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LUCA

I step out of the doors, cutting off the sight of Valentina in the study. My pulse thrums in my ears, but my face remains a mask, for want of any other option. Power doesn’t allow cracks. Not even for this, not even at the thought of my child.

The corridor stretches ahead, a pristine gallery of hard-earned glory.

Marble gleams underfoot, and gold-veined walls are adorned with somber oil portraits of long-dead family members who would never have believed what I am today.

The door to Donna Maria’s chambers looms at the end of the hall.

Her room is more than a retreat; it’s a throne.

Even before I knock, I can hear the soft swish of her rosary beads, the faint whisper of prayer carried through the quiet.

I step inside without waiting for an answer.

Her domain is dark and luxurious, customized to suit her living preferences.

Heavy drapes block out the daylight, leaving only the dim glow of antique sconces.

Crimson velvet chairs flank a low table inlaid with ivory, a decanter of port resting untouched beside a crystal glass.

The walls are lined with shelves bearing religious icons and ancient books covering topics like power, international politics, and for some reason, sorcery.

Donna Maria looks up from her perch near the window, her black lace veil framing her face like a portrait of authority.

She sets her rosary aside with careful care, folding her hands in her lap.

“Luca,” she greets, her tone warm, but her knowing gaze misses nothing. “What troubles you?”

I stride to the chair opposite her but don’t sit. My hands find the backrest, fingers curling against the wood as I force the words out. “Valentina is pregnant.”

The silence that follows is as heavy as the room itself. Her dark eyes widen just a fraction before a smile touches her lips. “Ah,” she breathes, her voice laced with something that feels like pride—but also something else. Something colder. “A Salvatore heir.”

“Yes.” That word—heir. My heir.

Donna Maria rises, her movements fluid despite her years.

She steps closer, her hands brushing mine off the chair’s edge as she claims the space I didn’t offer.

“You should be proud, Luca. This is what a Salvatore king should dream of, continuity. Legacy. Bloodlines that will carry this empire forward. You spent so much of yourself building what we have now. There will be someone to carry it forward.”

Her words should ground me, but they don’t. Instead, they make my stomach twist.

“It’s not just about the name,” I say, my voice low.

“It’s about the life this child will have.

Growing up in the shadow of—” I cut myself off as a heavyness settles on my chest. Her hand comes to rest on my arm, the gesture soft and firm all at once.

“You’re thinking too much like a father and not enough like a don.

The two can coexist, mio figlio . They must.”

I look at her sharply, searching for cracks in her carefully constructed demeanor.

She’s pleased—of course, she is—but there’s a glint in her eye, a measure of calculation.

Donna Maria has always been a chess player, every move designed to fortify her position, even with her son. Especially with her son.

“It’s not just the empire anymore, Mother,” I say, stepping back and putting space between us. “This is my family now. Mine to protect.”

Even as I say the words, though, I know she will always put the empire first. She saw how much went into making it, after all.

The Salvatores were never part of the original power structure in Nuova Speranza.

For most of the twentieth century, the city was controlled by two dominant families: the Lombardis, who ran the docks, unions, and white-collar influence, and the Rossis, who handled narcotics, racketeering, and the police.

Between them, every contract, every business license, every elected official was spoken for.

The Salvatores existed on the periphery.

My father operated out of the industrial south side, managing shipping yards that no one wanted to claim.

He kept a low profile, running protection for textile warehouses and managing underground gambling halls where no Rossi dared set foot.

He wasn’t poor, but he wasn’t welcome at the Rossi or Lombardi tables either.

He built slow, careful wealth, investing in logistics, transport, and loyalty among the laborers no one else respected.

He kept clean books and quieter enemies.

He never challenged the old order, but he knew where it was weakest.

When the alliance between the Rossis and Lombardis began to unravel—first over a failed weapons shipment, then over a double-crossed judge—I stepped in.

I took what my father had built and weaponized it.

I backed the port workers when the unions splintered, offered protection and real wages when both old families tried to strong-arm the docks back into submission.

I offered the police what the Rossis couldn’t: consistent bribes and fewer public scandals.

The working-class businesses got something the Lombardis had never bothered to promise—protection without humiliation.

And when the Rossis retaliated with firebombings and the Lombardis sent enforcers to “remind” the city who was in charge, I made them pay for every move. Quietly, then brutally.

The Salvatores didn't win by tradition or bloodline. They won because when the city grew tired of the old families bleeding it dry, they turned to the only man who had done the work of actually holding it together. Me.

Donna Maria’s smile stays fixed in place, but her fingers tighten ever so slightly on the rosary still in her hand. “As it should be,” she murmurs. “But don’t forget what that means. Protection doesn’t come from softness. It comes from strength.”

I nod once, curtly, before turning on my heel. If she says anything more, I don’t hear it.

The hall outside feels colder, but the tension in my shoulders doesn’t ease. My mind churns with every possibility, every threat I can’t yet see but know is out there. I’ve spent my life building fortresses to keep my enemies out. Now I’ll build one to keep my family safe.

By the time I reach the main hall, my focus is razor-sharp. Valentina stands near the base of the staircase, her hand trailing along the smooth banister. The sight of her halts me in my tracks. The raw, unguarded innocence in her eyes makes my chest ache. She looks up, meeting my gaze.

I close the distance between us in a few quick, curt strides. “What are you doing out of the study?”

“I needed air,” she says, lifting her chin in defiance. “Not that it’s any of your concern.”

I stop in front of her, close enough to see the faint flush on her cheeks, the way her pulse quickens at her throat. “Everything you do is my concern when you’re carrying my child,” I reply, my voice dropping to a silken murmur.

Her lips part, but no retort comes. Instead, she holds my gaze. It’s maddening and mesmerizing all at once.

“Go back to your room,” I say quietly. “Rest. We’ll talk when you’re ready.”

For a moment, she hesitates, like she’s weighing the command against her own will. Then, with a small nod, she turns and ascends the stairs, leaving me alone at the foot of the staircase. My fingers twitch, aching to reach for her, but I let her go.

For now.

The next few days pass in a haze. I’m busy, incredibly so, which isn’t a bad thing, but the unrelenting tide of thoughts in my head makes it hard for me to focus.

There’s a cacophony of meetings and disputes over territory.

My office becomes my prison. The table is littered with maps, dossiers, and a bottle of scotch that I haven’t touched but keep pouring, the amber liquid a comfort I don’t indulge in.

The faces of my men are grim as we discuss the rival faction threatening to destabilize the delicate balance of our territories.

“They’ve hit three warehouses in the last week,” Marco growls, his hands braced against the edge of the table. My younger brother is barely containing his fury, his jaw clenched so tight I hear it pop. “We need to send a message, something that makes them regret taking a single step onto our turf.”

Adriano leans back in his chair, his face a portrait of annoyance battling with bloodlust. His grin is sharp, his eyes glittering with a cruel edge. “A message? No, we send an example. They don’t need to feel regret. They need to feel fear.”

The room hums with murmurs of agreement. These men—loyal, vicious, unrelenting—they’ve built my empire brick by bloody brick. Their solutions are predictable because this life demands brutality.

And yet...

Their voices fade into the background as my mind drifts, pulled away by a force I can’t control. I imagine a boy, small and wide-eyed, running through these very halls. But what kind of world will he inherit? One where every step he takes could be his last if the wrong person decides to strike?

“Luca.”

Marco’s voice slices through my thoughts. I blink, realizing the room has gone quiet. All eyes are on me.

I straighten, fixing them with a glare that dares them to question me.

“We don’t move yet,” I say, my voice cold.

“Not until we know who’s pulling the strings.

This isn’t just about retaliation—it’s about precision.

We strike when the time is right, and when we do, there won’t be anything left of them. ”

The meeting concludes, but the weight doesn’t lift.

Instead, it settles deeper into my chest, pressing against my ribs like a vice.

The next day, I find myself in the gym, pounding into a heavy bag with more force than necessary.

Each strike is a release, a desperate attempt to drown out the turmoil in my head.

My fists ache, the skin splitting under the relentless assault, but I don’t stop.