Free Web NovelChapter 41: "Master Sartori"
The violence did not stop with the first punch.
The instant Isidore’s head straightened from the impact, blood still scattering in thin crimson droplets across the marble floor, Caio lunged again.
This time, there was no restraint left in him.
The years of discipline, calculation, and political civility that had allowed him to rule Borgata’s underworld without drowning the city in open war had evaporated completely beneath the flood of rage boiling through his bloodstream.
His fist tore through the air, driving straight toward Isidore’s throat with enough force to crush cartilage.
Yet suddenly—
In a heartbeat—
Isidore moved.
Not clumsily.
Not desperately.
And nothing like a consigliere scrambling to defend himself from a stronger opponent.
With terrifying precision, Isidore slipped sideways at the very last second — just as Caio’s fist grazed past his shoulder by mere millimeters.
Before Caio could even register the miss, the counter landed.
A brutal strike drove straight into Caio’s ribs, the heavy impact echoing savagely through the quiet lobby.
THWACK!
Caio’s eyes widened instantly.
Not from the pain that lanced across his ribs like shattered glass.
From sheer shock.
’This motherfucker can fight?’
Nothing about Isidore’s cold, immaculate appearance suggested he possessed this level of violence.
In his tailored suit and silver-rimmed glasses, he looked like a man who destroyed lives through signatures and bank accounts, not with his bare hands.
Yet this—
This accuracy.
This sheer force.
This was the movement of a trained killer.
Caio staggered half a step backward before recovering instantly, adrenaline detonating harder through his veins as the realization hit him.
"YOU’RE A DEAD MAN, FUCKER—!"
He surged forward again with violent force, fist launching toward Isidore’s throat at a vicious angle.
Isidore only twisted aside with frightening calm, catching Caio’s wrist before driving an elbow sharply toward his jaw.
"We’ll see who dies first," Isidore replied coldly.
Even now, his face remained perfectly calm, as though they were discussing market projections instead of trying to murder each other in the center of his very own tower.
The two men crashed through a nearby desk hard enough to splinter the wood apart. Two minutes later, one decorative marble side table literally exploded apart after Caio kicked Isidore through it.
Within moments, the pristine ground floor of Accardi Tower resembled a battlefield.
Overturned furniture.
Broken marble.
Blood streaked across polished white stone.
Behind the reception desk, the receptionist had abandoned her professionalism entirely. She curled beneath the counter like a civilian trapped in an active war zone, hands trembling over her head.
"Oh my God," she whispered repeatedly, "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God—"
Around her, employees evacuated in panic, while security personnel stood frozen in complete paralysis.
No one — not one single person inside Accardi Tower — possessed the suicidal courage required to physically interfere when Caio Sartori and Isidore Accardi were trying very sincerely to kill each other.
Amid the unfolding violence and destruction, Aren stood several feet away.
Completely untouched.
Her eyes followed Isidore first. freeweɓnovel.cøm
’Oh...’
’Master Accardi knows how to fight?’
She watched the angle of his shoulders.
The precision of his footwork.
The efficient conservation of movement behind every strike and the lack of emotional overexertion.
’Perfect angle.’
’Good force control.’
’A professional.’
There were practically stars in her eyes.
Then, her attention shifted toward Caio.
His style was completely different. No restraint, no elegance.
Just raw aggression, like a predator trying to tear apart another predator through sheer murderous instinct and overwhelming force.
’Don Caio is not bad as well.’
Aren watched with fascinated focus, mentally cataloging strengths, weaknesses, movement patterns...
Until her gaze lowered toward the blood streaking down the side of Caio’s face.
’Wait a minute...’
Her thoughts halted abruptly.
’He hired me as his bodyguard.’
Another punch narrowly missed Caio’s head, smashing into marble hard enough to fracture stone.
’...I’m supposed to protect him.’
The realization snapped her instantly out of observation mode.
Without hesitation, she moved.
One second she stood near the wrecked reception desk.
The next, she launched herself directly into the fight.
Both men barely had time to react before Aren slipped between them and wrapped herself around Isidore from behind, restraining him with startling force.
The sudden contact shocked both men into stillness, their fists hanging mid-swing.
Before either could utter a single word, Aren leaned closer toward Isidore’s ear.
"I’m very sorry, Master Accardi," she whispered politely. "But I cannot allow you to injure my client."
Isidore’s thoughts stalled completely.
’What—’
He never finished the thought.
In one impossibly fluid motion, Aren shifted her hips, grabbed his arm, and threw him cleanly across the floor.
The movement happened so smoothly it bordered on unreal. Isidore hit the marble on his back, Aren landing atop him and pinning him in place before he could counter.
The force should have injured him, dislocating a joint or at least knocking the breath from his lungs. Instead, there was no pain, no damage at all.
She had redirected every ounce of momentum flawlessly.
Flat against the ruined marble floor, Isidore stared up in complete stillness at the small body pressing down on him.
His face remained perfectly calm. Inside, however, every instinct he possessed was cataloging the technique with frightening speed.
’Extreme precision.’
’Elite-level redirection.’
’Minimal collateral damage during restraint.’
’Military-grade.’
’No.’
A pause.
’Worse.’
Across from them, Caio’s murderous rage had cooled slightly the moment Aren intervened.
But then...
He saw her sitting on top of Isidore.
Pinning him beneath her body. Close enough that Isidore’s hand still rested against her waist from the earlier struggle.
Caio’s blood pressure skyrocketed at once and all over again.
He stormed straight toward them.
"Move," he snapped. "I’m not done with this fucker yet."
Aren looked up apologetically.
"See... I can’t let you kill Master Accardi either."
Caio stalled completely, his expression darkening dangerously.
Slowly, very slowly, he asked,
"You’re really calling this fucker master?"
Aren gave a sharp nod in return.
"Yes. It’s part of our contract."
Then, after a moment of extremely serious consideration, she added earnestly,
"If you want, I can call you Master Sartori too."
Caio went dead silent.
The rage drained out of him so abruptly it almost looked physically painful.
Several emotions collided violently behind his eyes at once — fury, jealousy, confusion — and something significantly less appropriate.
Without another word, he grabbed her wrist.
"Get up!"
His tone allowed absolutely no argument.
"We’re leaving. NOW!"
Aren immediately nodded.
"Ah. Yes."
Only then did she release Isidore and rise to her feet.
The instant she was upright, Caio pulled her toward the elevator with enough force to make it very clear he was one provocative sentence away from committing homicide again.
Just before the doors slid shut behind them, he shot one final murderous glare across the destroyed lobby toward Isidore, who was still lying against the fractured marble floor.
The meaning behind it was unmistakable.
’Next time I see you, you’re fucking dead.’
The elevator doors slammed shut.
For several long seconds, the only sounds left in the lobby were the distant alarms chirping from damaged security panels, the hum of fluorescent lights overhead, and the strained breathing of the handful of witnesses who had somehow failed to flee the scene.
Across the fractured marble floor, Isidore finally pushed himself upright.
Blood traced a slow path from a split along his cheekbone, running down the sharp line of his jaw and staining the pristine collar of his shirt.
Without visible concern, he turned and walked toward the reception desk.
Behind it, the receptionist remained curled beneath the counter with both arms covering her head.
"You."
The single word sliced through the air.
The poor woman flinched so violently her shoulder struck the underside of the desk.
Slowly, she lowered her hands.
The moment she looked up and saw Isidore standing there — bloodied, bruised, staring down at her with green eyes colder and sharper than broken glass — her soul nearly abandoned her body.
She scrambled upright so quickly she almost cracked her head against the counter.
"S-Sir! Y-You... are you alright?"
Isidore ignored her question entirely.
Instead, in the same detached tone he might use while discussing quarterly reports, he asked,
"Did you film everything?"
The receptionist blinked.
For a moment, she genuinely wondered if she had suffered a concussion.
Of all the questions she had expected after witnessing a near-fatal fistfight between two underworld rulers, that was not among them.
"N-No, sir!" she stammered immediately. "I-I wouldn’t dare, sir."
To her confusion, Isidore seemed dissatisfied by the answer.
Not visibly — his expression never changed — yet something in the faint narrowing of his eyes conveyed unmistakable disappointment.
"Shame."
The word left him in a quiet exhale.
Then, he turned his attention toward the rest of the lobby and surveyed the destruction surrounding them.
The lobby no longer resembled the headquarters of one of Borgata’s most powerful financial institutions, but more like the aftermath of a small war.
Security personnel stood scattered around the perimeter, visibly debating whether they should pretend none of this had happened.
Several clients still lingered near the exits as though curiosity had, somehow, overpowered their every instinct for self-preservation.
More importantly, a few people still held phones with trembling hands. Some had undoubtedly heard the exchange that sparked the fight. Some had almost certainly recorded it.
Isidore took note of this silently before returning his attention to the receptionist.
"Leave my assistant a memo."
The woman straightened so abruptly she nearly snapped her spine.
"Y-Yes, sir!"
She practically threw herself at her workstation, rummaging through drawers until she produced a fresh memo sheet and a pen. Once she was ready, she looked up nervously.
"W-What would you like me to tell her, sir?"
Isidore answered without hesitation.
"Make sure this goes public."
The pen froze halfway across the paper.
The receptionist stared at him. For several seconds she was convinced she had misheard him.
"...Public?"
Her eyes drifted helplessly across the devastated lobby. An incident of this magnitude looked less like a public-relations challenge and more like a public-relations extinction event.
There was the Accardi Bank’s reputation, client confidence, shareholder concerns, media scrutiny — and above all else — Chairman Isaac’s reaction.
The mere thought made her stomach twist itself into knots.
"But sir, this could potentially destroy our repu—"
Her voice died instantly in her throat.
Not because Isidore interrupted her.
Because he looked at her.
The stare lasted perhaps two seconds — no more — yet the meaning landed with perfect clarity.
’Are you absolutely certain you wish to challenge my decision?’
The receptionist swallowed so hard it hurt. Immediately, she lowered her head and resumed writing.
"Y-Yes, sir. Ensure today’s incident becomes public knowledge."
She glanced up cautiously.
"Any specific instructions, sir? Which media outlets?"
This time, Isidore actually answered.
"Celebrity gossip."
Her eyes widened.
If a scandal like this reached the channels that spread rumors faster than wildfire — the sort of publications people consumed during lunch breaks, dinners, and the hours before sleep.
Within a day, everyone in Borgata would know that Isidore Accardi had publicly claimed Ariana Lombardi as his personal plaything, inside the tower of his own bank.
The receptionist lowered her eyes and continued writing.
"Y-Yes, sir."
She looked up again, prepared to ask another question, but Isidore was already walking away.
"Sir!" she called after him. "Do you need medical assistance? Should I call security for a first-aid kit? Or perhaps the nearest clinic?"
No response came.
Not even a glance over his shoulder.
Isidore simply continued walking with the same calm, measured stride.
As though the blood on his face did not exist.
As though the fight had never happened.
As though being punched across a bank lobby by Caio Sartori had merely been another item on his afternoon schedule.
