Page 12

LUCA

“ C ut the sentimental bullshit and give me the numbers,” I say, my voice slicing through the room, tinged with annoyance. We’re in my office, housed within the estate. The long table is littered with reports and bank statements.

Breakfast was a disaster, thanks to that bastard defecting to a rival family and being slick about it.

The look on Valentina’s face after I handled it didn’t help.

She’s still new to this life, and I don’t blame her for being shaken.

But being my wife means facing all of it.

The beauty, the privilege, and the moments when loyalty has to be enforced with steel.

Marco’s hand pauses mid-gesture, the unlit cigarette between his fingers hovering over a neat stack of documents. His sharp blue eyes flick to me, narrowing slightly, before he leans back in his chair with deliberate ease.

“Four million,” he says flatly, “lost last quarter. At least half of that’s on the Rossi interference.”

The Rossis are old money from Naples, the kind that survived fascism by shaking the right hands and burying the rest. Their roots run deep; banking, ports, old smuggling lines dressed up as family shipping businesses.

For decades, they played respectable, laundering blood through linen and wine.

That is, until I took over Nuova Speranza and made everyone bend the knee.

They still like to stir the pot on occasion, though, and the man I killed at breakfast gave them what they needed, shipment schedules, warehouse codes, even the names of a few men we trusted.

Enough to coordinate an ambush at the docks.

We lost men. We lost ground. And now we’re bleeding money for it.

I drum my fingers on the edge of the table, the sound rhythmic and unyielding in the otherwise tense silence. Four million. It’s not the money that bothers me, it’s the insult. The audacity.

Dante lets out a low whistle, lounging like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Well, that’s one hell of a slap to the face.”

I glare at him. “A slap would imply they have the guts to get close. This was a swipe from the shadows. Cowardly.”

Adriano shifts in his seat, his jaw tightening. “Then we hit back. Take one of their shipments. Make them bleed the way we’ve bled.”

The room stills as I let his words hang in the air. There’s a part of me that wants to say yes, to unleash the chaos that simmers beneath my skin and make the Rossis regret ever crossing me. But impulsive actions aren’t how you build empires.

“No,” I say, my tone measured. “We don’t react like children in a schoolyard fight. We outmaneuver them. The East Docks.”

Dante sits up a little straighter, the smirk vanishing from his face. Marco exchanges a glance with Adriano, and I can almost see the gears turning in their heads.

“They’re still in talks with the Rossis,” Marco says carefully.

“They won’t be by the end of tonight,” I reply. “The docks are shorter, more secure, and with the right…incentives, we can ensure they’re exclusively ours.”

“And if the Rossis catch wind of it?” Adriano asks, his expression darkening.

“Let them,” I say, leaning forward, my elbows on the table. “By the time they realize what’s happening, it’ll be too late. They’ll have no choice but to scramble while we take control.”

The room tilts toward anticipation, a quiet hunger rising between glances and silences.

This is why they follow and trust me, not just because I demand loyalty, but because I deliver results.

“Marco,” I continue, my voice steady, “you’ll finalize the secondary contracts.

Adriano, you’ll be on-site tonight. Visible. ”

Adriano’s lips curl into a satisfied grin. “My favorite kind of assignment.”

“Dante?” I glance at him, already anticipating the sarcastic remark.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, waving a hand. “Stay out of trouble. Got it.”

I let the faintest hint of a smirk touch my lips before standing, the scrape of my chair against the floor signaling the end of the discussion. “We leave shortly. Be ready.”

The warehouse is cavernous and cold, the kind of place that smells perpetually of rust and salt no matter how clean it’s kept. The sound of waves crashing against the docks filters through the open loading bays, mingling with the low murmur of voices as the dock owners shuffle nervously.

They stiffen when I walk in, their eyes darting to my face and then quickly away, as if looking too long might incite something dangerous. Smart.

Marco steps forward, documents in hand, his movements crisp and efficient. Adriano hangs back by the entrance, his presence a deliberate warning. I take my time crossing the floor, letting the weight of each step echo against the steel walls.

The leader of the group—a wiry man in his fifties with a weathered face and the kind of hands that have known hard labor—steps forward hesitantly.

“Mr. Salvatore,” he says, his voice thick with courtesy. “We’re honored you’d come personally.”

Strike one against the Rossis is to show up in person, letting them know I take my deals seriously.

“Good,” I reply, clasping my hands behind my back. “Then let’s not waste time.”

Marco lays the documents on a nearby crate, and the negotiations begin. It’s straightforward, my men having done the groundwork beforehand. Terms are reviewed, agreements are made, and signatures are scrawled across dotted lines.

I keep my gaze fixed on the dock owners, watching for the slightest hesitation, the faintest flicker of doubt. It doesn’t come.

When the final paper is signed, the lingering unease breaks like a dam. The dock owners exchange relieved glances, muttering quiet goodbyes as they shuffle out into the night.

Marco approaches, his expression gleeful. “Efficient,” he says.

“As it should be,” I reply, my gaze lingering on the dark water beyond the loading bays. The deal is done, but the unease remains, a whisper in the back of my mind. The Rossis won’t let this go unanswered, and I need to be ready when they make their move.

“Adriano,” I call, turning toward him.

He straightens instantly. “Boss?”

“Double the security on this route. I want eyes on every corner, on every shipment. If a fly so much as lands on one of our crates, I want to know.”

He nods, already pulling out his phone to relay my orders.

Marco claps me on the shoulder as we head toward the car. “Another win.”

“For now,” I say.

And in this business, “for now” is the best you can hope for.

The affair at the docks is over, but we haven’t finished what we set out to do.

There’s been movement in the rail corridor north of Campobello, just a few quiet payments from Rossi-linked fronts, funneled into a logistics shell that’s been dormant for five years.

It could be nothing, but it could also be everything.

The Rossis still have old money, and old money doesn’t sit idle when its pride gets bruised.

If they’re trying to rebuild their trade routes on land, I need to catch it before it gains traction and before they find their footing again.

I send Marco to the estate to check on Valentina, and Adriano goes with him.

Two of my other men, Rami and Fede ride with me, both handpicked, both quiet in the way that matters.

They don’t ask questions when I pull off the main road and kill the headlights.

The warehouse squats ahead of us in the dark, low and sprawling, tucked between the rusted bones of a rail yard and a weed-choked service road.

It looks abandoned, but the dust on the gate latch is fresh, and someone’s cleared the gravel just enough to drive a truck through without drawing attention.

I don’t like it. Nothing about this place feels accidental.

I motion for silence, and we move in through the side entrance, weapons drawn, boots soundless over cracked cement.

It’s cold inside, the space carrying that faint funk of stillness.

The structure is bare, no crates, no forklifts, no paperwork.

Just open space and scaffolding, as if someone meant to stage a shipment here and then changed their mind.

I walk the perimeter, checking for signs of life.

Rami moves left. Fede holds the rear. I crouch near a stack of broken pallets, run my fingers along the ground.

There’s no dust where there should be. Tracks curve into the center of the space and disappear behind a canvas tarp.

Someone’s been here, and not too long ago.

And they didn’t bother to cover their exit.

Bang bang bang!

The shot comes without warning. Rami drops before I even register the sound, a tight impact to the chest that folds him backward with a dull grunt.

Fede shouts something, half a curse, half a warning, but it dies in his throat as a second shot hits him clean through the neck.

His weapon clatters to the ground. I don’t have time to think.

I dive behind a concrete pillar, the air splitting open with the stutter of suppressed gunfire.

My pulse thunders against my skull as I return fire, quick and low, just enough to make them hesitate.

There’s no cover here. No elevation. No line of retreat.

This was never an inspection. This was a trap.

Pain sears through my shoulder as a bullet grazes the skin there.

It’s not a major injury, but enough to slow me down.

Somehow, I push myself behind the forklift, breath hissing through my teeth.

Somewhere to my right, a man is moving. It’s clear he’s not here to kill me.

This is a message being delivered. "Don’t take what’s not yours," an unbothered voice says, like we’re discussing business.

"We won’t be this kind next time." The sound of boots retreating tells me they’re leaving.

I’m down two good men. Rage floods my system, but I didn’t win over this city with anger.

Anger makes you foolish, pushes you to act on impulse, and nothing kills quicker than impulse.

I grimace as I press the palm of my uninjured hand to my shoulder and make my way out, and into the car.

The drive back to the estate isn’t easy, but what’s more bothersome is the way the guards at the gates straighten, their eyes widening as they take in the state of me—bloodied, disheveled, and alone.

My men scramble to meet me as I cross the threshold. One of them steps forward, his hands outstretched like he’s about to help, but I wave him off with a sharp gesture. “I’m fine,” I snap, swatting away assistance. They hesitate, exchanging uncertain glances, but they don’t press.

I make my way through the grand halls, the familiar opulence doing little to soothe the storm raging in my mind. My thoughts churn with the implications of the night’s events. This wasn’t just a botched negotiation. It was a betrayal.

Someone knew about the meeting, about our plans.

Someone wanted to send a message, and didn’t care about possible fallout.

But that doesn’t erase the cost. I reach the study, pushing the door open with more force than necessary.

The room is dark, the only light coming from the faint glow of the city skyline beyond the window.

I pour a glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light as it swirls in the crystal tumbler.

The first sip burns, the second sip layers clarity on that burn.

I’m not going to respond to this surgically.

It’d be wiser to watch them first, snare them in before I go for the kill.

The sound of footsteps behind me pulls me from my thoughts.

I turn, expecting Marco or Adriano with a report.

But it’s not either of them. And I am not prepared for what happens next.

It’s Valentina, standing near the arched window, framed by the pale moonlight streaming in from outside.

Her silhouette is delicate yet unyielding, her posture straight despite the weight of the world I’ve dropped on her shoulders.

For a moment, the chaos in my head quiets.

The fire, the blood, the disappointment, all of it fades into the background, replaced by the light in her eyes.

She’s moving before I can speak, her dress flowing behind her as she rushes toward me.