Chapter 77: 77
The visitors’ room sat behind a thick, reinforced metal door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. Inside, the air was cold and faintly metallic, the kind of chill that clung to concrete walls and never quite left. The room was narrow, rectangular, and sterile, with pale gray paint that had long lost its gloss. A flickering fluorescent light buzzed above, casting sharp white shadows that made the place look even smaller than it was.
A single table divided the room, its surface scratched and scarred from years of use. Two metal chairs faced each other across it, bolted to the floor to prevent any sudden movement. A small surveillance camera blinked red from one corner of the ceiling, its lens unblinking, while a grimy glass window on the right side allowed the officers outside to observe silently. The faint echo of police radios and muffled footsteps from the hallway occasionally seeped through the walls, blending with the low hum of the air-conditioning vent.
Sitting in one of the chairs was a man with a scarred face. His hands were cuffed together with cold steel, resting heavily on the table before him. Every time he moved, the cuffs clinked with a metallic snap that punctuated the silence.
The scar ran jaggedly from the corner of his left eyebrow down to his cheekbone, and several others ran from his ear down to his lips, a pale, twisted line that stood out against his darker skin. It wasn’t a clean mark; it looked like something torn open and badly stitched, the kind that told a story better left unspoken. His jaw was sharp, covered in a shadow of unshaven stubble, and his lips were pressed into a thin, unmoving line.
His eyes, however, were alive, cold, calculating, and weary all at once. They darted occasionally toward the camera, as though he could feel its gaze on him. The harsh light above highlighted the veins in his neck and the faint tremor in his restrained hands. He wore a wrinkled, faded brown shirt that had seen better days, the collar slightly torn, and his boots were dusty, their laces uneven.
Despite his restraints, a wild smile split his face the moment he spotted the figure who took the seat opposite him.
"What a greater privilege it is for you to grace me with your presence..." He let the words hang, the corner of his mouth lifting as he studied the man across the table. "Camillo Sorrentino.. How was your reunion with your daughter? I heard she has barely three weeks left." He scoffed and leaned back, eyes narrowing as Camillo remained impassive, his face a plane of practiced calm.
"I imagine she’s torn," the scientist continued, voice syrup-slow, "torn between the hope you gave her, the idea that her mother might still be alive and the cruel truth that the woman she hoped for is gone. Torn between that and learning that you, her father, knew of her existence all along and did nothing. You had the means to save her and chose not to. Tsk, tsk." He laughed at his own cruelty. Camillo raised his right hand and revealed the serpent coiled about his wrist, an odd, deliberate gesture that did nothing to soften the room. "Are you satisfied now?" he asked at last, calmness braided with steel.
The scientist’s smile thinned into something harder. "Satisfied? Don’t flatter yourself. You ruined my face, Camillo. I spent nights in pain and stitches; it never returned to what it was. Do you really think deceiving the woman you loved and keeping your daughter from you would ease my wounds? That your silence would quiet my anger?"
He paused, the cuffs at his wrists catching the light with a metallic snap. "You’re wrong. Maybe if I’d killed your son too.. " His voice dropped into a low, venomous whisper that crawled across the table like poison. "Maybe then you’d feel the same kind of loss I have."
Silence swelled between them, the fluorescent light buzzing overhead like an accusation.
"Do you want to know the problem I have with you, Mr. Scientist?" He stroked the snake’s scales as if the reptile were a familiar confidant. "You have a lot to say and no action. And which son are you talking about? If I remember correctly, Tamila delivered two daughters that night." He tipped his head, eyes narrowing. The scientist stiffened as if the remark had landed where it hurt.
"No.. it was a girl and a boy. I remember clearly," the scientist insisted, voice brittle.
Camillo merely shrugged. "Believe whatever you like."
"The sex of your children is none of my business," He said, voice smooth and slow, "but a little bird told me you not only saved that stand-in, you also told Carmela she caused the death of the mother of her beloved husband. Looks like we both agree she shouldn’t be entangled with.. " He let the threat dangle.
Camillo’s smile wavered. The room chilled.
"I see I didn’t handle your informants well enough." Camillo locked eyes with him; a smile curled on his lips, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. Fear slid down the spine of the scientist as the atmosphere tightened like a noose. "Worry less about my daughter and what I plan next, and more about which of your experiments I might choose to test on you. Do you think these four walls make you safe?" He raised an eyebrow, amusement thinly masking something much darker.
"I’ve been quiet all this while for the sake of my daughter," he said, voice low and coiled. "But now that she’s no longer in your clutch, it’s time I put you in the hell you deserve. At first I thought you might mend your ways, that’s why I let Tamila go with you. Now I blame no one but myself for letting her leave. That doesn’t mean you’ll be spared." He scoffed, then rose as if to take his leave.
The scientist watched him go, a storm breaking behind his eyes. Rage churned in his gut, confusion furrowed his brow, and fear prickled along his skin like cold sweat. His hands clenched under the table; the handcuffs on his wrist seemed suddenly heavier. For a long moment he sat frozen, drowning in a bitter cocktail of anger and dread as the sound of Camillo’s retreating steps faded into the corridor.
"Sir!"
A man hurried toward Camillo the moment he stepped out of the station. His voice was taut with concern, his steps quick.
"Take me to the cemetery," Camillo said simply, his tone void of hesitation. He slid into the back seat of the black sedan, resting his gloved hand on his knee as the door shut with a heavy thud.
It had been two days since the news of Carmela’s death broke, and yet the burial had been postponed all because of Nix’s stubbornness. Camillo stared blankly out the tinted window, the city blurring past like a fading dream.
"Stubbornness leads nowhere, Nix Dean," he murmured under his breath. "It only deepens the pain that should’ve ended."
When the car finally stopped, Camillo stepped out onto the damp soil of the cemetery. The air was cold and faintly metallic, the kind of air that carried the scent of wilted flowers and wet grass. Marble headstones stretched across the field like silent witnesses, each one carrying its own grief.
He exhaled slowly, his gaze scanning the crowd. As expected, no reporters were present, just a handful of close relatives dressed in black, their faces drawn and pale under the grey afternoon light.
"Camillo," an elderly voice called. It was Old Delton, his wrinkled hands clasped before him. Camillo offered a small nod of acknowledgment but didn’t stop; his attention was drawn to the young man standing rigidly before a coffin adorned with white lilies.
Nix stood motionless, his face devoid of emotion, eyes fixed on Carmela’s still form as though trying to memorize what remained of her. The silence around him was suffocating.
Camillo stopped a few paces behind the old Delton. His voice, though calm, carried a weight that bent the air.
"I’m sorry," he said quietly. "I couldn’t keep my part of the bargain. I... I couldn’t ensure the safety of your daughter."
A soft gasp escaped from somewhere behind. Kiara, standing beside Old Delton, narrowed her eyes.
"What does he mean by that?" she whispered sharply.
Before she could step forward, Old Dean reached out and caught her wrist, his grip firm but controlled.
"Don’t interfere," he ordered, his voice low yet commanding.
Kiara’s expression hardened. "You know something, don’t you?" she pressed, trying to pull free, but he didn’t budge.
"Yes," he admitted at last, his tone weary. "But he’s not a man you should provoke."
"What are you saying?" she demanded, frustration slipping through her voice.
"I’m saying Camillo Sorrentino isn’t as ordinary as he appears. He keeps a low profile, yes but he controls things from the shadows. People think Amina’s father is the real power in their circle, but that’s far from the truth."
Kiara blinked, realization dawning. "So that’s why Amina was allowed to attend the Dynasty training sessions?"
"Exactly," he replied grimly. "And that’s why you mustn’t dig any deeper. This is the reason I was against her marriage to Nix from the beginning." He sighed heavily, glancing toward Carmela’s coffin. "I just hope she’s truly gone this time and that this isn’t another one of her staged disappearances." A heavy silence followed, broken only by the rustle of leaves and the quiet sobs of mourners.