Lorenzo's POV:
Blood soaked the concrete, pooling beneath Sergio's knees like spilled wine in a church. His mouth moved in desperate prayer, Italian slurs tripping over his split lips.
"Signore De Luca… non volevo tradirti," (Lord De Luca..... I didn't mean to betray you). he whimpered, his voice breaking. I didn't mean to betray you. Pathetic.
Fifty million dollars' worth of my cocaine, sold to the Albanians, and he thought begging would save him.
I tilted my head, watching him tremble in the dim light of the warehouse. My men stood silent around us, shadows in leather jackets, their eyes fixed on me. The air stank of rust and fear, the kind that clung to traitors. Sergio's hands were bound, his face swollen from Luca's fists. He'd been my father's man once, loyal until greed turned him stupid.
"Do you know what I hate most, Sergio?" I asked, my voice low, cutting through his sobs like a blade. I stepped closer, my boots echoing on the cold floor. "It's not betrayal. It's stupidity."
He nodded frantically, blood dripping from his mouth. "S-sì, stupido. I was stupid. Capo, per favore…" (Boss, please).
I raised one finger. The room went deathly still. My men knew the gesture, one bullet, no hesitation. Luca, my right hand, stepped forward, silencer already screwed onto his Glock. Sergio's eyes widened, a final plea choking in his throat.
The shot was soft, a muted thwip. Sergio slumped forward, his cheek hitting the concrete, blood spreading like a dark halo. I lit a cigarette, the flame flickering in the damp air.
"Clean it up," I said, exhaling smoke. "Burn the body. Scatter the ashes in Lake Como. Let his wife think he ran off with a whore."
Luca gave a short nod. "Capito." (understood).
I turned and walked out into the night, the cold biting my jaw. The warehouse lights flickered behind me, casting long shadows across the docks.
This was my empire, ports, guns, drugs, money—all mine, built on blood still drying on my hands. My father was shot during dinner, betrayed by his own brother. My uncle tried to claim the throne. I put two bullets in his mouth and fed his body to the wolves in Russia. Mercy wasn't my currency. Power was.
But power is a cage, even one made of gold and corpses. I'd learned that the hard way.
Later, I stood in my penthouse, shirtless, a glass of whiskey in one hand, the city lights glittering below like a million lies. Naples sprawled beneath me, my kingdom, but tonight it felt like a noose. My phone buzzed on the glass table, Luca's name flashing.
"What?" I answered, my voice rough from smoke and silence.
"There's a new girl at Club Serpent," Luca said, his tone amused, like he was sharing a dirty secret. "She wears a mask, dances like the devil's favorite sin. You'll like her."
"I don't care about whores," I said, swirling the whiskey, ice clinking against crystal.
"She's not a whore," he countered, a grin in his voice. "She's… something else. I couldn't look away."
I snorted, leaning against the balcony railing. "You're too easily impressed, Luca."
"Maybe. But she's your type. Dangerous, Beautiful, and unreachable."
"You think I have a type?" I asked, my tone sharp but curious.
He laughed. "You like the kind that might kill you in your sleep."
I didn't laugh back. Maybe he was right. I ended the call and drained the whiskey, the burn sharp in my throat. Something twisted in my chest, a flicker, a whisper. That is curiosity. It was rare for me, rarer still for it to linger.
I turned back to the skyline, my reflection faint in the glass. Who the fuck was she?.
----
Dinner at the De Luca estate was a ritual, not a meal. Thirteen seats at the long glass table, only five occupied. We didn't eat like a family; we ate like a court, each word a chess move, each glance a dagger.
At the head sat Nonna Blanca, my grandmother, the true matriarch. Her silver hair was pinned in a perfect coil, her lips blood-red to match her wine. Diamonds glittered at her throat, but her rosary hung heavier, a reminder of her faith in God, and her fear of me.
"Another man dead this week," she said, her fork slicing through lamb with surgical precision. "The papers call you impulsive, Lorenzo."
"I call it efficient," I replied, sipping my Chianti, the glass cool against my palm.
Across from me, my cousin Giuliano smirked, his golden-boy face masking the venom in his eyes. He thought the crown should've been his, thought bloodlines mattered more than loyalty. He'd kissed my ring when I took over, but his gaze screamed rebellion.
"Efficient," Giuliano echoed, his smile slow and sharp. "Six men in eight days. Even the Russians are trembling."
"They tremble because they remember what I did to Viktor's brother in St. Petersburg," I said, my voice cold. "I dragged him to the docks myself."
Nonna took a long sip of her wine, her eyes never leaving mine. "Men like you die young, Lorenzo."
"Men like me don't beg, Nonna."
Her lips twitched, not quite a smile. "Your father thought he was invincible too."
The words hit like a blade to the ribs. My father, betrayed at this very table, his blood soaking the tablecloth while I watched, too young to stop it. Nonna punished with memories, not slaps. I clenched my jaw, saying nothing.
My younger sister, Allegra, sat beside me, picking at her food, her dark eyes scanning the table like a hawk. She was the only one I trusted, not because she was soft, she wasn't, but because she saw everything and spoke only when it cut deep.
"You look distracted," she murmured, her voice low, for my ears only.
"I'm never distracted," I said, but my mind drifted to Luca's words. A masked dancer. Dangerous. Unreachable.
"Liar," Allegra said, her lips curving faintly.
I didn't answer. She was right.
After dinner, I walked the garden path behind the estate, the olive trees whispering in the dark. I lit another cigarette, the smoke curling into the night air.
This place was haunted, by my father, my uncle, the cousins I'd sent to the bottom of the sea. My empire was stone and secrets, and sometimes, I wondered if I was buried under it too.
My phone buzzed again. Luca, with a photo this time, blurry, stolen from Club Serpent's security cam. She had long legs, a black mask, thigh-high boots, curves wrapped in shadows. I zoomed in. Her face was hidden, but her body screamed control, chaos, power. She didn't dance for money. She danced to own the room.
For the first time in weeks, I smiled.
"Interesting," I muttered, crushing the cigarette under my boot.
Tomorrow, I'd visit Club Serpent. I'd meet this woman who moved like she could make a god kneel. And if she was as dangerous as Luca claimed, I'd find out what she was hiding.
Because no one played games in my city without my permission.