His innocent wife is a dangerous hacker.

Chapter 793 Stalker

A strange glint flashed in Bella’s eyes as she walked inside. She let her shoulders slump and let her face twist into something scared and lost.

"Mira? Mira, where are you?" she shouted, her voice echoing off the crumbling walls and bouncing back at her from the shadows. The warehouse was vast and cold, the ceilings high and lost in darkness. She looked around wildly, her eyes darting from corner to corner, from shadow to shadow, from broken window to rusted pillar.

But her focus was on the staircase at the far end of the room, the one that led to the second floor where the tracker on her phone had placed Mira’s signal.

She calmed herself down. Breathed in. Breathed out. Steady and slow. She could not afford to panic. Panic made people stupid. Panic made people dead.

"Mira?" she shouted again, louder this time, her voice cracking just enough to sound real, just enough to sell the act.

Then the door slammed shut behind her.

The sound was heavy and final, like a cage locking. Dust shook from the ceiling and floated down in gray clouds.

Bella spun around. A man stood in the shadows near the entrance, his figure barely visible in the dim light that filtered through the broken windows.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed entirely in black. His hands were clasped behind his back, and his head was tilted slightly, like he was studying her, like she was a painting in a gallery and he was trying to decide if he liked it.

"Finally," he said, his voice smooth, almost playful, almost mocking. "You’re by my side, my butterfly. Leo would be so pissed off hearing how foolishly you came here without protection."

The dim light flickered on, revealing his face.

Samuel Davis.

His blonde hair was styled neatly, every strand in place. His blue eyes were bright and sharp, the kind of eyes that seemed to see everything and judge everything. His jaw was strong, his lips curved into a smile that did not reach his eyes. He looked handsome, the way a snake could look beautiful before it struck.

He laughed as he walked toward her, his shoes silent on the dusty floor.

Foolish? Bella thought, her eyes narrowing behind her mask of fear. Haha. You did something foolish. You delivered yourself right in front of me.

She kept her face scared, her body tense, her hands trembling just enough to sell the act. But inside, she was smirking. Inside, she was already thinking ten steps ahead.

Samuel circled her slowly, his eyes trailing over her face, her hair, her dress.

"You know what, a beautiful, charming girl like you just needs a small weakness," he said. "Your friend, for example, and you come running without protection. Same thing happened in a movie. I didn’t expect it to happen in real life."

He stopped in front of her, his head tilted, his blue eyes boring into hers.

He was wearing a black shirt and black trousers. White gloves covered his hands, pristine and spotless, like he had put them on just for this meeting. Everything about him was too neat and deliberate. Like he was trying to copy someone.

Why does he feel like he’s copying Leo? Bella thought. It’s creepy. It’s like looking at a bad photograph of someone you know.

Samuel’s smile widened. "Oh, butterfly. I don’t want to harm you. Why don’t you become my woman and leave that fucker Leo?"

He stepped closer.

"That dude stole my dad’s first love. Your mother-in-law, Lina. He made my dad’s life hell." His voice grew darker, colder, the playfulness draining away like water from a cracked glass. "From the day I was born, he was training me to fight with his rival’s son. I hate Leo. He snatched my childhood. He snatched everything. I will not let him snatch my love, my butterfly."

His aura shifted, turning dark and heavy, pressing against Bella like a physical weight.

Samuel’s mind drifted back. Not to a single memory, but to a lifetime of them. A childhood that was not a childhood. A father who was not a father. A home that was never a home.

He remembered being five years old.

His mother was still alive then. She was a beautiful gentle woman, he loved her so much. She was his whole life. She would sing to him at night, old songs from her own childhood, and he would fall asleep with his head on her chest, listening to her heartbeat. It was the only time he felt safe. The only time he felt loved. The only time he felt like a child instead of a project.

Then his father killed her.

Pablo had called him into the living room one evening. Samuel remembered the cold floor under his bare feet, the way the old wooden planks creaked with each step. He remembered the smell of whiskey and cigarette smoke, thick and choking, like the room itself was dying. His mother was kneeling in the center of the room, her hands tied behind her back with coarse rope that had rubbed her skin raw. Her face was wet with tears, her lips moving in silent prayer.

"Watch," his father had said.

And Samuel watched.

His father shot his mother between the chest. The sound was deafening, a crack that seemed to split the world in two. She fell forward, her body crumpling onto the carpet like a discarded doll. The blood spread slowly, dark and thick, soaking into the fibers, creeping toward Samuel’s bare feet. He remembered the way her eyes stayed open, staring at nothing, looking at something he could not see.

He remembered thinking that she looked surprised. Like she had not expected him to actually do it.

His father had knelt beside him and placed a heavy hand on his shoulder. The hand was warm, surprisingly warm, and it smelled of gunpowder.

"You have to become stronger," he had said. His voice was calm, almost gentle, like he was explaining something simple. "Feelings are weakness. Love is weakness. She made you weak, so I made her gone. Now you will be strong."

Samuel did not cry. He had learned not to cry. Crying meant punishment. Crying meant more training. Crying meant his father would find new ways to make him hurt.

From that day on, his father trained him. Not like a son, but like a weapon, a tool, a machine designed for one purpose.

Hours of fighting. Hours of studying. Hours of being compared to a boy he had never met, a shadow that loomed over his entire life.

Leonardo Moretti.

His father kept a file on Leo. Thick, bulging, filled with photographs, reports, and handwritten notes. Leo’s grades. Leo’s physical strength. Leo’s fighting style. Leo’s girlfriend, classmate, friend. Everything Leo did, Samuel was expected to do better.