alexandra-isabella Alexandra Isabella

In the heart of the secluded countryside stands Rocca Dorata, an ancient fortress meticulously preserved by its enigmatic owner. By day, he is a distinguished lawyer, serving powerful politicians with unwavering loyalty. But beneath his polished exterior lies a dark and twisted secret. In this chilling tale of duality and deception, the line between predator and protector blurs, revealing the terrifying depths one man will go to in his pursuit of control and perfection.


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Crimson chandelier

The basement was cold, damp, and eerily silent. The girl sat on the concrete floor, her white gown stained and torn, her eyes wide with fear and confusion. The only light came from a small, barred window high above, casting long shadows that seemed to dance with malice. She hugged her knees to her chest, the chill of the room seeping into her bones.


Suddenly, the heavy iron door creaked open. She scrambled to her feet, heart pounding in her chest. Light poured in from the hallway beyond, blinding her momentarily. Gathering her courage, she stepped out of the cell, her bare feet cold against the stone floor. Ahead of her, a staircase led upward, the promise of escape compelling her forward.


The stairs were narrow and steep, each step echoing in the stillness. At the top, she found herself in a grand drawing room. The contrast to the basement was stark—this room was meticulously maintained, a relic of a bygone era. The walls were adorned with rich, dark wood paneling, and the air was thick with the scent of polish and age.


She took a few tentative steps forward, her eyes drawn to the centerpiece of the room: a magnificent chandelier, its crystal facets glittering even in the dim light. It hung between two grand staircases that curved up to a balcony above. The entire interior felt like it had been frozen in time for three hundred years, yet everything was in pristine condition.


As she moved further into the room, she noticed the paintings. Each one depicted a gruesome scene—women in various stages of torment and murder. The macabre art seemed to pulsate with a life of its own, each stroke of the brush a scream captured on canvas. Her curiosity mixed with dread as she approached the staircase, her eyes darting between the horrifying images.


Slowly, she climbed the stairs, her breath quickening with each step. The paintings grew more disturbing the higher she went, the violence more vivid and grotesque. At the top, she paused, her heart pounding in her ears. She could hear movement behind her.


She turned slowly, and there he was—the killer. He stood at the top of the staircase, his presence commanding and terrifying. He was handsome, with pale blue eyes that were as cold as ice. His Italian suit was impeccable, the epitome of old money style. In his hand, partially hidden behind his back, was a weapon—a thick, sword-like blade that gleamed menacingly in the dim light.


Paralyzed by shock, she couldn’t move. Her mind screamed at her to run, but her body refused to obey. He approached with deliberate, measured steps, his eyes never leaving hers. When he was close enough, he struck with swift, brutal efficiency. The blade sliced through the air, and she felt a searing pain as it struck her. She stumbled backward, crashing through the railing and plummeting toward the chandelier below.


Her body collided with the sharp decorations of the chandelier, the impact forcing the breath from her lungs. Blood splattered in a gruesome arc, staining the pristine crystals. The killer moved with practiced ease, pulling a rope that hoisted the chandelier higher, her lifeless body now a ghastly centerpiece.


The chandelier lights flickered on, casting a red glow that mixed with the blood, painting the room in a horrifying tableau. The killer stepped back, admiring his work. He descended the stairs slowly, savoring each moment. Standing in the center of the room, he looked up, his face bathed in the gruesome light. Blood dripped from the chandelier, splashing onto his face. He closed his eyes, a twisted smile playing on his lips as he ran his hands through his blood-soaked hair, reveling in the shower of crimson.


This was Gabriele Francesco, the master of this macabre theater. And for him, the night was just beginning.


18 Mai 2024 00:04 0 Rapport Incorporer Suivre l’histoire
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