The storm had been building for weeks, a tension that seeped into every corner of the DeLuca estate, humming beneath the chandeliers and behind the polished marble walls. It began as whispers, subtle shifts in loyalty that most would dismiss as paranoia. But Luca had ruled too long, fought too many wars, and buried too many enemies to ignore the signs.
And yet, he didn't know the rot was growing inside his own blood.
Matteo DeLuca sat in the dim corner of a luxury penthouse on the edge of Milan, swirling a glass of scotch he hadn't touched. The room smelled of money and menace, cigar smoke curling through the air, leather chairs arranged in a semi-circle, and the kind of silence that only men with too much power and too much blood on their hands could command.
