Temptation (Twisted Fate #1)
1. Prologue
Prologue
Fabrizio
K ings.
That’s how my father always envisioned himself and his three sons and heirs: merciless and sovereign, ruling an empire built of power, fear, and violence.
From our earliest days, he was adamant in telling us that our destiny was predetermined, our legacy inescapable.
Marcello, my older brother and the firstborn son , was being groomed to succeed our father and ascend to leadership when the time came, while my younger brother and I were molded into his unwavering supporters, reinforcing the power dynamics within our empire and ensuring the family’s power remained unchallenged.
We weren’t raised like every other kid. We were raised under the iron fist of a ruthless man, learning the values of loyalty, strength, and the brutal art of violence. He taught us to read people—their fears, their desires, and their weaknesses—like open books. He taught us to sense danger before it struck , and to never ever show weakness ourselves.
We were not allowed to falter, not even for a single moment.
But I did. And that’s why it wasn’t my father who taught me the harshest lesson of them all—it was life itself, showing me that procuring this way of life demands sacrifices.
And my greatest sacrifice was the reason I withdrew almost entirely from the better part of the family’s business and leaving behind a part of the man I was brought up to be.
At the age of thirty, suddenly confronted with the dual burden of widowhood and single fatherhood, I had to reinvent myself. While feeling lonelier, angrier, and bloodthirstier than ever before, I vowed to shield my two-year-old children from experiencing the loss of their remaining parent.
This pivotal moment in my life, my personal tragedy, set the course for my family toward extending our power through legitimate business ventures.
The transition was neither swift nor simple—not for me, and certainly not for my family.
My father has yet to accept my pursuit of a safer future for my children—a future where they might grow up without the weight of our name casting a dark shadow over their lives.
I dream of them living a life surrounded by friends who don’t ask for favors, with teachers who don’t whisper warnings to their parents. I wish for them a future that wasn’t predetermined by their surname.
They should never know the burden of a name that can open doors and close coffins.
Instead, they should know love, kindness, and the warmth of a world untainted by the sins of their father.
But this will remain just that—a dream.
The foundations for a legitimate empire had long been laid through a multitude of businesses, allowing our illicit ones to flourish further in their shadows. The chain of nightclubs scattered throughout the city remained our main turnover point for the “party favors” that lined our pockets. Managing those proved to be an acceptable compromise, as it ensured that I would always be required to play my part in the family’s business while keeping my distance from our enemies as well as law enforcement.
This arrangement ensures I can witness my children’s innocent laughter and unguarded smiles as they grow up.
Still, it is a delicate balancing act, one that often leaves me with far too little time to spend with them.
And despite all my efforts to walk the fine, blurring line between light and darkness, I will never be able to shed my true nature.
After years of watching my brothers from the sidelines, stepping back into my former role brings a peculiar sense of comfort and empowerment.
As I stride into one of our restaurants to meet Diego Albizzi, waiting for me in a corner booth at the far end of the room, a familiar sensation courses through my veins.
Diego rises to his feet as soon as he sees me approaching, greeting me with a warm smile and a twinkle in his dark eyes.
Our meeting starts with pleasantries, an ornate dance of civility overlaying the real conversation about allegiances and influences we’re here to have.
Once we get into the topic of our business discussion, it’s concluded expeditiously; Diego, after all, has been deep-rooted in our family dealings for over three decades. He knows his role and place well enough.
By the time our lunch is served, he has assured me more than once and with conviction swinging in his voice that his previous underperforming figures are already back on the rise and that the recent botched incident with one of our cargo ships was merely an isolated stroke of misfortune—nothing of concern for us.
Raising my empty glass in her direction, I catch the waitress’s attention; she acknowledges my request with a swift smile and a curt nod.
“I have to confess; I was somewhat surprised that you are meeting me today,” muses my father’s old confidant and business associate as he savors a bite of steak.
The meat on Diego’s fork glistens under the dim overhead light—like blood under the moon—an image eternally etched into my memory. It follows me, indelible, even after years away from that kind of violence—especially since the last blood shed before my eyes was my wife’s.
“It’s a rare occurrence and will most likely stay that way,” I explain, my voice gravelly, a sense of detachment swinging in my tone.
The only reason for my presence is to do my brother a favor.
Since my father finally ceded control of his empire to Marcello, a swarm of opportunists has emerged, eager to gain favor. They come bearing business proposals and parading their daughters, nieces, and granddaughters, hoping to entwine their families with ours.
They continue wasting his time, but there’s a fine line between allies and enemies that must be balanced carefully.
“I understand. I really do,” he says, wiping his mouth before leaning back against the leather-padded booth. “Raising a child, let alone two, on your own isn’t easy.”
I nod slowly, my gaze fixed on the dance of ice cubes in my freshly poured whiskey as it’s placed on the table in front of me. In the following moments of silence, our mutual understanding hangs in the air like cigar smoke.
Diego, too, had lost his wife far too soon, her passing forcing him to raise their daughter Sophia alone.
Yet, while the outlines of our stories seem similar, they are fundamentally different. A heinous disease had stolen Lucille from Diego. My wife, on the other hand, was murdered—stolen from me and our children in a flash of cold-blooded violence.
And the person responsible is yet to be found.
Diego knows better than to pry further into my personal life and shifts the conversation back to safer territory—business. “Nevertheless, I believe Marcello is doing an excellent job so far.”
I offer another nod; Marcello has taken to leadership with a determination and ruthlessness that should make our father proud—if pride would be a sentiment freely shared by him.
Just then, I feel my phone vibrating in my pocket—a text from my driver reminding me of my promise to pick up the twins from preschool—something I do far too seldom. It’s another reminder of the duality of my existence and the war between the two vastly different worlds in which I try to exist.
I down the rest of my drink in one swift motion, the amber liquid deliciously burning its way down my throat.
“I’m afraid I’ll have to cut this short,” I say. “Family obligations.” The words are a polite but firm dismissal.
I push my chair back, its legs scraping against the floor as I stand. Diego simply nods as he watches me drop a few bills onto the table, more than enough to cover the tab before I leave without any further pleasantries or even a backward glance.
The soft click of the restaurant’s door behind me marks the point where the criminal becomes a father, the predator a protector, and I exchange my past for my future.