
A beat of silence followed before a deep, weathered voice spoke from the other side of the line.
"Understood. Sorry for this inconvenience. I'll fix it."
The call ended without another word, and the atmosphere shifted immediately.
Not five minutes later, the distant growl of engines filled the street.
Several black luxury sedans rounded the corner in a tight formation, their headlights slicing through the darkness.
Doors opened before the cars even came to a full stop, and men in dark suits moved with silent, precise coordination.
They didn't ask questions. They didn't hesitate.
Kenny was seized by the arm and nearly lifted off his feet as they dragged him toward one of the cars.
His goons were dealt with just as swiftly, their protests ignored.
Tires squealed against asphalt as the convoy prepared to leave.
"Hey, fuckheads! Be careful! Do you know who I am?!" Kenny shouted, his voice cracking between outrage and panic.
But no one acknowledged him—not even his own men.
His words were swallowed by the roar of burning rubber as the cars vanished into the night, leaving nothing but the faint stench of exhaust in the air.
Ross pocketed his phone and adjusted his jacket like nothing had happened, his expression unreadable.
To him, it was just another minor inconvenience handled.
To everyone else watching, it was a reminder—Ross Oakley didn't just win fights.
He ended them without lifting a finger.
Ross looked at Ella with a slow, confident smile—one that made her heart race and her body ache with anticipation.
"Come, my dear Ella. Let's continue with some more fucking… at your home."
He took her hand gently, yet with undeniable authority, guiding her down the quiet street toward his car.
The night was far from over.
They would retreat to the privacy of Ella's luxurious home, a place where passion could ignite without restraint, away from prying eyes.
In that sanctuary, Mario—the weak, broken husband—would have no choice but to watch, powerless and defeated.
His silent tears of jealousy and regret would be the only soundtrack to their intimate conquest.
Ross's grin deepened as he slid into the driver's seat.
He was eager for the pleasures still to come, ready to claim every inch of the beautiful woman beside him.
But while Ross savored the night, far away in a dark, cold chamber, Kenny's world was unraveling in a very different way.
Naked, battered, and trembling, Kenny knelt before his father—a towering figure consumed by wrath.
"Father, please… stop!" Kenny's voice cracked with desperation, mingled with shame and pain.
But his pleas fell on deaf ears.
The elder man's eyes blazed with fury, his grip tight on the leather whip that cracked through the stale air with savage precision.
Pak!
Pak!
Pak!
Each strike ripped mercilessly into Kenny's skin, leaving deep welts that bled dark, sticky blood.
His handsome face was streaked with tears—tears born from pain, humiliation, and a crushing sense of failure.
The room was small, the shadows long and cold, illuminated only by the flickering light of a lone candle.
The harsh sounds of the whip echoed, mingling with Kenny's ragged sobs, creating a symphony of torment.
His father's voice was low, cold, and filled with icy disdain.
"You disgrace the family, Kenny. Weakness like yours has no place here. Not only that, you're even so stupid! I can't believe that you're my son at all!"
Kenny's body shook with each lash, but his spirit cracked the most.
The weight of his father's wrath crushed him far deeper than the whip ever could.
The torture continued, each lash and strike echoing through the cold, dimly lit chamber until Kenny's hoarse screams dwindled into pitiful whimpers.
The air was thick with the stench of blood and sweat.
Only Kenny's screams decorated the room.
Eventually, even that fell silent.
His voice had broken, his throat too raw to cry out, leaving only the faint, ragged sound of his breathing—weak, uneven, and fading.
The men exchanged grim looks but did not stop; their orders were clear.
By the time the last echo died, the oppressive quiet that followed felt heavier than the screams had ever been.
Kenny's body was a ruin—bruises swelling like dark blooms across his skin, deep welts from the whip cutting into flesh, and blood trickling down in thin, pitiful streams.
Yet somehow, his mind clung to consciousness, his eyes glassy but still defiant in the dim light of the room.
His lips trembled as he spoke, the words barely a whisper.
"Why…?"
For a long moment, Don Carlo didn't answer.
The old man simply stood there, looming like a shadow carved from stone, his hands clasped behind his back as he paced slowly before his broken son.
His polished shoes clicked against the marble floor with cold precision.
Finally, he stopped and fixed Kenny with a glare so sharp it seemed to slice through the air.
"I told you," the Don's voice was low, each word bitten off with controlled fury.