Alpha's Reckoning

I opened the door to the basement, immediately greeted by the familiar dim setting. Sunlight filtered through the window, casting faint beams into the room. However, it wasn’t fully illuminated; the grey metal bars drilled into the window prevented that. Every time I entered this room, it was always the same atmosphere—a prison cell, containing darkness and the inability to escape. This was where we brought our victims for questioning, where they paid the price for the sake of our mafia. We extracted information through torture, making them talk or die trying.

I was the one who drove them to their worst state. I was the one who tortured them. I was the one sent down here to get what we needed. And most importantly, I was the one who killed the most brutally. I might have been the nicest guy to most people, but if someone messed with me or my family, they saw my cruel side. My kindness was never to be taken for granted, and I was more than happy to show anyone the worst of me. I could ruin lives.

Shutting the door behind me, I stepped further into the room, my eyes settling on my next victim. He was strapped into a wooden chair, bound with hefty chains. His wrists were tied together behind him, his ankles chained to the legs of the chair. In the partial darkness, I could make out dried blood on the side of his head and several cuts on his face. A scowl was etched on his expression as he looked up at me, his eyebrows furrowed in anger. His vibrant green eyes met my brown ones, a mixture of fury and resentment burning within them. His lips curled downward in a slight frown, his chiseled jaw clenched.

He was staring at me as though I was his worst enemy.

Oh wait—I was.

This soldier belonged to the Russo Mafia, and this was the Dell’Antonio Mafia headquarters. The only reason anyone from the Russo family would be here was because we needed information to dismantle their organization. Since birth, I’d had one goal stamped into my mind: take down the Russo Mafia. My father and their boss had been rivals for decades, each one constantly sabotaging the other. It was an endless game—one side striking, the other retaliating. This had been the reality for over twenty-five years—my entire life. I didn’t even know what they’d done to my father, but it had to be something vile to earn his hate.

There were two other mafias along with our rivals: the Bianchi Mafia and the Fay Mafia. The Russos were allied with the South, while we were allied with the Bianchis. All I knew was that my parents despised them, and I’d followed in their footsteps my whole life. My parents meant everything to me; despite their constant criticism, I loved them deeply and trusted their judgment. Everything I did was for them, never for my own gain. When I rebelled, they made sure I paid for it.

The last time I went against their orders was when I was seventeen, sneaking out to drink with friends. I wasn’t supposed to—my parents were strict about maintaining a clean family reputation, which meant no drinking or smoking. I got super drunk that night, and my punishment was severe: no car, no phone, no TV, no training, no missions. They isolated me, disappointed and ashamed. This went on for months.

Did I learn my lesson? Not exactly.

Recently, I’d left during an argument with my father to attend the Pierce wedding—my best friends, Zavier and Preston, were getting married. I wasn’t going to miss that. My father didn’t want me to go, but I went anyway. I got super drunk, which I hadn’t planned on, but I ended up drinking half a bottle of vodka. My parents didn’t need to know. I was twenty-five, legally allowed to drink, and capable of making my own decisions, though I still let their influence affect me.

“All this anger and resentment I feel toward my parents,” I muttered to myself, “it’s about to pour out onto the guy in that chair.”

I flashed a sinister smile and pulled out my knife. I saw a flicker of fear in his eyes as his guard started to crumble. He was already terrified, and we hadn’t even begun.

I brushed my finger over the blade, showing it off. “I brought you here for a reason. My father wants information from you. You’re from the West Mafia, correct?” I asked fiercely.

“Y-Yes, that’s correct,” he stammered, his fear showing clearly now.

“Good. Now, it’s up to you—make this easy or make it difficult.” I crouched down to face him, watching the desperation fill his eyes. He was shackled, helpless, and there was no escape unless I let him go.

Did I like torturing people? No. Hurting anyone wasn’t something I enjoyed, but I had to get the job done. I empathized with others, not heartless or cold. Guilt gnawed at my conscience every time, taking a toll on my mental health. I questioned why I still did this for a father who treated me like I was nothing. I questioned why I kept hurting people for the sake of this mafia.

But I told myself I didn’t deserve forgiveness. I’d live with guilt forever.

“The rules are simple: answer my questions correctly, or I’ll gladly punish you,” I said, watching him swallow hard.

“Y-Yes,” he answered, his voice high-pitched with fear.

“Let’s get started then,” I said, pulling a gun from my other pocket.

By the time I was done with the man, he was drenched in his own blood. With every step out of the basement, guilt and shame weighed on me more and more. I was surprised I could still mentally handle it. After all those years of doing this, I hadn’t lost my mind yet, even with the relentless swarm of negative emotions circling me like flies. It was aggravating as hell.

I shut the door behind me and found myself back on the ground floor, where I made eye contact with my father. Great.

I had returned from the Pierces’ wedding the night before, and, of course, my father had to bombard me with his usual lecture about keeping the family name intact. He had been waiting at the door, telling me we’d talk today. Since I’d had to deal with the guy in the basement first, we hadn’t spoken right away. When he told me about the job earlier, his tone had been colder than usual. He was definitely angry. I hated seeing him angry—it scared the hell out of me.

I walked up to him, dre