Young Mafia POV: Woke Up As A Mafia Heir In A Game

Seven terrorists lay scattered across the floor, their bodies still twitching from the violence that had ended their lives.

Not one of them had managed to raise his weapon.

Not one of them had even realized what was happening until it was too late.

In the space of a few heartbeats, a bloodied seventeen-year-old boy had slaughtered seven armed men and crippled an eighth.

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For a fraction of a second, the world seemed to grow quiet.

Then something inside him snapped.

He stopped thinking like Lorenzo Riina.

He stopped considering the consequences, the hostages, or the possibility that the terrorist might actually pull the trigger.

Instead, the instincts of Samuel—the man he had been in his previous life—rose to the surface.

The instincts of someone who had survived in a world where hesitation could cost him everything.

His body moved before conscious thought could catch up.

Three strides.

That was all it took.

The two terrorists stationed near the entrance barely had time to turn their heads.

Lorenzo’s twin daggers flashed.

One blade swept across a throat while the other struck its target a heartbeat later.

Both men collapsed before they could make a sound.

Lorenzo didn’t even look back.

His gun was already in his hand.

Six shots rang through the room.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

The gunshots overlapped so quickly that they sounded almost like a single burst.

Six bullets.

Six targets.

Six bodies crashing to the floor.

The remaining terrorists hadn’t even understood what had happened when Lorenzo shifted his aim toward their leader.

The man tried to pull the trigger.

He never got the chance.

The final bullet struck his gun hand, shattering bones and tearing through his wrist with enough force to knock the weapon away.

The gun clattered across the floor.

Sofia stumbled backward as the leader screamed.

For several seconds, the entire room remained frozen.

Then one of the hostages began crying.

Someone else whispered a prayer.

Lorenzo paid neither of them any attention.

He stood over the fallen men, his gaze fixed on the leader.

He could have killed him.

It would have been easy.

One more bullet, and the man would have joined his subordinates.

But Lorenzo had deliberately avoided a lethal shot.

At first, he told himself it was because the man might possess useful information.

Perhaps he could reveal who had organized the attack, who had supplied the weapons, or whether anyone else was waiting outside.

Those were reasonable explanations.

Practical ones.

Unfortunately, they weren’t the truth.

As he watched the terrorist clutch his ruined hand, Lorenzo finally understood why he had spared him.

He wanted the man alive.

He wanted him alive because he wanted him to suffer.

The realization settled into his mind with horrifying ease.

Oh.

So that’s what this is.

A faint smile touched his lips.

”Are you hurt?”

Lorenzo’s voice brought Sofia back to her senses.

She stared at him, unable to reconcile the calm question with the violence she had just witnessed.

He had crossed the room and killed seven armed men before any of them could react.

He had shot their leader with frightening precision.

And now he was asking whether she was hurt, as though he had merely interrupted a conversation.

Sofia swallowed.

”I’m... fine.”

The answer came out weaker than she intended.

Lorenzo examined her face.

His gaze moved from her eyes to her cheeks, lingering on the bruises.

Then he looked at her bound wrists.

His expression remained unchanged, but something cold passed through his eyes.

”Good.”

He turned away.

Sofia’s stomach tightened.

”Lorenzo?”

He didn’t respond.

Instead, he walked toward the surviving terrorist, who was still writhing on the floor.

The man looked up at him.

Whatever defiance he had possessed moments ago had vanished.

”Please,” he whimpered. ”Please, don’t—”

Lorenzo knelt beside him.

The terrorist immediately tried to crawl backward, dragging his injured hand across the floor.

”Stay away from me!”

Lorenzo tilted his head.

”Why?”

The question was so sincere that the man momentarily forgot to scream.

Lorenzo looked at the gun lying several feet away, then returned his attention to the terrorist.

”You were pointing that at her a moment ago.”

”I—I didn’t—”

”You were going to pull the trigger.”

”No! I wasn’t going to—”

”Don’t lie.”

Lorenzo’s voice was quiet.

That made it worse.

The terrorist began shaking his head frantically.

”I was just trying to scare her! I swear! I wasn’t going to kill her!”

Lorenzo studied him for a moment.

Then he reached for the man’s remaining hand.

Sofia’s eyes widened.

”Wait!”

Lorenzo didn’t look at her.

”Don’t,” she said, taking a hesitant step forward. ”He’s already injured. We need to get out of here. The police—”

Stab!

The dagger plunged through the terrorist’s other hand and pinned it to the floor.

”AAAAAAARGH!”

His scream echoed through the dining hall.

Sofia flinched violently.

Several hostages covered their ears. A little girl began crying, and her mother immediately pulled her closer, whispering desperately into her hair.

Lorenzo watched the terrorist writhe.

For some reason, the sight didn’t disturb him.

Instead, he felt a strange pressure building in his chest, an emotion he couldn’t quite name.

It wasn’t satisfaction.

It wasn’t simple anger, either.

It was something darker.

A hunger to punish anyone who dared to hurt what he considered his.

His.

The word surfaced naturally.

Lorenzo didn’t question it.

He simply accepted it as the most obvious truth in the world.

Sofia Moretti was his fiancée.

She belonged beside him.

She belonged within his reach.

And these men had dared to lay their hands on her.

How could he possibly forgive them?

”Lorenzo, stop!”

Sofia’s voice trembled as she approached.

He finally glanced at her.

For a brief moment, their eyes met.

She looked horrified.

He didn’t understand why.

”Go back,” he told her.

”But—”

”I said, go back.”

Something in his tone made her stop.

Lorenzo turned toward the terrorist again.

The man’s eyes were filled with tears. His mouth opened and closed as he begged for mercy, but the words came out in broken, incoherent fragments.

Lorenzo didn’t care to listen.

He had already decided what the man deserved.

The dagger moved again.

This time, it struck the same area of the man’s cheek where Sofia’s bruises had appeared.

The terrorist screamed until his voice cracked.

Lorenzo’s expression hardened.

”That hurts, doesn’t it?”

The man could only whimper.

Lorenzo leaned closer.

”Then perhaps you should have thought about that before touching her.”

He continued.

Each movement was deliberate.

Each cut was precise.

He wasn’t flailing wildly or attacking in a blind frenzy. His hands moved with the practiced control of someone who had spent years learning how to kill.

That was what made the scene so unbearable.

There was no loss of control in his movements.

Only intention.

When the terrorist tried to speak again, Lorenzo silenced him permanently.

He tossed the severed tongue onto the floor.

The man had called Sofia a bitch while threatening her.

Lorenzo remembered every word.

He remembered the contempt in the man’s voice, the way he had treated her as though she were nothing more than an object he could use to get what he wanted.

A street bitch.

The memory made Lorenzo’s smile disappear.

She’s mine.

Not yours.

Not anyone else’s.

How dare you?

Behind him, someone retched.

Lorenzo ignored the sound.

He continued his grim work with the same meticulous attention he might have given to arranging a collection of objects on a shelf.

When he finally stopped, the terrorist lay motionless on the floor.

The dagger slipped from Lorenzo’s fingers and clattered against the tiles.

For several seconds, nobody moved.

The room was filled with the sounds of quiet sobbing, ragged breathing, and the distant wail of sirens approaching from outside.

Lorenzo looked down at the body.

His breathing was steady.

His hands weren’t trembling.

His expression was almost peaceful.

Perfect.

The thought appeared without warning.

He tilted his head, examining what he had done.

Something still seemed wrong.

His gaze moved across the man’s body, searching for the source of that nagging discomfort.

Then he found it.

One side was different from the other.

Lorenzo stared for another moment before correcting the imbalance with one final, deliberate movement.

The tension inside his chest eased.

Now it’s symmetrical.

A faint smile returned to his lips.

Behind him, a woman began sobbing uncontrollably.

That sound should have brought him back to reality.

It should have reminded him that he was standing in a room full of frightened civilians, surrounded by the consequences of his own actions.

Instead, Lorenzo slowly rose to his feet.

Blood dripped from his fingers.

His dagger hung loosely at his side.

He turned toward the hostages.

Nobody met his eyes.

An elderly man had collapsed beside his son’s body, his shoulders shaking as he struggled to contain his grief.

A mother had wrapped both arms around her young daughter, pressing the child’s face against her clothes to shield her from the scene.

Several men had retreated toward the far wall.

One of them looked as though he might faint.

Lorenzo surveyed them with mild confusion.

’What’s wrong with them?’

The question genuinely puzzled him.

’That bastard was going to kill them. I eliminated the threat.’

His gaze drifted toward the bodies scattered around the room.

They should be grateful.

He had saved their lives.

He had stopped the terrorists.

He had done what needed to be done.

So why were they looking at him like that?

Slowly, Lorenzo began to understand.

It wasn’t merely shock.

It wasn’t even disgust at the blood covering the floor.

It was fear.

Every single person in the room was looking at him with the same expression he had seen countless times in his previous life, on the faces of men who had finally realized that the person standing before them was far more dangerous than they had imagined.

They were afraid of him.

Not the terrorists.

Not the men who had stormed the restaurant and threatened to slaughter innocent civilians.

They were more afraid of the young man who had saved them.

Lorenzo’s smile faded.

For the first time since the fighting had ended, a faint irritation stirred within him.

Why?

He had killed the people responsible.

He had protected Sofia.

He had prevented the terrorists from murdering everyone in the room.

What more did they want from him?

His gaze moved across the frightened faces until it finally settled on Sofia.

At least she will understand.

She had seen what those men had done to her.

She knew what it felt like to have a gun pressed against her forehead, to stand helpless while someone else decided whether she would live or die.

Surely, she would understand why he had done it.

Surely, she would know that he had only been protecting her.

With that thought in mind, Lorenzo turned toward her.

Sofia hadn’t moved.

She stood near the table where the terrorists had left her, her wrists still bound by the restraints.

Her face was deathly pale.

Her lips trembled, and her breathing came in shallow, uneven bursts.

She had seen violence before.

She had grown up in a world where powerful people could ruin lives without facing consequences, where threats were made over dinner tables and human suffering was often treated as an inconvenience.

She wasn’t naive.

She understood that sometimes, violence was unavoidable.

But what she had just witnessed was different.

Lorenzo hadn’t killed those men because he had no other choice.

He had killed them because they had threatened her.

And then he had continued hurting their leader long after the danger had passed.

He had ignored her pleas.

He had ignored the hostages.

He had ignored everything except the desire burning inside him.

The worst part was that he hadn’t looked angry.

He had looked calm.

Focused.

Almost content.

Sofia stared at him, her mind struggling to make sense of what she had witnessed.

”Lorenzo...”

His expression softened when he heard her voice.

”Sofia.”

He took a step toward her.

She flinched.

It was a small movement, almost imperceptible.

But Lorenzo noticed it.

He stopped.

For a moment, he simply stared at her.

Then his brow furrowed.

’Why are you afraid?’

He had saved her.

He had killed the men who had threatened her life.

He had done what any reasonable person would have done in his position.

So why was she looking at him as though he were the monster?

”Sofia,” he said again, his voice quieter this time. ”It’s over.”

She said nothing.

”The men who hurt you are dead. They can’t touch you anymore.”

Her gaze flickered toward the bloodstained floor.

Lorenzo followed her eyes.

Then he looked back at her.

Understanding dawned on him—or at least, he thought it did.

”You’re in shock,” he murmured. ”That’s all.”

He took another step.

Sofia immediately moved backward.

Lorenzo’s expression changed.

The warmth vanished from his eyes, replaced by something colder.

”Why are you moving away from me?”

She couldn’t answer.

Her throat felt painfully tight.

”Lorenzo, please...”

”Please what?”

”Don’t come any closer.”

The words escaped before she could stop them.

Silence descended upon the room.

Lorenzo stared at her.

For a brief moment, he seemed genuinely unable to comprehend what she had said.

Then his fingers tightened around the dagger.

”Don’t come closer?” he repeated.

Sofia’s heart pounded.

She knew she had made a mistake.

She could see it in his face, in the way his jaw tightened and his eyes darkened.

But she couldn’t take the words back.

”I just need a moment,” she whispered. ”Please.”

Lorenzo looked at her for several seconds.

Then his voice rose.

”I SAVED YOU!”

The shout thundered through the dining hall.

Several hostages screamed.

A little boy began crying for his mother, while an older man instinctively raised his hands as though he expected Lorenzo to attack him next.

Lorenzo barely noticed.

His attention was fixed entirely on Sofia.

”I came here to save you!” he shouted. ”I killed those bastards because they were going to hurt you, and this is how you repay me?”

Sofia’s eyes widened.

”That’s not—”

”Then what is it?”

He stepped toward her.

”Why are you looking at me like that? Why are you afraid of me?”

She backed away again.

Lorenzo’s expression twisted.

”After everything I just did for you?”

Sofia couldn’t find the words.

How could she explain that she was afraid precisely because of what he had done?

How could she tell him that the man who had saved her was also the man who had made her life a prison?

That his protection had never felt like freedom?

That every act of kindness came with an invisible chain attached?

She wanted to tell him everything.

She wanted to scream that she had never asked him to save her, that she had never wanted to be his fiancée, and that she would rather face the terrorists again than spend another day trapped beneath his control.

But she knew what would happen if she said those things.

So she remained silent.

And Lorenzo interpreted her silence however he pleased.

”Say something!”

His voice cracked through the room.

”Tell me why you’re acting like this!”

Sofia’s eyes filled with tears.

”Please don’t do anything...”

The words seemed to enrage him further.

”Do anything?” he repeated. ”What do you think I’m going to do to you?”

She couldn’t answer.

Lorenzo stared at her trembling figure.

Then, slowly, his expression changed.

The anger didn’t disappear.

It settled into something more unsettling.

Possessiveness.

He looked at Sofia as though he had finally identified the source of the problem.

She was frightened.

She had seen what he was capable of, and now she was afraid that the same violence might one day be directed at her.

The thought irritated him.

It also wounded something deep inside him, something he refused to examine too closely.

He had protected her.

He had risked nothing, feared nothing, and destroyed everyone who had threatened her.

And still, she was trying to get away from him.

’Why can’t you understand?’

He wanted to reach out and shake her.

He wanted to force her to look into his eyes until she finally understood that he would never allow anyone else to hurt her.

He wanted her to stop being afraid of him.

But beneath all those desires was a more disturbing truth.

He didn’t merely want Sofia to feel safe.

He wanted her to feel safe with him.

Lorenzo started walking toward her again.

The hostages watched in terrified silence.

Sofia pressed herself against the edge of the table, her eyes fixed on the young man approaching her.

”Lorenzo, please...”

He stopped in front of her.

For a moment, he said nothing.

Then he reached for her wrists.

CRUNCH!

The restraints broke beneath his fingers.

CLANG!

Sofia barely had time to react before

Lorenzo pulled her into his arms.

Lorenzo lowered his head toward her ear.

His voice softened into something almost tender.

”You are mine, Sofy.”

Sofia’s body went rigid.

”And I will do even worse things if someone hurts what’s mine.”

He tightened his embrace.

”Do you understand?”

Sofia couldn’t speak.

She stared over his shoulder at the bloodstained dining hall, at the terrified civilians, and at the bodies of the men who had threatened her.

Lorenzo had saved her life.

But standing in his arms, she finally understood the terrible price of that protection.

He didn’t see her as someone who needed to be free.

He saw her as something precious that belonged to him.

Something he would protect, possess, and destroy anyone to keep.

And if she ever tried to escape, she knew he would treat that as another threat to something he believed was his.

Her fingers curled slowly into her palms.

The last fragile hope she had been clinging to began to crumble.

’I can’t ever escape from his grasp.’

Ever.

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[End Of Arc 1:- The Perfectionist Obsession]

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Author Note:

I know that this arc was very small but it’s needed to be done.

This Arc was supposed to let you know that what type of charecter supposed to be Lorenzo Riina.

I hope you enjoyed it.