The Scars We Keep (Broken Empire #2)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Lorenzo

The warehouse still reeks of death. It’s been a week since the fire. Since Matteo chose love, and everything went to hell. Every breath I take feels filthy, as if the air itself senses I’m on the wrong side of history.

This place used to hum with quiet orders.

Steel flashing under bright lights. Men moving bodies with such efficiency you don’t question it if you want to keep breathing.

No wasted movements. No raised voices. Just the sound of flesh hitting tile, the low grind of metal dragging across concrete, and the occasional scream swallowed by soundproof walls.

It was a rhythm. Cold. Relentless. Sacred.

Now the roof’s half gone, gaping open to the dusk-grey sky as darkness starts to creep in, as if the building is trying to exhale its sins. The floor is scorched black, heat-buckled, and split, littered with ash and bones no one ever bothered to clean.

Every step I take echoes loudly. Bouncing off ghosts that never left.

I pass a rusted hook fused to the floor, twisted by heat.

This was the De Luca slaughterhouse, the heart of an empire where information was torn from flesh and silence was bought with blood.

There used to be bodies hanging from that beam—men who opened their mouths too early and closed them too late.

By the time it mattered, they had nothing left worth hearing.

I stop by one of the old drain grates.

It’s still stained. A place where loyalty was tested, secrets were carved into flesh, and the De Luca name was branded into fear itself. And now?

Now it’s hollowed out by fire and betrayal. Matteo made damn sure of that.

But I’m still here, walking the ground my uncle once ruled. This building may be broken, but it still waits and remembers what happened inside these walls.

So do I, and I plan to bring it all back. With fire and with blood. With every bastard who ever thought the De Luca name was finished.

A single whisper of our name used to open doors, cause knees to bow and people remember their place.

Now the files are out, and all the dirty little secrets are spilling across newspaper headlines and courtrooms.

The De Luca name once symbolized power.

It was feared.

Now, the world uses it as a punchline in backroom deals and a threat that no longer hits the way it used to. They speak of Matteo in hushed, vicious tones. The heir who burned his throne. The man who chose a girl over blood.

And with that decision, he destroyed us all.

But they forget one thing.

The name didn’t die with the files or the flames. It’s still alive. And I’m the one keeping it that way.

By any fucking means necessary.

I pause under the old chain hoist, its metal blackened.

I used to be too short to reach it. Matteo would lift me over his shoulders and let me swing from it when I was a kid.

He protected me from the ugliest parts of our world.

When Alessandro De Luca ordered his men to carve messages into skin, Matteo would take me out back.

He shielded me from it. I have fond memories of him.

Or I did. Now all I see is the betrayal stitched into everything he touched.

Matteo was soft. Soft enough to believe love surpassed blood ties. That a woman’s touch could erase the mark of who we are. That forgiveness holds more value than fear.

He believed he could outrun his past. He thought that if he walked far enough, the consequences wouldn’t catch up to him.

But they always fucking do.

He turned his back on an empire built with fists and fire, with obedience carved into flesh and loyalty paid for in lives. He traded a kingdom for whispered I love you’s and soft bedsheets.

And now there’s nothing left but ash, a shattered family name, and a loyalty no one remembers.

My sleeves are black by the time I reach the car. Soot, ash, and whatever’s left of this place rubbed into my skin.

The driver opens the door, and I slide in. The engine turns over. We pull out, and three black sedans fall in behind us. Men I’ve bled with. Men who would put a bullet in someone’s skull without blinking if it meant keeping me alive. Loyalty forged in blood and bad decisions.

We’re heading to the Serrano compound.

A sit-down. A courtesy call masked as respect. The kind of meeting where smiles are sharp and every word is a test.

These are the men who once bowed their heads and called my uncle Don.

I know exactly what fierce words will greet me today. I’ve sat at that table before, too. A teenage boy sitting next to Matteo, shoulders tense, hands folded neatly in my lap. Silent. Obedient. Watching everything.

Back then, I knew my place.

Speak when spoken to. Nod when the room expected it.

Keep my mouth shut and my eyes sharp. I learned early that silence was survival in this world.

That the quiet ones lived longer. Fear was currency, traded across polished tables and poured into crystal glasses with expensive whiskey.

You could buy loyalty with it. You could buy time.

Sometimes you could even buy forgiveness.

I watched men threaten without raising their voices. I memorized how power shifted when someone leaned back in their chair instead of forward. I learned who flinched and who didn’t. Who smiled because they were winning and who smiled because they were terrified.

Matteo used to sit there calm as a stone, one hand loose on the armrest, the other steady on his glass. Untouchable. Certain.

That version of him seems distant now.

Now I go in there alone today.

The city rushes past, neon bleeding into the darkness, each sign a wound against the night. Reds, greens, blues, all too bright, too damn loud, trying to pretend everything’s normal. Streetlights flicker over cracked pavement. Broken glass sparkles in the gutters like shattered promises.

We drive slowly. Not because of traffic, but because this is a show. Power moves at its own fucking pace. The car hums beneath me. Bulletproof. Reinforced. A coffin on wheels if things go sideways.

A week ago, the name De Luca cleared corners. Made rats choke on their own spit and vanish into shadows they didn’t belong in. One whisper used to be enough. People crossed the street, shut their mouths, pulled their curtains, and pretended they didn’t see a thing.

But things are different now.

Those files revealed everything about us.

Let the world stare directly into the heart of the operation. Every secret. Every deal. Every body we dropped and burial we made. All of it spilled like guts across the pavement.

And I am still cleaning everything up, because this empire still matters to me.

And I’ll bury anyone who tries to erase it.

We turn the corner, and the engines rumble softly. The street narrows. Shadows close in.

Out front of the Serrano estate, three black sedans idle with their engines still running. The men stepping out aren’t just muscle; they’re the kind of bastards who enjoy violence a little too much.

I spot Rocco D’Amato first. Slicked-back hair, cheap cologne, a temper like a loaded gun. He once pulled out a guy’s molars just to hear him scream. He’s surrounded by his soldiers.

The next car is Enzo Vargas.

He gets out, lights a cigarette with one hand, and adjusts his grip on his pistol with the other. He has a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and a reputation soaked in blood.

Behind them, Nicoli Franchi steps out of the next car, calm as ever. He’s the quiet one, the kind who doesn’t raise his voice because his knife does the talking.

All of them Serrano loyalists. All of them are fucking assholes.

They’re not here to talk. They’re here to see if I bleed.

Serrano soldiers stand like statues at the entrance. They don’t hide their guns or blades, the kind of steel that instinctively tastes blood. Their hands hover near their hips, fingers brushing chrome with practiced ease. Men trained to stay still until it’s time to kill.

Their eyes follow us as we pull up.

This is what Serrano wants me to see before I even reach the door: the power, the heat, the threat. And I let them show it, because I didn’t come here to flinch. I came to remind them that De Luca blood doesn’t run. It damn well reigns.

I open the door and step outside. My soldiers fall in line silently. No commands needed, just instinct.

Jackets shift as they move, fabric parting just enough to reveal steel. Knives press against ribs, guns rest at hips, the weight of violence sewn into every seam. These are the men who didn’t run when the empire cracked apart. And today, I need to make damn sure they see us for what we still are.

We are the storm that follows the silence. We are still the De Luca name no one dares to cross.

My boots hit the stone floor. The sound echoes through the foyer. One of Serrano’s guards shifts in front of me. He hesitates, then steps aside. Not out of manners, but survival instinct. He knows what will happen if he doesn’t.

We move further inside.

The house surrounds us, polished and perfect—two stories of wealth soaked in blood.

Marble floors shine under crystal chandeliers.

Gold trim. Thick rugs. Art on the walls that costs more than some men’s lives.

The Serranos built their fortune on fear, and this place proves it.

Rich. Ruthless. Flashy in a way only old money and old crime can pull off.

The staff move quietly. Heads down. Hands quick. Eyes never lingering. They know better.

I take the stairs slowly, dragging my fingers along the carved banister.

I hear movement before I see her, enough to catch my attention.

She’s standing there, arms crossed under her chest, hip tipped out, chin lifted in pure defiance.

Long legs bare beneath a dress that knows exactly what it’s doing.

Curves sharp enough to cut. Tits full, heavy, pressed together just enough to make a point.

She doesn’t shrink when my eyes land on her.

She stares back.

She’s Serrano’s daughter. I’d stake my life on it.