Chapter One
S ixteen months after Giancarlo's disappearance
Steam added a layer of mystery as Giancarlo stood under the shower, and cascading hot water added a sleek sheen to the muscled panes of his body. His hands were braced against the wall, his powerful back rigid as Sarica pressed her slender body against his. Her touch was shy at first as she explored the naked hardness of his chest, but everything changed when she heard him suck his breath as her fingers brushed against his nipples.
A soft laugh, followed by a more confident exploration of the rest of his body. Her hands dipped lower, but just as she was about to take his length in her hands—-
He turned around without warning, her gasp melting into his kiss as he hauled her close, his fingers digging into the tender flesh of her hips.
"Giancarlo..."
The sound of his Sarica moaning his name drove him crazy, hunger consuming him as he pushed her up against the wall. But just as he was about to enter her and lose himself in the tight little channel of her womanhood—-
GIANCARLO'S HEART WAS still pounding as he stared at his surroundings in disbelief.
No steam.
No shower.
And worst of all, no Sarica.
The old him would've cursed up a storm at this point. But all he could do now was drag breath into his lungs as he struggled to regain control over his emotions.
It was always like this.
Night after night after night.
Sarica haunting his dreams...the way she shadowed his every waking moment.
How long, God?
How long?
A king who went by the name of David had groaned these words out in his pain, thinking that God had forgotten him.
But what Giancarlo wanted was the opposite.
How long, God?
How long before he could forget Sarica existed?
He stepped out onto the balcony. Breathed the desert air of Kivr. But unlike before, its mix of sun and sand was no longer enough to wipe out lingering memories of his old life from his mind. Before him stretched the capital of Kivr, one of the most ancient and greatest jewels of the Arabian peninsula.
But all he could see was her.
And all he could feel was a dull ache in that space which she used to occupy in his heart.
He turned away as the city came to life.
Even for a man like him whom the whole world believed was dead—-
There were still things he had to do.
Royal balls that he had to attend.
And battles that he had to fight, with his own bare hands if need be.
GOLDEN LIGHT SPILLED from crystal chandeliers, casting a soft, luxurious glow that belied the room’s deadly purpose. One-meter-thick titanium walls encased shelves stocked with the newest and deadliest weapons while bespoke combat gear gleamed behind glass-door closets. It was a place where elegance met lethality, but it was also a room that only those able to withstand the triple threats of power, peril, and pressure were able to enter.
The fifty-something retired major nearly smiled as Giancarlo Marchetti entered the changing room in a tuxedo and emerged less than a minute later, still dressed to kill—but this time, literally.
It reminded him of vigilante superheroes, those who shed their daytime personas in a flash to become something darker, more violent.
Bruce to Batman? Only if Giancarlo was a womanizer, which he never was.
Oliver Queen to Arrow? Possibly, but for this Giancarlo would have to be a womanizer still.
Clark Kent to Superman? Only someone terribly foolish would assume Giancarlo's soft-spoken ways also meant he was mild-mannered...and an idiot, Naaman certainly was not.
Naaman tried to think of other comparisons, but he realized in the end that it was the good people of Boston, whose city Giancarlo's famiglia still ruled, that put it best.
Giancarlo Marchetti was the mafia's modern-day white knight, and even in the darkest of times, his honor would never be sacrificed on the altar of necessity, regardless of the cost.
The door to the armory slid open, and Naaman immediately bowed as Sheikh Nassif Al-Mansouri strode in. The sheikh was the creative and business force behind Insihaam, a billion-dollar atelier that clothed the world’s elite in wearable art. To the public, he was a tyrant and a genius, his sharp tongue leaving models and clients in tears. But few knew of his secret collaboration with the royal army of Kivr—or his decades-long friendship with the former heir of New England’s most powerful famiglia .
"You’ve done it again, Giancarlo," Nassif drawled. "Caused a stir at the royal ball even without showing your face...or uttering a single word."
Giancarlo only shrugged. He had attended the ball to show his gratitude to the royal family. It was because of them he was able to hide in plain sight, and in return, he had been more than willing to lend both his skills and resources in fighting their shared enemies. "I wasn’t being deliberately mysterious."
"And that," Nassif said with a cynical smile, "is exactly why people find you so intriguing."
Giancarlo grunted, his attention fixed on the array of combat equipment laid out before him. He needed something destructive yet compact, but at the same time, something that could be easily concealed and cause minimal disturbance.
Nassif raised a brow. "I was under the impression tonight was about the mysterious Seijcut."
"It is."
"And yet you’re only considering weapons for disarming your enemy?"
"My curiosity has gotten the better of me," Giancarlo admitted with a shrug. "I want to know why this person placed a bounty on my head—"
"Even though the world thinks you’re dead?"
A humorless smile touched Giancarlo’s lips. "Doesn’t that make you curious too?"
"It depends. You have yet to tell me who helped arrange this meeting."
"We both know there’s no need. Nothing happens in this kingdom without you or your brothers knowing."
"Then the reports are true? You’re working with the informant caught at the border last week?"
"To call it a working relationship would be generous."
"Ah." Nassif’s emerald-green eyes glittered. "Were the usual methods applied to ensure his cooperation?"
"Your men were effectively persuasive."
"I assume the same methods convinced him to set up this meeting?"
Giancarlo inclined his head. "He was very cooperative after that."
"And that’s why you’re finally putting my newest creation to the test," Nassif said, gesturing to the bulletproof vest Giancarlo wore.
"I’m counting on it to be everything you promised."
"No other laboratory has come close to replicating this," Nassif stated matter-of-factly. "It’s lightweight, nearly invisible under even the finest silk, and—" He abruptly reached for a handheld gun and fired at a mannequin wearing the same vest.
Giancarlo removed the vest from the mannequin, inspecting it for damage. There was none.
"See for yourself, signore ," Nassif invited mockingly before turning to Naaman with a new set of instructions. "Keep an eye on our friend tonight. The royal army will want a full report. If he survives, we’ll begin mass production. If not..." He gave Giancarlo a courteous bow. "No expense will be spared for your funeral. Thank you for your service to our beloved kingdom."
AS GIANCARLO STEPPED into the night, the city of Cayed awaited—a slumbering beast by day, its windows shuttered, its streets empty and silent. But when the moon rose, the city came alive. Iron lanterns flickered to life, casting golden pools of light on cobblestone streets. Sandstone-walled alleys buzzed with activity as the night unlocked the hearts of its residents, freeing them to break every rule.
Cayed was a place beyond the reach of the royal army, a stronghold for the lords of crime. It was where the wicked thrived, where shadows whispered secrets, and where deals were struck in the dark. If you sought to do evil, there was only one place to go.
Cayed .
And Cayed alone.
DESERT-FACING MOSQUES chimed midnight as Giancarlo came face to face with the entity that had shaken the criminal underworld.
Why offer a hundred mil just for information about him?
And why offer another hundred if he were captured alive?
The name "Seijcut" seemed to hint at Japanese ancestry, but it was only after weeks' worth of studying the entity's every move did Giancarlo realize the name was a play on the word 'justice'...which consequently led to even more unanswered questions.
Was all of this retribution for a past wrong?
A vendetta against his famiglia ?
Or could Giancarlo represent unfinished business... since it was Seijcut who had attempted but failed to kill him the first time around?
The questions burned in Giancarlo’s mind as he studied the masked figure before him. They stared at each other...and then—-
Now!
Giancarlo lunged first, gaining a fleeting advantage.
But Seijcut recovered quickly, and what followed was a brutal dance of fists, blades, and kicks.
Each move was anticipated, every strike countered with precision.
It was as if they were reading each other’s minds, their movements mirroring one another in a deadly rhythm.
Finally, Giancarlo seized his moment.
He ripped the mask from Seijcut’s face, and even the darkness of the night held its breath as if even it dared not disturb the moment.
Why must it be you?