Poison Rose of Avalon

*Disclaimer - This chapter contains violence.*

Mark silently met Amara's gaze, a silent conversation passing between them. No words were needed, for his eyes conveyed a rush of emotions, and Amara understood the urgency.

With swift movements, Amara turned off the gas stove and grabbed Liora's hand. Together, they rushed toward the farthest room—a small pantry tucked away from the main living space. The shelves were lined with jars of homemade pickles, varieties of fruit jams, canned goods, and noodles, all carefully arranged in neat rows.

As they neared the room, Liora slowed her pace. She paused, casting a final look at her father. He stood there, watching her, his gaze filled with a warmth only a father could give. But beneath the affection, Liora felt the unspoken apology in his eyes, a silent regret that she would carry with her.

Just before disappearing from his sight, Mark blew her a kiss, a gesture filled with love and reassurance. It was a promise that no matter what happened, he would protect her and try to make things right again. Liora believed him, trusting in his unwavering love without hesitation.

Though she couldn't know who or what awaited on the other side of the door, the way her parents reacted spoke volumes. Whoever it was, they were far from welcoming.

Amara's hands trembled as she ushered Liora into the confined pantry. Her eyes flickered nervously towards the door, her anxiety palpable. Even though they were well out of sight, Amara remained on high alert, her ears straining to catch any sound from the hallway.

Amara pulled Liora close, wrapping her arms tightly around her daughter in a protective embrace. Liora could feel every ounce of her mother's anxiety and fear in that grip, and it only reminded her of the same heavy dread she endured every day at school.

Clinging to her mother, Liora shut her eyes, silently wishing for their safety and well-being. Her body trembled, a quiet prayer for peace.

Seeing her daughter's unease, Amara managed a strained smile, trying to comfort her. But her efforts were betrayed by the tense set of her shoulders and the anxious flicker in her eyes.

In the confined space of the pantry, the sound of their shallow breaths filled the air, amplifying the silence. Every second seemed to stretch endlessly as they waited, both of them praying for this moment of terror to pass without further incident.

Meanwhile, Mark slowly approached the door, each step echoing down the hallway. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, despite the coolness of the air. His hand, trembling with anxiety, hovered over the doorknob. He brushed his fingers against the cold metal but hesitated, struggling to calm the frantic pounding of his heart.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, summoning every ounce of courage needed to face whatever awaited him on the other side of the door.

Finally, with a long, steadying breath, Mark turned the knob. The door creaked in protest, swinging open to reveal the figure standing just beyond it.

A man clad in a sharp black suit, his dark hair cascading down to his shoulders and neatly tucked behind his ears, stood at the door. The stylish French beard he wore only added to his air of sophistication, but it was the long, jagged scar that marred his right cheek that commanded attention. That scar, a cruel reminder of his violent past, seemed to whisper tales of brutality and torment he had undoubtedly witnessed.

In his hand, he held a bespoke cane, its intricate design a clear testament to his wealth and status.

His eyes bored into Mark, cold and unyielding, as if he were a creature of nightmares come to life. A sinister grin slowly spread across his face, widening with an unsettling sense of triumph.

That grin—his eyes gleaming with malice—seemed to stretch across eternity, evoking an overwhelming sense of dread. The man exuded a dangerous aura, and Mark felt insignificant in his presence, like a tiny insect before a predator, easily crushable.

This was no ordinary visitor. He was the mastermind behind Happy Finance, the very institution where Sven had taken the fateful loan. His name was known far and wide, not for any accolades, but for his notoriety. His image was often splashed across newspapers, though always for the wrong reasons.

But that was just the surface of his influence. The man was also the undisputed ruler of Gamblers Street, a lawless district where crime and corruption thrived under his watch. Hidden far from the tranquil safety of Oakridge Heights, Gamblers Street was home to illegal casinos and dark dealings—places where the law was a distant memory.

In Gamblers Street, his word was law, and his wrath, should anyone cross him, was swift and unforgiving. The police avoided the street entirely, at least in uniform. It was a place only the brave or the foolish dared to venture into, a dark world where shadows ruled and the underworld bent to his will.

"Ah, Mr. Valentine, what impeccable timing!" Tony Gambino's voice oozed with sarcasm as he chuckled, the sound dripping with malicious delight.

"If you had been just one second later, we might have had to redecorate your entire front house. You've saved us the trouble of unnecessary labor—and spared your dear neighbors from a most unwelcome disturbance."

Before Mark could muster a response, Gambino pushed past him, entering the house without a second thought. His entrance was followed by four imposing figures—each one more intimidating than the last. Their gangster-like presence was unmistakable, exuding a raw menace that sent chills down Mark's spine.

Mark stood frozen, his body paralyzed with shock. Cold sweat began to bead on the back of his neck, and his eyes remained wide, as if they'd forgotten how to blink.

Gambino settled himself onto the plush sofa with the air of a man who was entirely at ease in this setting. He placed his hands firmly on his bespoke cane, looking Mark up and down with an unsettling coldness in his eyes.

"I am Tony Gambino," he said, his gaze sharp and calculating. "And I'm here to collect my dues, Mr. Valentine."

His words cut through the room, thick with menace. He didn't bother with pleasantries or introductions—he was here on business, and the reason for his sudden visit was clear.

Hearing his name sent a jolt through Mark, who instinctively fell to his knees, his legs too weak to support him any longer. The thought of bowing before a thug like Tony Gambino was a humiliation Mark couldn't have fathomed in his worst nightmares, but the instinct to protect his family overrode any sense of pride or dignity.

Any other day, Mark would have told someone like Gambino to go to hell, but today was different. The unexpected visit from such a notorious figure at this hour could only mean one thing: something far worse was coming.

"Sir Gambino, please," Mark's voice quivered as he pleaded, his hands clasped in desperation.

"Just a little more time. I'll get the money, I promise!" Tears streamed down his face as he spoke, fear and panic consuming him.

Tony Gambino's smile stretched wide, a cruel twist of satisfaction on his face. He reveled in the sight of Mark's fear. Every tremble, every shudder, only made him feel stronger, more invincible. There was a perverse pleasure for him in watching people break, in hearing their desperate pleas. It wasn't just the money or the power—it was the control. The absolute, crushing control he wielded over their lives.

He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing, the warmth in his smile replaced by an icy coldness.

"How?" Tony's voice dropped, now laced with disdain. "How will you come up with two million dollars in cash?"

His gaze was like a shard of ice. "You haven't even managed to pay back half of it until now."

Mark's throat tightened, fear choking him as he scrambled for words.

"I… I'll sell my house and my shop," he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. "I'll pay you with that, Mr. Gambino."

He couldn't bring himself to meet Tony's cold, piercing eyes. There was something in them, a dangerous glint that made Mark's heart race with unease. Instead, he lowered his gaze, his eyes fixated on Tony's polished shoes, a silent gesture of submission. He was acknowledging his own helplessness, a man at the mercy of a monster.

Tony's laughter broke the silence like a sickening crack, rich and full of mockery.

"Mr. Valentine," he chortled, "I think there's been a misunderstanding here." He paused, savoring the moment.

"The house and the shop?" Tony raised an eyebrow. "They're already ours. You see, a 2-million-dollar loan comes with interest, and your house and shop… well, they're just that—the interest."

His words fell like acid on Mark's ears, his voice dripping with venom. He chuckled, relishing the absolute desperation in Mark's face.

Mark's world spun. His head shot up, eyes wide in shock. It felt as if someone had just slammed a brick into his skull. He couldn't breathe, couldn't process the sudden weight of Tony's words. The house, the shop—his entire life—had already been claimed by these ruthless men. There was no way out.

"No... No," Mark muttered, the words barely audible as he tried to make sense of the crushing blow that had just fallen upon him. His mind raced in disbelief, his world crumbling around him. How had it come to this?

The moment Sven had disappeared with all their money, Mark felt as if he had been plunged into an unending fire. Each day since had been an agonizing battle against the flames that threatened to consume everything he held dear—his family, his dignity, his very life. Every time he thought he had found a way out, the fire grew higher, blocking every possible escape.

And now... now his one glimmer of hope—the house, the shop, the dream of rebuilding—had vanished. There was no hope left. His family was trapped in this nightmare, with no way to fight back. They were at the mercy of Tony Gambino, a man whose power and ruthlessness felt as inevitable as a storm. He was a beast, ready to crush them beneath his thumb at any moment.

The weight of that reality crashed down on him, suffocating him. His body trembled as he sank to his knees before Tony, forehead pressing against the polished shoes of the monster who stood above him. His pride was gone, his dignity shattered, but all that mattered now was the desperate plea to save his family.

"Please... please spare my family, Mr. Gambino," Mark's voice cracked, full of anguish. "I will do anything you ask. Please, show mercy. My own brother has already betrayed us. He took a loan in my name... I didn't know! He deceived me. He left us to rot while you... you... please, have mercy on us."

Tony's laugh rang out, cold and cruel, like the mocking chuckle of a devil savoring his triumph. He watched, amused, as Mark grovelled before him, head bowed in submission. The sight of this once-proud man reduced to nothing but a beggar at his feet only fueled Tony's sadistic pleasure.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Tony lifted his foot and pressed it firmly onto Mark's head, forcing him to bow even lower. Mark could feel the coldness of Tony's polished shoe against his skin, the power behind the simple movement sending waves of humiliation and fear through him.

"Oh, I'm well aware of your brother's treachery, Mr. Valentine," Tony said, his voice dripping with condescension.

"That's exactly why I'm here. To extend my mercy as a token of my goodwill." His tone was laced with a cold promise that made the words feel like an ultimatum.

"Otherwise, your charming wife and beautiful daughter," Tony continued, a cruel smirk curling at the edges of his lips, "would have been serving at my place from the very first day itself."

In the cramped, dimly lit pantry, Amara and Liora clung to each other, their bodies pressed together in an unspoken promise of protection. The pantry, designed to keep cool even during the harshest heat, felt stiflingly hot as anxiety and fear made their skin slick with sweat.

Amara's mind was torn. She longed to be with her husband, to make sure Mark was safe, but she couldn't bring herself to leave Liora alone in the thickening tension. Her heart ached at the thought of leaving her daughter in such a fragile state.

Liora, normally composed, was a bundle of nerves. Her hazel eyes darted about the pantry, scanning every corner as if seeking refuge in the familiar surroundings. Her small hands tightened around her mother's, the only anchor in a sea of unknowns. In silence, Liora repeated a mantra over and over in her head, 'Please let my father be safe. Please let this be over.'

The door before them was the only thing separating them from the chaos outside, from the world that had once been their sanctuary. But now, that same door was a looming reminder of the danger lurking just beyond, a barrier between the safety they once knew and the terrifying uncertainty that had consumed their lives.

Amara's gaze flickered toward the door, her ears straining for any sign of life from the other side. But all she could hear was the soft hum of the cooling system, a reminder that time was passing, that they were trapped in this silent, suffocating wait.

It had been over an hour since they had hidden themselves away in the pantry. Every second felt like an eternity, each tick of the clock amplifying the gnawing worry in Amara's chest. Her mind raced with questions—what was happening out there? Was Mark okay? Would he come back to them?

Amara looked at her wristwatch. Two hours had passed. Anxiety twisted in her gut as she watched the minutes slip away with no word from Mark. The weight of uncertainty became unbearable, suffocating her resolve.

She turned to Liora, her voice barely a whisper as she tried to steady her own trembling hands. "Stay here, Ora. I'll go outside to check if everything is alright."

Liora immediately gripped her mother's hand, her small fingers digging in with surprising strength. Her wide eyes filled with terror, shaking her head in frantic denial. She couldn't bear the thought of being left alone, not now, not when everything seemed so fragile and uncertain.

Amara's heart ached at the sight of her daughter's fear. She knew the bond they shared was the only thing keeping them grounded in this moment of peril, but she also understood that her daughter couldn't be left alone. Not now.

For a moment, the two of them stood in silence, the weight of their shared fear pressing in on them. The pantry that had once felt like a safe haven now seemed to close in around them, the air thick with anticipation.

"Let's go together, Mama," Liora insisted, her voice firm despite the tremor beneath it.

The thought of her mother facing whatever danger awaited them alone was unbearable. The small pantry, once a place of calm, now felt suffocating, each second stretching into eternity as they waited in silence.

She wanted to face whatever lay beyond the pantry door with her mother at her side. They would either survive together or perish together. It was as simple as that in Liora's mind. The uncertainty of her father's fate seemed to blur against the certainty of their bond.

Amara met her daughter's gaze, reading the determination that burned brightly in Liora's eyes. The fierce resolve was clear: Liora wouldn't allow her mother to go alone. There was no room for arguments, no room for fear. Liora would stand by her, no matter what.

A smile tugged at the corner of Amara's lips. She felt a wave of pride swell in her chest, mixed with a deep sense of sorrow for the circumstances. Her daughter, who was still so young, was ready to face whatever came—just as Amara would, for her.

With their hands intertwined, Amara carefully reached for the pantry door. She turned the handle and pushed it open, her ears straining to catch any sounds beyond. The air felt thick, almost suffocating with silence. There was no noise, no footsteps, nothing to suggest anyone was around.

She peered cautiously into the hallway, her eyes scanning every shadow for a sign of danger. The house felt eerily still. As Amara stepped into the hall, she noticed the front door was wide open. Her heart skipped a beat, a cold wave of dread washing over her.

"Mark, where are you?" she called out, her voice breaking the quiet like a distant whisper.

The silence that answered her was suffocating. She called again, her voice more urgent this time. "Mark!"

Liora, already running from room to room, her small feet pattering across the wooden floors, was desperate to find her father. Amara's heart clenched as she watched her daughter search with frantic hope. But no trace of Mark appeared.

Frantic, Amara bolted toward the door, her eyes scanning the yard, hoping for any sign of her husband. But the outside was just as empty as the house. Her breath caught in her throat as she turned back to the darkened doorway. There was no sign of Mark anywhere.

Amara's knocks echoed through the silent night, each one a desperate plea for help. She moved from door to door, her hands trembling with both fear and urgency. But each door remained closed to her, a silent barrier between her and any shred of hope.

Her neighbors peeked through windows, their faces shadowed and indifferent, void of any empathy. They watched her, but none of them stirred, none of them answered.

The silence that greeted her felt like a crushing weight. They were all there, but none dared to help. They feared what helping the Valentine family might bring upon them—Tony Gambino's wrath was not something anyone dared to cross. No one was willing to risk their own family's safety for a stranger's plea.

The Valentine family, once part of the community, now stood alone in their hour of need. The world outside had turned its back on them.

Liora, unable to wait still any longer, ran outside, her heart racing with the hope of finding her mother and father together. But when she emerged, the scene that greeted her shattered that fragile hope.

Her mother stood alone in the dark, her face wet with tears, her eyes hollow with the weight of despair. Amara continued her futile search, knocking on every door, begging for help from those who hid inside.

The coldness of their rejection, made Liora's heart ached as she witnessed the isolation her mother now faced. It was as if the world had swallowed her family whole, leaving them in the dark, abandoned by all but each other.