Don Orsini, alternate scenario

The Patriarch’s Wrath – A Web of Sin and Retribution

The Bunker – A Den of Depravity

The reinforced walls of the Orsini bunker beneath Milano’s financial district absorbed sound like a tomb. The air was thick with the scent of aged whiskey, Cuban cigars, and something fouler—decadence.

Patriarch Orsini sat on a low divan of black silk, his diamond-tipped cane resting against his thigh like a scepter. His white hair, slicked back with pomade, gleamed under the dim lighting, his dark hazel eyes burning with cold fury. The footage of the ruined policewoman—Isabella—played on a loop across the holographic screens, her once-proud face now slack with mindless ecstasy, her body twitching as she fisted her own wrecked holes in the dirt.

The **** Crest on her glabella pulsed like a second heartbeat.

Rama, the Mad Monk, stood before him, his massive frame draped in saffron robes that did little to hide the rolls of fat beneath. His red prayer beads dangled from meaty fingers, his grin too wide, too knowing.

"Patriarch Orsini," Rama began, his voice a gravelly purr, "it’s just a rogue hypnotist. A Nephilim, perhaps, whose blood awakened under the Oblivion Moon’s influence. The gates to the Abyss are unstable this month—"

The cane cracked against the marble floor, the sound like a gunshot.

"May. Should. Somehow." The Patriarch’s voice was a razor wrapped in velvet. "Do you think we built this empire on conjecture?"

Rama’s grin didn’t falter, but his fingers tightened around his beads.

The Patriarch rose, his silk robe whispering against his skeletal frame. "Respectfully speaking, you don’t think. That’s your problem, Rama. Ever since that Russian witch shattered your soul realm, you’ve been asleep. Do you know why we stand at the top? Why every suit, every gangster, every worm in this city grovels at our feet?"

Rama’s chuckle was low, dangerous. "Because we’re crazy?"

The Patriarch’s backhand struck like a viper, his signet ring splitting Rama’s lip.

"Secondary." The old man’s breath was hot with whiskey and rage. "We anticipate. We crush problems before they breathe. And you," he snarled, "are failing me."

Rama licked the blood from his lips, his eyes alight with something darker than anger.

"Then let me rectify that."

The Summoning – A Family Affair

The bunker’s doors hissed open.

Vanessa Orsini slinked in, her designer skirt already hiked up to her waist, her brother Orlando’s spend still dripping down her thighs. Her platinum-blonde hair was mussed, her lips swollen from rough use.

"Papi," she purred, her voice syrup-thick, "did you call?"

Orlando followed, his tailored suit unbuttoned, his cock still half-hard. "Old man, if you wanna share her, just say so. Give me my inheritance, and we can wreck her together."

Vanessa giggled, her fingers trailing over her creamed cunt. "Oooh, daddy, I want my share too! That bitch Valentina just got a villa in Monte Carlo—"

The Patriarch’s cane shattered the floor.

"SILENCE!"

The room froze.

Vanessa dropped to her knees, her ass high, her cunt glistening. "Daddy," she whimpered, "I love it when you’re angry…"

The Patriarch’s fingers tangled in her hair, yanking her head back. "You disgust me."

Then he shoved her face-first onto the divan, his free hand unbuckling his belt.

Orlando didn’t need prompting. He was already behind her, his cock slapping against her asshole.

Rama bowed, his grin widening. "I’ll take my leave."

The Patriarch didn’t glance up. "Investigate. Destroy this Vasudeva before he becomes a problem."

Rama’s laughter echoed as the door sealed behind him.

The Revelation – A Monk’s Malice

The Mad Monk’s private chamber was a shrine to chaos—scrolls of forbidden rites, vials of blackened blood, and a single, massive mirror that reflected nothing but shadow.

Rama knelt before it, his beads clicking, his voice a guttural chant.

"Tanzil'Uddunya… Infinite Mahayana…"

The mirror rippled.

And then—

She appeared.

Nikita, the Russian witch who had shattered his soul realm a decade prior. Her silver hair cascaded like frozen lightning, her lips painted the color of fresh blood.

"Rama," she sneered, her voice like poisoned honey. "Still licking Orsini’s boots?"

Rama’s chuckle was low, unhinged. "No, my dear. I’ve found something better."

He pressed a hand to the glass, the image shifting to show Vasudeva Mahayana—his crimson eyes glowing, his ring pulsing with stolen power.

Nikita’s breath hitched.

"A true soul realm…"

Rama’s grin was feral. "And he doesn’t even know what he has."

Nikita’s fingers traced the glass, her nails leaving frost in their wake. "Bring him to me."

Rama bowed. "Oh, I will."

The mirror shattered.

And the Mad Monk laughed.

The Trap – A Monk’s Gambit

Rama’s next move was already in motion.

The Moretti family—old man Kasimir’s crumbling empire—was the perfect bait.

A whispered rumor here.

A staged betrayal there.

And soon, the Bratva’s young master would challenge the Morettis to a blood duel—one that would leave both factions weakened, ripe for Orsini’s takeover.

But Rama had his own plans.

He would lure Vasudeva into the fray.

Let the guru’s soul realm clash with the Bratva’s berserkers, the Morettis’ assassins.

And when Vasudeva was at his weakest—

Rama would strike.

Not for Orsini.

Not for Nikita.

But for himself.

For transcendence.