Page 2

LUCA

A few hours ago

It’s incredibly early, but the whiskey is flowing.

My leather chair creaks as I lean back, fingers steepled under my chin.

The room is dim. A faint aftertaste of tobacco lingers from a cigar I set aside a while ago.

My private study is all dark wood and muted light, walls lined with shelves of books no one expects me to have read.

A large mahogany desk dominates the space, cluttered with papers, maps, and a tablet streaming live security feeds from the city.

Nuova Speranza sprawls before me in shades of gray on the screen, a labyrinth of power and corruption, every shadow hiding another secret. My city. A king rules his kingdom, not for glory, but for control. And control is everything.

“Luca,” Marco says, his voice pulling me back.

I glance at him from beneath my lashes. My younger brother, leaner than me, sits across the desk.

He’s nursing a tumbler of whiskey, his tie slightly loosened, his expression marked with the same fire I’ve seen in him since we were boys.

“The chief is bleeding us dry,” Marco continues, sliding a report across the desk.

“He’s stolen half a million meant for the food programs in the East Side alone. And that’s just the tip of it.”

The whiskey glimmers with each idle turn of my wrist, smooth as my thoughts. “What else?”

Adriano, my lieutenant, speaks up from the corner, his tone clipped. “His pockets are full, but it’s not just about the money. He’s sloppy. Greedy. He’s letting the Rossi family move in on the port district under his nose.”

Adriano is always eager for blood. His temper can make him predictable, but his loyalty is unwavering. He leans against the wall now, his arms crossed, dark eyes narrowed like a predator waiting for the kill order.

I set the glass down carefully. It clinks against the polished wood. “This city doesn’t run on greed.” My voice is soft in the way that makes men listen. “It runs on fear and respect. The chief has forgotten that.”

“Do you want me to handle it?” Adriano asks, his tone barely masking his anticipation.

“Not you,” I say, cutting him off. His face falls, but he nods sullenly. I turn my gaze to Marco. “This isn’t just about replacing him. It’s about the message. Quiet, clean, and effective. Remove him without making waves.”

Marco tilts his head, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got someone in mind already, don’t you?”

I nod. Of course I do. A king doesn’t order chaos without knowing how to control the aftermath. “Domenico,” I say. “He’s ambitious, loyal to the right people, and knows how to get his hands dirty without leaving a mess.”

“And the community projects?” Marco presses, though he knows the answer.

“They continue,” I reply curtly, leaving no room for doubt. “The people eat, their children go to school, and they remember who made it happen.”

Marco leans back, satisfied, and Adriano does his best to mask his disappointment, clearly annoyed that his trigger finger won’t be put to use.

It’s not about the chief himself. He’s a pawn in a much larger game.

Nuova Speranza belongs to the Salvatores, and under my watch, it will not fall into ruin.

Power without purpose is wasted. I’ve built this empire not on petty thievery or indulgent violence but on precision, strategy, and a singular vision.

A king protects his people, even when they don’t know it.

“The Rossi family,” Marco says, breaking the flow of my thoughts. “They’ve been growing bold. If the chief was turning a blind eye, there’s a reason. Could be they’re testing boundaries, seeing where we’re weak.”

“They won’t find any weaknesses,” I say evenly, my gaze fixed on the screen.

“Not yet,” Marco agrees, but his tone carries a warning. “If they sense the slightest crack?—”

“They won’t,” I cut in, standing. The chair groans faintly behind me, my shadow stretching long across the room as I tower over the desk.

Marco and Adriano both fall silent, their eyes on me. “Let them test,” I say, my voice like iron. “Let them look until their greed and ambition brings them straight to us,” I pause, a grim smile curling my lips, “so that when we act, it isn’t simply out of violence, but violence that’s fair.”

The room is quiet except for the faint drone of the security feed. Marco tips his glass in acknowledgment, his respect clear in the glint of his eyes.

“You’ll handle the chief,” I say, addressing Marco directly. “By nightfall.”

“And Domenico?”

“Put him in place by morning. Quietly.”

Marco nods, his expression thoughtful, and Adriano smirks faintly, already relishing the fallout.

I turn back to the screen, my reflection ghosting across the cityscape.

“Dismissed,” I say without looking at them.

Marco and Adriano leave without a word, the heavy door shutting behind them.

Alone in the study, I reach for the chessboard at the corner of the desk.

The pieces are carved from dark onyx and pale ivory, worn smooth from years of handling.

I move the black bishop two squares forward, nudging it into position near the queen. A sacrifice is coming. There always is.

The map of Nuova Speranza lies open beneath a layer of marked documents—routes, debts, alliances hanging by a thread. Everything is a pattern, and everyone a piece. It always comes down to strategy. Who moves first. Who bleeds out.

Then comes a knock at the door. “Enter,” I say.

Luciano, my capo, bursts in, his face twisted with barely restrained fury. He doesn’t wait for permission to speak, tossing a thick file onto my desk. “Antonio Russo is dead.”

I pick up the file without a word, flipping it open. The sight of his lifeless body in the photographs doesn’t stir pity, only a faint annoyance which deepens as I skim the report, each detail confirming what I already knew would happen.

Antonio Russo was a man with no discipline, no sense of self-preservation.

A gambler who traded loyalty for whiskey and debts for desperation.

He had been useful once, a conduit of information from the Rossi family’s underbelly.

But he squandered his value, just like he squandered everything else. “Cause?” I ask, casting the file aside.

Luciano leans forward, his hands gripping the back of the chair opposite me. “Looks like a robbery. At least, that’s what the cops will say. But we both know better.”

My fingers tap slowly on the edge of the desk. Antonio Russo’s death isn’t unexpected, but it’s inconvenient. Men like him don’t live long in my world. They’re too reckless and weak. And weakness is contagious if left unchecked.

“The debt,” I murmur, my gaze fixed on the file.

Luciano’s mouth twitches. Before he can answer, Adriano storms in. “Did you hear?—”

I cut him off with a nod. Adriano looks at Luciano, then back at me. “His debt is unresolved. Half a million, boss. The bastard died owing us half a million.”

I massage my temple in slow circles. In my world, debts are not forgotten.

They are paid in blood, in loyalty, in currency.

Anything less is an insult to the Salvatores and everything we stand for.

Marco enters then. He glances at Adriano, then at the file in my hands.

He doesn’t need to ask what’s happening.

“This complicates things,” he says, his voice calm although I know him well enough to gauge he’s boiling underneath.

“No,” I say, closing the file with a snap. “It clarifies things.”

Marco raises an eyebrow but waits for me to continue.

“Antonio was a coward,” I say, standing and circling the desk. The leather of my shoes taps against the hardwood floor as I move. “He ran from his responsibilities every chance he got. I gave him time; more than he deserved. And now, he’s left his debts to rot.”

Marco’s head tilts just a fraction, the way it does when he’s turning over his thoughts. “Letting this slide sends the wrong message.”

“To everyone,” Adriano adds, his scowl deepening. “The Rossis will take it as a sign of weakness. Even our own people will start to wonder if you’ve gone soft.”

I let my gaze settle on my brother. “What would you do?”

Marco gestures toward the file. “Collect what’s owed from the family. Valentina Russo, his daughter. She’s all that’s left. She works above that gallery downtown. Quiet, modest, pretty.”

“And the mother?”

“Old, fragile, and useless.”

I nod slowly, the pieces clicking into place. It’s not just about the money. It’s about principle. In the mafia, principles are everything. “Set the arrangements.”

Marco watches me carefully, his expression curious. “You’re planning to attend the funeral?”

“Yes.”

Adriano lets out a low whistle, his surprise evident. “You? At Russo’s funeral? That’ll turn some heads.”

It’ll also let the world know I don’t let things slide on the grounds of sentimentality. That’s how you lose control, first with exceptions, then with excuses. One moment of softness becomes precedent and before long, people start mistaking mercy for weakness.

“Good.”

Rain begins to fall as the sleek black sedan pulls up to the cemetery. The rhythmic drum of water on the roof is almost soothing as I watch from inside, my men stepping out to assess the scene.

I don’t move immediately. Instead, I let my gaze scan the mourners through the misted glass until it lands on Valentina Russo.

She stands beside the casket, her sleek hair damp from the rain, her chin held high despite the grief etched into her face.

She is smaller than I expected, delicate even, but there’s a strength in the way she holds herself, a quiet defiance that catches my attention.

When she steps away from the group and approaches my men, I lean forward, intrigued.

The way she speaks to them, firm and unwavering, is a rare thing in my world.

“Impressive,” Marco murmurs from the seat beside me, following my gaze.